I had reached the end of another road, and held a sheet of paper
that declared ‘success’ which meant nothing when I reflected
on the memories I had made; photographs and polaroids and
snapchats of nights in and days out, yet you
were in none of them.
A Bachelor of Arts degree in my grasp, yet it felt cold and rough
when I did not see your hands holding it with me, perhaps then it
would have felt more rewarding, and authentic. A writer with a dream
can change the world, but I, without my dream,
was scared to craft the first word.
But look at what you produced, poems and essays and fiction and worlds-
yet each of those words lacked life, lied hollow, missing your touch:
a lantern without oil to walk through the abyss. Abandoning you, the dream
to be a writer, out of fear and comparison- the thief of joy, as a cherished
friend told me- led to the numbing and suppression
of my true and most creative self;
three years I let myself become malnourished from creative drought,
making the common ‘writer’s block’ nothing to me but a
common cold.
Even as I begin to grow comfortable with you again, restarting the process in
flourishing into the wordsmith I was always mean to be, I cannot do justice
in conjuring the words in expressing how sorry I am
for leaving you.
But I thank you, with all my being, for a second chance, to show you
I will stay, to fulfil our potential. Even as I leapt like a Ghazal
from the claws of doubt, even in the first month of university life, when
intimidated by the skill and boldness and ambitions of peers that were louder
than mine,
you welcomed me back
with unfolding arms.
