"An absolutely necessary part of a writer's equipment, almost as necessary as talent, is the ability to stand up under punishment, both the punishment the world hands out and the punishment he inflicts upon himself."

                                                                                                - Irwin Shaw
I have been in a stupor for many months now. My once intense love affair with words has abruptly come to an end. It has been over six months and it is only now that I have been woken up from my reverie.
Writing was my first love. I have been wooing him for years. It was not love at first sight for him as it was for me but as I grew older, I have found him slowly being drawn to me until at last my first big love has become my friend. I had shared with him my dreams as well as my biggest fears. He would listen quietly and would often be there in both happy and bad times. He became my bestfriend and trusted him with my deepest secrets.
Throughout the years that we have been together, people would comment that we complement each other perfectly. I was good with him, and he with me. I became accustomed to him as I have never been accustomed to anything else before. Whenever I need him to listen, he never failed me, each time listening quietly and calmly even in the middle of my rants and endless complaints. I demanded too much, even when it was obvious I was tiring him down. I continued to bask in the probability that we were meant for each other. I was on cloud nine and the idea that I would someday be forced to go down was the farthest thing from my mind.
But I did go down because I was not good enough after all. Not with all the books I’ve read, or with the every word I wrote and typed. Not with every diskette I’ve used or with the endless sleepless nights I’ve bared my heart and soul. Perhaps I was too bold and impatient to have professed my love so prematurely. I was told not to love too much, not to dote too much. Not to expect too much. Not to think too highly of myself.
Did it really show how much I’ve labored over words? How hard I was trying to make everything come alive? Did I come on too short, too easy? Have I bored him with my adjectives, annoyed him with my thoughts?

Words don’t come easy, especially when you know you had really nothing to say, or more appropriately, write at all.
Instead of fighting back, I retreated and hid myself for a long time. I abandoned my first love, afraid to remember the sting of rejection. For the first time in my life, I was scared of words.
But as time passed, I could no longer deny that no matter how hard I tried, I could never let go.

And so here I am, getting reacquainted with a long lost love. Albeit, slowly, a bit wary, but hopeful nonetheless. I resolved to turn away from my cowardice and start again. Writing was and is will always be my first love. We have shared a lifetime together. We may have parted ways for a while, but isn’t that what makes life sweeter, more worthwhile?