Back to the Pen

It is something to be wounded so deeply that you lose a significant part of yourself for a year and a half. I guess that is what happened to me. I was attacked. I was maimed. I needed time to heal. Eighteen months later, I find all limbs workable once again, but small demons have wheedled their way deep into my psyche. I am afraid. I am cautious. I expect to be hurt again. Should I shy away from topics that contain too much truth? Should I fear the reactions of others? Should I wear the body armor of compromise? I would like to answer with a resounding “no,” but I’m not sure I possess the required amount of conviction. Nonetheless, I am diving in the unknown. Bravery has very little to do with it. It’s a simple matter of must. I must get back on my feet. I must move forward. I must write again. It’s an itch I am compelled to scratch, and though writing has much to do with the ability to create a multitude of images to explain something simple, I cannot explain myself more eloquently than that. So I am baring my fingernails, and I am inviting all who wish to witness it. Some of it, anyway.