Do You Still Write?

"Do you still write?" The world pitches forward, time stretching thin, falling with agonizing grace like snow. A few seconds balance precariously between the veil of never and the beginning. Shallow breath and hollow heart, a piece of my light refracted, staying in that moment with those words.

"Do you still write?" Those words a return to the ever-present aching I cannot seem to evade. I never stopped, that is, writing isn't something one does but refracts a reflection of oneself. Blood and ink, an extension of myself, the act, impulse, of scratching words I could not speak onto leaves of ancient trees. A calling within my bones.

"Do you still write?" The light dimmed within me some time ago, the same flame which kindled the spark of creation, for life. I never stopped; the words left me, slowly bleeding dry I cannot recall when my mountain valley forged by passion became a baren Sahara. A parched memory remains of loss, akin to a loved one lost. Words withered and I died with them. If they peered into my colorless eyes, perhaps they too would see the smoke from a heart on eternal fire. Perhaps when the flames are full, I will be reborn, reacquainted with the Aurora Borealis of literature and I may become whole once more.

"Do you still write?" I no longer have the means to communicate my truth, to be seen and understood. How do I even begin to express the cavernous pit I've been resigned to?

"I try to whenever I can, but it hasn't been the same as it once was," I eventually reply, for I suppose even the wrong words are better received than none at all.

"What a shame, you used to be so good."

Shame, an all too familiar etching across my skin.

I used to be a great many of things.

Now, I burn. Burn until fire coils into ash.