In the face of such an epochal pivot, I stare into the eyes I’ve long since dreamt about. Colored irises of storm clouds and billowing stories, they crinkle at their edges, aged and worn with such pervasive lore.
For many moonlit cycles, I’ve looked into this same gaze, turning my head from the direction of the ones I’ve grown to adore. And this new sight, it has my heart galvanized, beating to the fast paced footsteps of the city; to the beating rain that falls hard from the sky.
Be that as it may for my heart appears to be jumping at the opportunity, my words lie flat. There’s always this quote I reminiscence on, sip on like a cup of hot tea, warming my insides with promise. You see, William Borgens says, “A writer is the sum of their opportunities. Go and get some.”
Thus why I used to write about love. The kind that happens on the rare night a shooting star graces our sky but that wish lasts between you and that person for several. My fingers syndicated my tears into something of a watercolor painting. Clandestine evenings spent in the metaphors of my mind. I remember the party lights and the pain that followed near after; there were nights wrapped in bedsheets, kept safe from the worries of my mind until the sun took its buttery fingers and slipped their fabric from my very bare shoulders. When I look back, I remember love being this thing of grand sorrows not gestures. And still, I am reminded of those few moments in which those sorrows meant more than those majesties ever had to these fingers of mine that write.
I used to write about sorrow and solitude as if the written words that accompanied them made bearing their weight less encumbering. And always, have I been familiar with the ever loved word of writers, ‘darkness’.
Perhaps for the lonely few, darkness is a multifaceted word that drips into purposes too plenty to catch all between our fingers. For I always found the meaning of darkness through a different lens. A friend one day. A monster another. A thing the sun cannot fight when the day tires.
And my mother incessantly would ask, for a gracious truth, she still does. But she says, ‘Why don’t you write about happiness? Joy?’
What a laughable question in all its simplicity.
Or perhaps it’s the more irredeemable and banal statement of a writer, ‘I used to write about love and darkness.”
Henceforth, I’m face to face with the exalt of my largest hopes and thought has eluded me, flown off with the birds who’ve gone to find shelter in this cold winter sky. My words have fallen with the rain drops from the heavens and my heart has crashed like the waves off the shore of the Atlantic Ocean.
I mean, I’m moving to Boston.
What is there to say?