Why haven’t I been writing?
Not in my journal, not in my blog, not letters, or even quick notes. Stories keep twisting, from morning to night, dancing and spinning, glittering, teasing, and bright. Around and around growing and fading away, story and thought over and over all day.
Why don’t I stop and write?
Colourful words I dream to put down. Descriptions of smells, sights, and sounds. What if my words don’t capture my thoughts or give the full picture? I can hear the stories, but they are behind these locks.
Will today be the day I set myself free?
I know that this cage that is set around my spirit is binding me tight in ropes of fear. I know that it all started somewhere inside, grief, identity, hiding in shadows in plain sight. The outside looks normal. The inside is shaken. Kidnapped and bound but living near normal. I alone hold the key. I should use it today. Break through this fear, step out, practice, and have faith!
Do I tell the truth or mascarade on?
When my grandma died, my heart was broken, anger raged, and I could not focus. My sorrow grabbed control of me. Anger, anger, anger, a very uncomfortable emotion. I used to just suppress it, not learning how to process. Not this time! I own it!
I worry all of the time. Will the grief and anger cross the line? Will my writings be sorrowful and depressing? Where is the beautiful, the colourful, the bright songs? Dancing lights, where have you gone? Magic, miracles, joy, love? My happy place where light my life belongs?
I will write. I will put the words down. I will allow the music of life to wrap and weave a beautiful melody of joy, gratitude, anger, and grief. Why hide the fact of what is true? Sometimes, life seems easy, and sometimes, the opposite is true.
If sorrow, anger, hate, and fear are part of life, is there some sort of beauty to be found there? What if the beautiful rises up from the ashes of sorrow, like new green growth after a forest fire rages through leaving dark trails of destruction, acrid smell. What if victory only comes from battling and waring and conquering fear and hate?
What if living truly makes us warriors? Are we ready for the battles? Have we polished our armor? Have we practiced till we bled, building strong muscle and sharp eyes, lightening reflexes, or are we weak like the walking dead? Dress up warrior, put your full armor on, don’t sleep, rise up, march on.
The sun is rising faithfully. The birds and crickets have welcomed the dawn, a chorus beautifully orcastrated from some power beyond. Joyfully dancing like a ballet through the air, light then powerful, floating gracefully. Morning welcome.
Today, I wrote.
Beautiful Remade 