My Comeback

I used to love the pen, now I don’t know what happened.

I used to feel ink and papers and now they are things I own yet do not feel.

I used to look at the sky and come up with thousand words,

I used to go for a walk and find meaning in every step,

I used to listen to music with my heart and write about it,

I used to write everything, every detail but now it’s all gone.

Sometimes I stop for a second and think of where it all went, where it went wrong.

All of my potential feels wasted, what a shame.

So here I am, once again, trying to find my spark not in a pen but on a keyboard.

Hopefully it will go right this time.

I like to call this my comeback,

A return to a life full of life,

To days full of meaning,

To a place where my heart belongs.

But the truth is, this comeback didn’t start today.

It started the moment I realized how much of myself I had lost.

When we are young, we feel like we can take on the world, our dreams so big that we are excited for every age.

I personally would like to go back, to a time when I had endless potential, countless dreams, and so much time to do everything.

It might sound crazy, but I truly used to do everything and anything.

Studying, maintaining friendships, doing sports and practicing every hobby you can think of was a blessing I never realized I had.

Sometimes I wish I could turn back time to change so many things, so many decisions.

“What if” has become a phrase I repeat way too often, it tortures me.

I’d like to believe that everything happens for a reason, I actually have to, but still, there are moments where I deeply, deeply wish I could look ahead and see if everything will be fine, even with the choices I’ve made.

Maybe it was adulthood. Responsibilities. The quiet realization that you can’t live on dreams and hopes alone. Maybe that’s when I lost my writing.

I shifted into a more technical world, where one plus one is always two, yet younger me believed that one plus one held a thousand possibilities.

It might sound pathetic to dwell about childhood, everyone grows up, but I am so jealous, oh I am so jealous of people doing what they love.

I want to be them.

Everything inside me feels misplaced, like I landed in the wrong life. It’s not that writing became heavy or distant, it’s more like life imposed itself on me, pushing my thoughts out and taking up all the space.

I believe that life colonized me, and it’s just now that am fighting back, yet it feels so wrong and embarrassing to fight back this late.

After all these years, my thoughts woke up and chose violence, I don’t know what clicked or what finally snapped inside of me, but I am grateful it did.

It’s like I had this gem inside of me, a gem I locked in a box, then covered with dusty, heavy rugs. With time, the dust grew thicker, the place darker, and I slowly forgot it was even there.

But now, it’s as if an earthquake is happening inside me. The rugs are falling away, the box is cracking open, and that forgotten gem is beginning to shine again.

No, the words aren’t coming back in waves, but this small piece that I forced my self to write is a proof that a life full of words is beginning.

So, if this is my comeback, I want it to be gentle. I want to grow again without rushing.

I want my words to return when they are ready.

And I want to promise myself one thing, I won’t abandon my spark again, not even when life gets back at me with heavy arms.