I think I'm afraid to write again.

It's for many reasons.

On one hand, I'm afraid I don't have anything to say anymore. I'm afraid the words have run dry. I'm afraid I've become boring, plain, domestic. I'm afraid the creative mind has atrophied, leaving nought but particles of dust that were once dreams, ideas, fantasies, or myths.

On the other hand, I'm afraid the words are still there, along with the person who once bore them as weapons, as a shield, as a lifeline. Part of me wants to be the person for who words are no longer required, because the person who had the words readily at hand scares me. I'd like to think that I've moved on. I'd like to think that I've healed. But I'm afraid that I'm wrong. I'm afraid that I'll start writing prose and it will turn into the fractured monologues of a broken mind. As though it's the words that broke me, not the other way around. I can't help but notice the connection to how an addict feels about using. As if staying abstinent from my addiction is the only thing that will keep me stable. At the same time, an addict will miss it. They think: I'm okay now. I'm stable. I can control it. Just one hit. Just a little bit. Just to feel something again that's passionate, exhilarating, that makes everything mundane have meaning. Because even if it was terrible and heart wrenching and caused spirals to the depths of darkness far beyond the reach of any steady light source, it gave them something to hold onto. Because I found beauty in drowning myself.

And yet, it reminds me of the poem I once heard on a random PostSecret postcard that read:

Fuck the poets of the past, my friends.
there are no beautiful suicides.
just cold corpses with shit in their pants.
& the end of the gifts

I'm no longer seeking a beautiful suicide. I enjoy my beautiful life.

I just wonder if writing can be a part of that.