Oh the power of remembering. Of
reflecting. Or reading words that I thought were beginning to fade with age.
No. Instead of slipping away, they flood with a fresh power, deeper emotions, more
beautiful as the hours go by. I thought my well of words had run dry. I thought
I would never have the melody of flow on my finger tips or the whisper of
life-giving words on my lips again. I thought that part of me had died. But
reading through the things that originated in my heart and my mind years ago
seems to revive that spark, remind me that that flow with words is still alive.
And for that I am eternally grateful. Reading my own words now, chronological
years and metaphorical light-years away, brings tears to my eyes, emotion
threatening to burst out in the middle of this coffee shop. I used to speak in
figurative language to make meaning of my life, of my experiences, but that
part of me has been pushed down, stifled as I’ve tried to just survive all that’s
come at me, or that I’ve walked into due to my decision-making laziness.
Painting a picture with my words.
I miss it. I want to re-immerse myself in that world of life. Of expression. I
don’t care if no one ever sees my rendition of my experiences, but I need to
write. I need to allow the flow to flow from my fingertips as I free my mind
from the clawing grips of twisted reality and the feeling that I need to be
doing something else. Being ‘productive.’ But what does that even mean? When I
define my life by productivity, it robs all life, sucks the joy, diminishes the
light that’s breaking in. Why don’t I do this more often.
