It’s the only thing stopping you. The idea that you’ll try to reach out — open a vein and spill a part of your soul onto paper, a soul that’s in less than ideal condition as it is — and nothing.
You carve out a piece of yourself. Throw it into the ocean like a message in a bottle. And hope somebody finds it. Somebody that cares. That’s the plan anyhow. It’s a few pieces of paper and a stamp. That and the couple hours it took to write it. The blink of an eye. Toss it in the cell block mailbox and forget about it.
It’s what’s going on inside you that screws it all up. Every time. It’s that lousy little piece of your soul that goes into every last piece you write. The ones you care about anyhow. You can feel it as soon as the ink begins to flow — your body, grown old, slips free of the aches and pains and you soar for a while, free.
And when you eventually fall back to earth your heart is still racing as your feet hit the ground. You look around your cell and not only is it not so bad, it’s good. I can do this. I can make it.
It’s the best high you’ve ever known. It — all of it — every last step. The struggle to break out, start to rise; when you stumble, flail, fall, rise again finally free of gravity. Even the inevitable come-down leaves you so freakin’ high. So high. Breathless. Better than any drug you’ve ever known.
And worse, so much worse. Because it cracked open something inside you and let you feel: for the first time. A feeling, a freedom that speaks of capital G god. A feeling you know only other writers could know, a feeling you’ve otherwise lacked your entire mostly shitty life. A feeling you know with all your heart that most people will never be blessed to experience. And to suffer.
Because after you crack open whatever it is that makes you you — the whole you — trickles out. And the fear begins. It’s ink and paper and an envelope, and a tiny bit of your soul and you don’t have enough, you never have. Not enough to give away, tucked in a bottle, tossed into the sea. What you’re about to do with it — about to do TO it — it feels so much like throwing it away, like someone’s unwanted child. But somehow even worse.
A child can be saved.
That thing you call a soul never had a chance. There’s rarely, barely been enough to share the few times it seemed worth the chance to try. You can’t just give it, throw it (throw me) away. Not when there’s nothing out there but the great unknown. Oh, you’ve tried. (I’ve tried.) You chip off a little piece here and there but the world out there is too big and vast. As infinite and incomprehensible as the vacuum of outer space.
So you curl up, fold in on yourself. But it never really goes away. The next time, the next part, the next piece of you is always there, inside you, waiting. An ember at the center of the shell you’ve become. Proof of life. Glowing, growing, like a tumor, swelling, swollen, demanding…
Demanding. Always demanding.
Demanding you let it out. Get it out. Get it out or die. Dig it out with a dull spoon if you have to. This is it. It’s “the one”. The diamond, the piece that’s been there inside you all your life. The part of you that’s been killing you. What you’ve always been dying to say. The magic words — once spoken — will finally break free, cut through it all, reach out and touch anyone, everyone. Words with a soul of their very own. Words universal. Soul born. Soul borne. Soul bearing. Soul baring. Soul-words that can only attract, adhere and grow. Words set free. Free-floating words far away from your own body and even time, sharing a piece of you, one that’s universal, one you haven’t lost forever. Words able to live as one with the world outside these four walls. The kind of words I can even believe in.
And I can — do — believe in the power of words. Even something as flaky sounding as universal soul words. It’s myself I’m not a big believer in. I never could trust that that hard bright spot, that diamond, that spark in my soul, that something I simply just had to say, or explode. That. That I’ve never been able to believe in. Never been able to believe it mattered. Never been able to get past the idea that what had only moments before felt like sparks of soul shaking brilliance I just had to share with the world or I would die, were in reality nothing more than the scattered sparks from a child’s wind-up toy. One long forgotten. The flywheel worn smooth, the flint almost dead. A spark. A spark I’ll always cherish, hold close. Let it linger, spark and sputter until the end of time. Or until it’s finally safe for me to let it out. Whichever one comes first.
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