My Writing LIfe

You can NOT fail, if you Never stop trying….#IthinkIbelieveinthat

I used to plead for peace, for love, for understanding, for what I thought was right and against what I knew was not. Each fight, each heart-break another lesson, disguised as something personal, albeit betrayal of those I once loved,  the loss of those I never imagined would ever leave,  and my faith in those who in the end proved I was expendable, replaceable and worst yet easily forgettable.   Ultimately my overwhelming and paralyzing disappointment grew and grew over time and transformed casting its shadow not only upon the memories of certain individuals but most heart-wrenching, the setting of stone that seemed to be my new founded and perpetual disappointment in all of humanity.

In the humanity I wanted for so long to desperately believe in and somehow, somehow find a way or somehow become worthy  of being heard and turning on a light, and not for myself, rather all the world. A light to illuminate the common good that for so long I blindly trusted was in us all and would always have the power to prevail.

However, perhaps I have been wrong and more wrong and in more ways than I ever could have imagined about any of it? For what if there was a great amount of truth in my paranoid and frantic moments in which I allow myself to become comforted by self-doubt and redirected by distractions.  During the worst episodes I would actually accept the possibility that it has all been merely a manifestation. A manifestation of my own sheer improbability and utter delusion.  Convincing myself again that my cherished moments of midnight madness were simply that, nothing more and nothing less. However in with predictability of the ebb and flow of my life the next night I would be sure to call again upon the bravery with. I would again be able to entertain the possibility that my words did hold slight glimpses of all that is special inside of me . My favorite nights the ones regardless of where my writing life takes me will be the breaths I took while secretly assigning them enough grandeur to define what is purpose in this world.

Aaaahhh breathing the breath of purpose built upon a dream what a sweet peace it brought to my soul and my life. Yet, we all know the sun is masked by night and blue skies give way to rain. So with each beautifully discovered revelation of hope, the pieces of destiny placed in my path. Excited and proud of what to me has always felt  and in my head compared to what I imagine whomever the artist was that carved the statue of David from a single piece of stone felt racing through his mind when he really took note of his work and saw beauty where once was a simple rock.  Euphorically inspired in the days I could understand it all and wanted nothing more than to transform my discovery, my idea to find the most useful means to express all that had never been. Give it to the world in its raw form it so that others could mold it into its truest and greatest value. Then the rain would come and wipe clean the ink of my perceived brilliance and my soggy paper torn and tattered for the harsh winds of reality never fail to find me and strike out and destroy my fragile collection.
My delicate thoughts. Thoughts not only mine but part of more? Maybe, just maybe? Thoughts not strong enough to stand the forces upon them. Over and over they crumbled, time and time again under the weight of my newest sorrow, latest distraction, doubt and responsibilities and social pressures that relentlessly have; as they do for everyone, howl viciously and without care across my life.

After the storm I would begin to take a count of all I lost. In my mind I could see my thoughts yet again scattered and out-of-order. Like an airplane crash in which at one moment the entity of flight is intact and full of life and possibilities and  in an instant all is lost and can not even be discerned as to what its previous form and purpose and existence. That is the destruction that my hurt for and from the world has countless times left upon my heart. Worst still is that I possessed no direction or even outline of how to reassemble any shred clarity to even begin to weave back together and clearly make coherent sense again out of such a mess.

I cry silently in those moments of absolute limbo. Time that feels heavy and frozen locking between fearing something truly, great was lost and the chance that nothing had real or ever existed?

I would for days be silently terrified, a fear that would come from deep within my soul knowing that although I had thought the order and rhythm of the words once I would never again be able to create their equal.
Left to grieve that tiny piece uncertainly certain, the piece of my heart and soul that knows and has always known… there IS true value in my work and I must somehow rebuild. Again!

I WILL….for to not….would without a doubt be certain die to my spirit. I would become ordinary and that is what I fear most.

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