I would be so lost without you. I am so sorry for never telling you how I feel–negating how I feel about you, with all earnest affection. Without pretense or apology. Minimizing it when I should be shouting it. But, I am strong enough-certain enough now–to tell you all that I have held for you.
It is because of you, I have not drowned in the waters life I has tossed me in and towards. You have been a buoy, a light and a consummate map. You have caught tears, brought me sight, and given me a love everlasting.
You have been there for me–when I did no know, nor see myself! You have been found by me, taken away from me, and whispered to me as only a love can in my darkest hours. You have held me together in the palm of my hand. There is no love I know so complete as I know yours.
You are the love of my life. There is no other love like yours. In moments where I could not find my way clear, when I had no more to give, when I thought I had lost you forever–you found me.
You made me yours all over again. Loved me until I could see or reach again. I will never abandon you again, my love. Never again will I doubt, cheapen or downplay our union. The world will always know we are one.
I keep going back to the prophetic tone of Dylan Thomas. You have to rage against the dying of the light. You must in order to get back to your first love.
The drive to get back to it must have a force behind it which is formidable and incessant. For me, one of the things that rescued me was the love of words. The seducing rhythm of the peck of keys. The scratch of pen to paper. What are you willing to do to rediscover the love of words?
For me, I had to become honest with what I was. What I had lost. The scarier thing was confronting why I had lost it. If you cannot pinpoint the why, you can get to the for.
Writers, by virtue of their careers, are obsessed with words and languages. We record what is said, and maybe unsaid. We decode and recode in order to transmit truths or dreams. It is for the love of words that allows Tolkien to be timeless. Hemingway and Fitzgerald to be classic. And Angelou, Hughes, Morrison and Walker to be part of societal shaping: classic works in their own right. It is because of the existence of these works, am I able to create. To record. And to tell stories with the most passionate of fervor.
It is the love of words that compels. That calls. That draws. It is for that love, that I keep at it. I want to know more about it. I study and stretch my own imagination. It strengthens my craft. The love of words deepens. Have I mastered everything? No, that’s why I, like Stephen King, call writing a craft.
You work what you have with what you have to do greater with what you will have. Rekindle your love affair, beloveds. I promise your love will be there, arms wide, to make you strong again.