Candlelight.
Befriending my own darkness.
It’s been years since I’ve called myself a storyteller or better yet, a writer. For as long as I can remember writing has been a way for me to feel heard when I felt like no one was listening. Whether I chose to share what I had written with others or not didn’t matter. It had been drawn from my heart and placed on paper (or a screen) and I was finally able to hear the echos of my own voice as clear as day through my writing process.
How ironic is it that one of my deepest desires is to feel heard, yet I’ve been silencing my own voice for months now? At some point, I decided there was no place for what this version of myself had to say. Her words feel a bit contrasting to pieces I’ve shared before. She doesn’t have it in her to speak from a space of purely “love and light.” She’s not concerned with discussing the pleasures of the body. She doesn’t have an inspiring story from a recent triumph. In fact, when she’s asked to speak she limits her words, aiming to stop the flow before her river of emotions gains momentum. To speak on where she currently stands is to allow herself to confront her feelings of confusion, loneliness, and grief. That’s not what she wanted. What she wanted was to feel the elation and sunshine of yesteryear and go back to sharing from that space.
This season’s drop in temperature and early nightfall didn’t bring her sadness this time. She welcomed it as an invitation to cozy up, rest in the shadows, and make herself at home - right where she currently stands.
So tonight. I write by candlelight. I embrace the darkness, meet myself there, and offer a warm embrace. What inspires my voice even in spaces of obscurity, is also worthy.