My words are boring, dull, and dust. It’s inadequate and wanting. As always. It fails to capture the accuracy of every moment, of a particular thought, and of the most intimate emotion.
These words of mine have nothing new to offer the world. I know nothing and deserve no one to hear of me except myself. But my heart incessantly speaks to me. It says I must write. Hence, I must write and continue on writing. Not for mere entertainment or to kill time, but for myself and the whisper that’s telling me to do so.
If I will not be able to let my thoughts be put into paper or published in this account, I will sabotage myself from itself; putting it into a perpetual danger of shutting my voice. It must be one of the gravest things man can do for himself. And I cannot do it, and you too, must not do it.
I feel alive when words come to life. I discovered lately from Rilke‘s Letters to A Young Poet that one must really write for himself, not for others. And I know in my heart that the greatest form of writing is being able to convey the intricate feelings and complex struggles of human emotion. So long as it speaks what the lips cannot fully utter. So long as it expresses in total abandonment intimate experiences even to strangers.
Now, I’m beginning to write for myself without thinking of pleasing others or dreaming about being freshly pressed. LOL. But I admit I find joy when people read me. I appreciate that in space and time someone took notice of my writings. Or someone can actually relate to them. It amazes me that there are real people who liked my old boring and spontaneous musings. With that simple connection and my mind’s constant speeches, the urge to write becomes a wildfire. It causes me to feel more, love more, and see more… to open myself within myself and to the world around me.
Thus, I continue on this journey; summoning courage and embracing every moment. There is so much more to discover within my soul and to unravel in the world I call Hope, and to my home I call Glory.