The Need to Write

A windy night in Victoria. There come times that it takes a vacuum around you to acknowledge the hollow within. I've sat in this successful coffee shop before, spilling my sentimental heart out into the dark, the imaginary web of the wide world. A whole blocked up back up of feeling, kept in check day to day by the day to day well rehearsed exchanges between situational people. Has it been two years yet? People removed, perceived to be alone in the room, the tears start to run, the screams tear through the air, the laughing and giggling roll and fizz without restraint. And after it all, the remaining hollow expands inside, scraping at the walls of my caffeine stained stomach. Insatiable. You can only feed it by purging more.

But that was then. And I sit here now, the same room, the same chairs, almost the same decor - renovations are mandated every few years to keep the atmosphere current.

Welcome back to the vacuum. But now it does not shed dark on a hollow within. The surrounding void only serves to accentuate my brimming core. The vacuum around me reminds me how much there is inside of me, how much of this life I am so in love with, how much I cannot bear to relinquish, how fiercely I grip it all, how tightly I clasp the hands of absent friends, how yearningly I cradle thoughts of my darling, how obstinately determined I am to live. How madly resolved I am to live this life. Not just watch it.