A Precarious Love Affair

I haven’t written in a while.

I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Maybe it’s the fear that I will run out of words, or that those thoughts – the ones perfectly constructed in the confines of my heart – will crumble in the process of trying to articulate them out loud.

Writing is a precarious love affair.

It plagues my every moment, like a surge of the heart, always craving more, always seeking just. the. right. words.

I’m addicted to it.

There are days it brings forth a truth I’ve never realized. But,  sometimes it just makes no sense. And that inability to figure it out annoys me like that restless leg on a long car ride. That leg that can’t wait to get out. That leg that is SO over the journey and so ready for the destination.

But, that’s the thing about journeys, huh?

To travel to the end is to encounter a multitude in the middle. And, although I’m tempted to fold my ideas in half and pile them neatly on the shelf, as though they will magically turn into something beautiful on their own, what the heart needs is to just make a big mess.

To make a mess and refuse to clean up after myself. To let those ideas float around the atmosphere of my heart and careen into the other until I forget where one ends and the other begins.

I guess this is all in the journey. The journey of creativity; the journey of life. Maybe it’s less about the final product and more about the simplicity of sharing those imperfect pieces of me. The ones that kill me a little in the pursuit of making sense of them, but are still worthy of speaking out loud.

Yes, those: The ones that sit at the depths of my soul and roar fiercely like a lion.

I’m not sure why my heart keeps getting called back to this blog. I’m not sure why my heart fills so rapidly when my hands start typing. But, there is something here.

There is something yet to come.

 

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