Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway said, ‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’

The medium may have changed, but the sentiment hasn’t. I haven’t felt able to regularly document the last year of my life with my blog because I haven’t been prepared to open my wounds . I don’t dare to compare myself to a great writer like Hemingway, but any artist who bares their soul knows how daunting it can be to expose yourself at your most vulnerable.

What’s been on my mind that I’ve been so afraid to face?

Falling in love is easy. It happens so quickly, we don’t even notice it. Falling out is the hard part. It doesn’t happen overnight. It happens slowly. Each blow dealt with excruciating poignancy.. .every hurt robbing you of your ability to focus on the positive. The good times play like films in your mind, taunting you with previews of what your life could have looked like, of what you thought your life would look like.  You try so hard to get it back that you lose sight of who you’re even doing it for. It isn’t simple.  It would be undignified if it were. Uncertainty and fear are powerful motivators and the darkest clouds of judgement. There are those who want to offer a band-aid to stop the bleeding, and those who take pleasure in seeing the pages stained crimson. Distinguishing the two is impossibly unfair.

In conclusion, I’ll steal another page from Hemingway, ‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’

Love is endless.

No matter how far I fall or what lines get blurred, the tears that I cry are entirely worth the excruciating misery of being in love.