There is a single microphone, centered on the stage. It waits as I stare past the footlights to the rows of emptiness. The musty silence will wait patiently, forever. Nervous fingers caress and arrange pages of their own accord. They are blank, and I will write on them.
My approach echoes loudly in the darkness, and I stand alone in my personal spotlight. A tap, a breath into the microphone, and I begin:
Hello, here I am, this is me making a promise to myself. My insecurity, secured. Locked up, throw away the key. Perhaps it will break out occasionally, but it is not welcome here. I cannot claim that I will write blinding brilliance, or perfect poetry. Just, thoughts. Perhaps often, perhaps not. But I'm here now, and life will take it's course. Who knows, this may become a simple catalog of my days, of my husband and children. But of course, there in, I can be found. I choose, to always find me.