Writing My Way Back

I am absorbed in writing more than I have been maybe ever. I am just realizing that for the first time I am writing something just for me, just to get it down, to remember, to have it for myself forever. For too long I have thought about what other people might like to read or how my writing might make others feel. For too long I have been over thinking and over considering instead of just writing, just for me. With this new series of short stories that I am writing I have no motives or expectations. These are things that I am compelled to get on the page and out of myself, for myself. I love it all. I am writing my way back to me, to my heart, through my heart. Following my instincts.
Here is a little unedited "warm up" writing before I step away from the screen and take my pen in hand:
He is gone. She is alone and she is strangely happy about this. Upstairs the children sleep after a day of party and play. The radio is on. She closes her eyes and listens as the music soaks into her pores note by note. Breathing out heavily, her face to the sky, emptying herself of air, all is released. She lowers her head, let's her hair fall over her face and sighs.

It is Spring, but there is still snow on the ground. She steps outside into the cool of the night, sits on the still frozen ground and places her hand on the snow. Slightly softened during the day by the ever warming sun, the snow accepts the imprint of her hand.

She closes her eyes and imagines she is holding hands with someone else. They are walking down a path by the sea. It is evening. The sun is setting over the cliff where they stand. Even as the sky rapidly darkens, even though they carry no flashlights on this unlit path, she feels safe and sure.

They stand side-by-side in silence. "You came," he says, breaking the silence. He waits for her to speak. "You are here," he ventures again. She leans closer pressing her arm to his from wrists to elbows. He turns to face her. She reciprocates and takes his other hand in hers. Full circle.

The full moon illuminates the space between them, bathes them in its glow. He sees the answers in her eyes, feels them emanate from her being. When she finally speaks she is deliberate and slow and sure. "Yes. I always have been."