(Note: I’m trying a little exercise. I’m going to be writing some semi-autobiographical pieces over the year in an effort to sort my feelings out about various emotions, thoughts and feelings that I have going on inside. These stories aren’t fact, though they certainly have elements of truth in them. I ask that you please accept them for what they are. The simple ramblings of an old blogger.)
The Writer
Gavin had never intended to be a writer in the first place.
Perhaps this is why he felt as though the well was dry. Perhaps there had never been any well of creativity to begin with. In fact, Gavin was beginning to wonder if there was any purpose to any of it.
How could he write from the bottom of his heart if he wasn’t even sure there was anything in his heart at all? Most days, he simply felt dead inside. It had been this way ever since the crash.
Everyone knew about the crash. It had happened years ago. Something inside Gavin had snapped and gone horribly wrong. To this day, even close friends and family wondered why it had happened, though he often heard them speaking among one another about his “overloaded schedule” or “Silly dramatic tendencies”. He had no doubt that they meant well, though he also knew they couldn’t possibly understand. Since the crash he had come to understand that unless you had gone insane for a while, there was no real way to understand those who had. It was kind of like trying to understand someone who claimed to have been “born again”, except instead of hanging out with Jesus and being insanely happy, you hung out with Jesus and were insanely miserable. Either way, Jesus and you hung out by yourselves.
No one else is invited to the crazy party…only crazy people.
Whatever the reason, one thing was certain. A part of Gavin had died, and no amount of begging, pleading or praying had been able to bring it back.
Gone was the playful and loving man who had enjoyed spending time with friends. The faithful trusting man of God had disappeared too, leaving behind a disillusioned, frightened, angry person that even he could hardly recognize.
When had he stopped praying? Tough to tell. Was it the millionth time he had cried out to God with no answer, or the Millionth and one?
Perhaps it wasn’t fair to say that he didn’t “pray”. After all, he spoke to God every day. The difference these days was that he wasn’t expecting any answers.
Most days, the conversation between Gavin and God played itself out in clinical fashion. During the crash Gavin had finally turned off the voice in his head that he had once believed to be his Creator. It was too confusing hearing that voice alongside all the others. Now, even though the voices were gone (or at least in the background) he felt no trust.
Trust.
How could he ever trust again? After all, a lifetime of service to God hadn’t saved him from the agony of the crash. Worse than the agony during the ordeal was the lingering residue…a smoky crater that sat in the middle of his chest, directly where his heart had once been.
The crash had affected everything.
Even his marriage was damaged from the crash. (or was it from the fallout? Or perhaps the cold realization that this was his new life?)
She had hoped for better in life. Surely, she thought, she deserved more than a house and kids and a husband who sometimes thought of ending his own life. Her job was nothing more than 8 hours of frustration a day, and she arrived home in no mood for fun, even when the kids needed it.
‘They take”, she thought. “They all just take…and I’m dying.”
Gavin didn’t have the strength to help her anymore. He couldn’t. There was nothing left. So instead, he watched helplessly as it all fell slowly apart.
That was part of it. The speed.
Gavin had never been one for slow burn. He had been a firebrand of a person before the crash. He had loved explosions. A nice big fight had never bothered him. But there was no passion anymore. The crash had taken it from him.
She would try to argue with him sometimes. Anything to feel something. But instead of fighting, he would just look at her and sigh.
She hated him. He was certain of it. Inside he wished there was some way to tell her that he still cared, but she was far too angry to hear him, even if he could.
No, Gavin had never wanted to be a writer at all. It wasn’t his plan. But here he sat, staring at the blank screen. The cursor blinked on and off, mocking him.
No words came out. After all, how could they?
There were no words left.
