Writing is something I used to do a lot. I would get lost in words on paper, creating sentences into paragraphs that suited my imagination. Writing was a world I could lose myself in, creating a reality that was less harsh, less hurtful--ultimately, less real.
My writing took a turn, and I started writing about real things--real life with real hurts, consequences, joys, loves, height and depth swirled with breadth and width. In many ways, I loved it; in real ways, I feared it. The writing opened doors I was unsure of walking through, as the territory was unfamiliar and frightening.
Over time, I have pulled away from writing. Words swirl in my head, yet rarely make it to paper. I have been told before that my mode of expression comes through writing, and in a way, that is true; perhaps more so than I realized. I am not one known for a lack of words. I have been struggling with communicating these words in winsome ways the past few years, though. The words have been flat. Flat words without any direction.
I have had time--time to think, time for words to marinate, swirl around inside my mind and take shape. I think of them as grains of sand, swirling around and being changed. What has been produced from this--is it still a grain of sand, or have the elements been harsh enough to produce pearls of wisdom? They say a seed, when planted, goes into the soil and dies. Slowly roots come out of death, and go down. They grow deep and wide, long before breaking the crust of the earth, bearing new life.
Has it been long enough?
My writing took a turn, and I started writing about real things--real life with real hurts, consequences, joys, loves, height and depth swirled with breadth and width. In many ways, I loved it; in real ways, I feared it. The writing opened doors I was unsure of walking through, as the territory was unfamiliar and frightening.
Over time, I have pulled away from writing. Words swirl in my head, yet rarely make it to paper. I have been told before that my mode of expression comes through writing, and in a way, that is true; perhaps more so than I realized. I am not one known for a lack of words. I have been struggling with communicating these words in winsome ways the past few years, though. The words have been flat. Flat words without any direction.
I have had time--time to think, time for words to marinate, swirl around inside my mind and take shape. I think of them as grains of sand, swirling around and being changed. What has been produced from this--is it still a grain of sand, or have the elements been harsh enough to produce pearls of wisdom? They say a seed, when planted, goes into the soil and dies. Slowly roots come out of death, and go down. They grow deep and wide, long before breaking the crust of the earth, bearing new life.
Has it been long enough?