Holding The Pen
by, Melissa R. Mendelson
The road was once endless. I felt lost driving for hours on end. Nothing seemed familiar, and I feared that I would never make it to wherever it was that I was going. But I kept driving. I kept pushing through in hopes of finding my way, finding my direction.
It wasn’t easy for me to say what it is that I keep inside. I could easily dream, but I could not express. Yet, there were so many things that I wanted to say, so many thoughts and feelings begging to be released, but how do I release them? How do I tell you all that I am?
The pen was put in my hand during a period of my life, where I struggled to understand myself. I was living the teen-ager life, searching for my identity, and they said that I could write. These teachers were convinced of it, and slowly I started to scribble across the page. And slowly my words, my definition began.
A box of old writings was now tucked away under my desk. These stories were written during those high school days. These poems were written from the moments that my heart was breaking, the moments that my soul was crying to be heard. I needed to speak, needed to express, and I found haven within the pen.
There was no moment now when I did not write, and as my writing has grown, so have I. When I wished to say all that I kept inside, the page was waiting. When I needed to feel, needed to let my heart breathe, the poetry poured out like a river of ink from the pen. What was life without writing? It was nothing but driving on an endless road with no direction.
The walls of writer’s block have stopped me from time to time, and the pen remained silent. But I slowly worked my way around those walls. If I remained behind them, then the person that I was becoming would become lost. I could not let that happen because there were enough times in my life, where I wandered lost, and when I wrote, I felt alive. So I would not let these walls keep me in, and I spent my time slowly working away at them, brick by brick.
Driving along this endless road would have been easier, if I had their support, but to them, writing was merely a hobby. It would lead to no career. It would not give me what I needed to survive in this dog eat dog world, and they told me time and time again that maybe I should stop. They said that I should wait until I find purpose in life, but my reason to live was to write. And the writing would not stop, and only now do they see the talent that has bloomed within me.
The road was still endless, but it was no longer broken. I no longer feared that I was driving in circles, that I would become lost once again. I finally had direction, and it was to write. Wherever my destination lies, I would hold no regrets because I was chasing my dream. I was still writing.