I have been writing stories, poems, and utter nonsense ever since I learned how to scribble my poorly construed thoughts onto paper. Photography and art are a passing fancy of mine. I don’t believe I’m very good at them, but they give me a sense of enjoyment and fascination that I sadly lose from time to time with my writing. I used to be a highly prolific author, but a three-year writer’s block severely stinted that, and left me to seek fulfillment in the beauty and awe of our world.
I came to know the harshness and cruelties of people, the vicious nature of society and the untold destruction words or actions could wreak upon someone. No, I will not go into specifics—no names, no details, no pictures or imagery. I will simply say I came to ponder the purpose of life, why I should attempt to be anything more than the meek shadow I was. Success, admiration, affection bounced off my walls, and people took my grim smile as assurance that I was “fine” or “normal”. Inside I was an endless, turbulent abyss who could not recognize the girl I was on the outside.
I came to the question the color of one’s soul.
Fascination with my inner doubt consumed me. I became determined to dissect and understand the turmoil of emotions that could be felt, and so I threw myself headlong into an eternal inward journey. I became a sort-of outcast, intellectually satiated but socially famished as I tried to understand myself and the people around me. Music, lyrics, poetry, and stories became my outlet once again. The connotation of words and their ability to do things besides destroy enthralled me. I called myself the Poet in Black, black like my sore, troubled soul.
In time I have also come to know the compassion some people are capable of. I remembered the beauty in nature and in the world I had once loved. I learned that life and people are only as complicated as you make them, and I let go of my constant distrust and meticulousness. I could see the blue sky again, smell the summer air, and feel—for the first time in a long time—warmth coming from within myself. Our souls may be blackened by the cruelties we endure, but as we continue to learn and enjoy the wonder in simple things, colors will remain. We are stained by these colors—blue, and red, and green, and yellow. We are stained by love and by tears and by leaves and by sunshine. Stained by such colors that are beautiful and endless.
Nevertheless, I will always be the Poet in Black. I will always delve into the darkness of sadness and the light of joy to wring words from emotions to make the colors black and white (and readable). I am just a girl, you’re just a person, and this is just a blog. But it’ll be one hell of a journey.
The Poet in Black,