Seeing Beauty Again

                I used to write stories. Great epics, touching dramas, cute romances, wondrous fairy tales, and terrifying thrillers. Now I just—no, no. That’s not right. The pencil scratches out the words, the eraser long since used up.

                I begin again: I used to write wonders and epics. Fairy Tales and Ghost stories. Now I write bare truths and hidden lies. I smile. This was better. This was more honest. I used to let my imagination guide my words. Hidden glimpses of potential would fuel my words, as they slowly, magically, perfectly, fit together to form sentences, and those sentences into paragraphs, and those onto stories. Now I—what am I now? I pause. Hand frozen hovering over the paper as my mind tries to puzzle out the answer. I have not written a parable, a poem, a story, anything other than unwanted truths in ages. Am I still the writer I once was? Can I still craft a tale that can make all who hear it weep? Or have I become bound to writing only that which triggers a different primal response?

                I used to write the truths people didn’t want to see or hear, but in a way that made people think and reconsider; now I write them in the open. Hmm. That sounds better. Almost poetic.

                I stand and stretch. Pulling at that knot buried deep in my spine. If you’re a writer, you know the one. The one that is always there, pulling at your soul as if it is trying to drag you somewhere you don’t want to go. Like a mother pulling a petulant child towards some hated activity. I steadfastly ignore it; I don’t want to see the truths it tries to make me see. Flexing my tired fingers, I stare out the window. I do this often to remind myself that there is beauty in the world, but with each passing day it becomes harder to convince myself of that. Where there was once life, now ashes float.

                Words once came easy to me. I could sit and write a short story in an hour, given an hour and half I could write a story that moved people, that made people feel what I wanted them to feel. Now it takes me that long to bang out a mediocre paragraph. My soul was once that of a poet. My words sang and danced! They shouted to the very heavens to tempt God! They could paint a picture to rival the works of the masters! And now my soul is buried under a thousand other titles: friend family mentor worker confidante problem solver coach best friend activist freelancer YouTuber journalist. Down near the bottom of this infinite list lays: writer and poet. Two of my greatest loves, sacrificed for what reason?

                I sat and begin to write again. Truths are easier to see when they fly in the face, yet harder to accept. A truth that hits you in the face becomes a nuisance, a truth that you find in the words of a story though? That truth becomes precious. That truth becomes something that you have earned, and through earning it, you protect it.

                I pause and reflect upon my own words. If I constantly hand out the truth for free, why would people care? I can see the evidence of that every day. People are constantly handed truths that they don’t want, and so they ignore them. From smoking to violence, when people are given the truth they ignore it. So why have I started handing out the truth? When did I turn from an artist to a man shouting on the corners? All my own morals, all my own truths, I learned from stories. I learned integrity from Tolkien, I learned perseverance from Rowling, logic from Doyle, I learned how to lead from Kirk and Picard, I learned faith from Herbert. If I learned from stories, why would I try to impart lessons through anything else?

                I have become a mockery unto myself, my pencil writes, I have tossed away the lessons from my past, and like many fools before me, I have tried to attack the ocean of ignorance, instead of bridging it. I know that it doesn’t work, and yet I try. “Surely if I were to throw enough truths down, I will be able to stand upon them and bury the ignorance!” And, like everything that gets thrown into the ocean, the waves merely bury it, never to be seen again.

                There is a tale that the Emperor Caligula once ordered his troops to attack the sea, and then collect seashells as proof of his great victory. Many people laugh at this, and it adds to his legendary levels of crazy—the story is false however. Even Caligula was smart enough to know attacking the sea does nothing. As a student of history, I should’ve recognized that I was making that mistake.

                The sea will endure long past my feeble attempts to bury it, and in my attempts to bury it, it shall consume me and leave me to a watery grave. So is true with my writing. If I continually strike at the ignorance, attempt to bury it with my truths, I shall become buried by the ignorance. But if I bridge it, if I allow people to find the truths for themselves, we can all cross the ignorance safely. Truth is always in the guise of a story, and a good story can change the world.

                I lay my pencil down beside the paper. Words scramble across it in a mad dash, sentences struck out, words left unfinished only to be replaced by others. I stare at the madness in front of me, these scribbles filled with meaning, and I see beauty again.