When the words come back

There are times
When I have no words

There have been times of pure happiness stemming from somewhere deeper than the pit of my stomach
From somewhere deep in my core
Where a shriek and a giggle and a twirl and a spin and a leap and a funky little dance live
Where a glance and a beat skipped and a gasp and that warm tingly little feeling travel from

There have been times of pure sadness rooted from the place where dreams were heartbroken
Where tears and ache and crumbling to the floor in dark corners grabbing my knees to shake take place
Where routines and must do’s paralyze fear in my chest making it almost impossible to run from

I’m at a loss for words on those days
Both feelings so overwhelming I haven’t got synonyms for them
I don’t speak or write any of the thoughts that leave me staring up at the popcorn ceiling
Eventually I’ll grab at the tail end of one and pull it back I study it and organize it and connect it
Sometimes I swim or drown in it taking my time to understand it

But when the words come back
I could explain it to myself in my writing

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© Sara Febles

This is my space

This, my space
Is not the only place I can write

I can write on the back of receipts while I wait at a red light
On the back of pay stubs after rummaging through my purse
On my yellow and white memo pads as I pretend to take the minutes of boring meetings
In the last pages of those hard bound notebooks I left blank three years ago

I can write on flimsy grey notebooks
With a blue pen dragged on lineless paper
Cursive endings joining beginnings
I could
And I do
And I would more often
If it didn’t bother me to hide them in drawers

So I write here
This is my space
To let the words that press my mind
Escape at the time of their choosing because they must
And they need to become
A tangible thing I can feel more because I’ve made real that ghost of a feeling that flowed through me without understanding

And then suddenly it’s clear
I’ve worded some sort of internal complexity at the spur of the moment
Or after at least seven unedited drafts that pour from me
I don’t intend for others to understand
Anyone can make their own meaning if they choose to try

But only I know their truth
The meaning behind the words that I chose
I’m the one that set them free after all
Because they don’t belong on scraps of paper soon to be thrown away
They belong here
This is my space

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© Sara Febles

The Writing Garden ~ Issue Three

I’m really excited to be a part of the latest issue of The Secret Garden with such amazing artists. Here it is:

The Writing Garden

Cover Image:Silent Sunday ~ SherryGaley.com
Getty Images

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->Quietness

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Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick clouds.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.
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Rumi: Translated by Coleman Barks

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->The Promise
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Mother_and_Child_by_bbbahrammm

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I once asked my mother if there are more good people in the world than bad.
She said that most people are good and that some are bad, but the problem is telling
them apart.
First be watchful, she said, then be wise.
I knew, even as…

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