There are times I am compelled to write. I just get pulled into a chair and my fingers start typing. Often, I have struggled to come up with something rich and insightful, something so honest that its nakedness is hard hitting. But all that comes up is regurled bits of conversations, phrases, books...
I want that energy, that intensity to lead to something profound, something magical. I try hard to wrap my mind around what i am feeling. I want some answers and I want writing to throw them up so that I can catch them and see where they came from and what do they tell about me. It is a lovely game. But what if I often missed something else when doing this catch and tell.
Let me explain.
When I let go of this desire to find something awesome, I am much more at peace. If I am sad, my eyes begin to water as I write, the outside noises fade away and the heart warms up as if it is in tune with something larger and deeper. If I am happy, my hands become a living embodiment of an energetic dance. Sometimes, the energy is too much to stay put.
There is no purpose in writing, except to write. Can I stay with that? Can I just relish that writing is just like the hands that massage my soul. It is a path I take to find my lost rhythm. It needs no one but an honest me...and sometimes a cup of coffee. Peace comes cheap. Believe me, I know.
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