I hide behind words. Wielding a large letter S, in Veranda bold 24, I hold it in front of me twisting my body to be shielded. I pour these words out, my fingertips damp with moisture pitter pattering the keys, pools of salty wetness gathering on the table top. They fall and scatter across the page, an alphabet soup on my computer screen.
There is more safety in the unsaid. More loneliness in the unheard.
There is an ebb and flow to depression. Its presence always on the sidelines waiting to be called out to play. When it gets that chance on the court it is in no hurry to find its way back to the bench. Pushing away all the other thoughts until he is the star of the game.
I fight. Throwing a B and F, in Rockwell Extra bold 36, a misthrown G finds its way rolling back to me. I call upon my friends to fill the void of emptiness that is growing. But the lack of words has created a chasm and how is one to jump across when so much continues to be unsaid? How can I fight with no one on my side?
I have left so much unsaid. For I am now frightened of my words. Cowering in the corner as the Z and R, in Impact bold 36, approach menacing from the hall. My words have failed me. Left trembling on my lips with no breath to push them out. Deleted on a page but not forgotten.
How can I breathe with no letters to conjure up the task? When tears have failed and help is misplaced. A stillness fills the air. Silence smothers the words. Buries them deep under the soft ground. My hands worn, bloodied and dirty as I try to dig them out. Without words how will I not be overlooked?
My cursor blinks and blinks but my fingers are frozen and unmoving.
Dear reader, listener of these words, it is a struggle. Such a struggle these days. With no affirmation but silence.
He’s on the court, he shoots, he scores.