The curse of a writer

I once became a hunted soul, and nothing else but a writer, almost by force. Maybe it was a daunting evil curse. The “evil eyes” grandmothers and elders warned us about in our early years of childhood.

I woke up one day from a happy dream that soon vanished into a swap’s never ending hole. I felt emptied of all hope then and was myself no more, no more, no more.

I felt my soul turn darker than that of Edgar Allan Poe’s. Oh yes, we both were coursed by a deep sorrow with only fear of what would happen in our tomorrow’s.
Soon depression and chronic anxiety hurled upon me like a tornado or a thunder sent to earth by the meanest of gods, burning my soul…

I was a mere casualty. I always have been.
In the wrong place and at the wrong time, we found each other, artists and poets with a dark stream of pain running through our veins. Sometimes I wonder if becoming a writer and an artist is what I really wanted, or just a fail destiny trick.

Or maybe it is a true blessing by God.

But still, I began to stop believing it and loosing my faith and my religion. I was lost and all I had were empty words and more other words that were nothing but scratches over my skin. Hate, passion, fear, love were tattooed over my skin, then washed away in a river of black tears spilled over smudged old pages.

It took me long to learn how to accept that all my youth dreams were gone. Reality struck a cord and not in the best way.
After a while life hurt less. Living was an option. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. So I finally felt enlightened and woke. I had finally embraced my destiny of the hermit writer and maybe a poet too.
I was no longer a woman, nothing pleased me. Nothing mattered. All I needed was to learn how to write like a writer to feel less odd. I was alone, like a book worm, hiding from the light, hiding from the world that I became to fear more than even love.

Until one day something shook me up.
A book, it fell over my lap as I sat on the floor in a book store.
There you were, all along!
I got drunk in his words later I prayed for more, prayed to be so brave, prayed to be so kind, prayed to find my way, prayed until my knees hurt, prayed to see a light…And prayed to be a light!

I prayed and prayed to find my way out the dark túnel my spirit was stuck inside off, but no answers reached me then, and no more words, no letters wold push me out my dark hole. No thousand love storles or poems would rid me if the weight of worries and sorrow that clouded my younger writing years.

A I got old, everything grew more in me. The pain was a paralyzing ticking bomb inside my chest. I realized that I had no one else to grab onto and no one else to blame for my hundred years of solitude. And my one thousand and one nights of insomnia and confusion, but me. I deserved the blame…

Yes. No one else but me…

But you see, why this curse it’s all I have. And not even the deepest love is as strong as my need to write, to put into words all the disappointing cards live had dealt me with.
Death and the Fool have followed me since…

And maybe is a bit too late to embrace my long hated curse. But I’m finding my real inner voice and the right words to explain this that my heart feels. I’m no longer in fear. I’m no longer stocked in a cave, dungeon, túnel, or a life of hell.

Even though I’m not the best at expressing myself and my feelings, because sometimes I hide behind my pride, and the right prudent words or quiet smiles, I feel that I can’t let any of it control me. I now have a vocation, a goal. I’m accepting my curse!

My past won’t define me no more, my actions and words will change my world.

My eyes danced like the wheels on a movie film machine and my silence broken. I felt unapologetically and strong, like now, in moments like this of unexpected bravery, breaking free from my own protective shell.

Words are now my sword and my heaven. I can be an angel and a devil as well with them I can express and tell things that long ago were saved up deep in those hidden caves of my soul, And in the darkest drawers, these tiny files locked away inside my brain. #metoo my voice was able to claim. I too survived the lost of innocence and I too paid the price for dreaming to high… My curse became then my flame of strength.