It is like this.

It is like this.
This, this, the very feeling of losing,
God-given and blessed, this very gift of writing...

Despair may be like this.
Cubic room
Blackened walls
Total darkness
Only a stand-alone beam of light above me.
Behind a desk
On a wooden chair
Laid out: A pen, a paper.
Somehow it seems the walls are closing in on me.

Hope. It may be like this.
Strict and firm.
Raw and forceful.
Loud and wild?
A treasured friend came like this.
A treasured friend came with these:
Comfort, care, confidence, faith.
It may be these.
But love it is.
I'm sure it is.

Now re-attained,
God-given and blessed,
This very gift of writing
Must only be used for one thing.
Love it is.
I'm sure it is.