Megan left for 10 days in Europe only yesterday, and already the old pangs of loneliness have crept in and left me reminiscing of times that are more than two years past. It's an emptiness in the gut, a meandering state of being, an old question of what now.
With the evening ticking away, I sit at this computer prepared for a few hours of uninterrupted composition but not out of convenience or some obligation to fill empty hours with fulfilling productivity. Instead, it's a way to abate the feelings of which I'm most frightened, to keep a light burning in an ever-encroaching dark.
To write is to fill a void with no name, even when it takes a specific shape, and with any luck, it can bring a sense of balance and clarity to what might otherwise degrade into melancholy. For writers, the gift can make one whole. Sometimes it's needed more. Other times, less. "Salvation," while melodramatic, is a label that is, more often than not, apt.
Write on...
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