Today. Today I will write.

Most mornings I awake and think, “Today. Today I will write.” But the day gets away from me: work and concern about not having enough work; exercise; phone tag with friends who, at times, seem so very distant; reading; fretting about what the future holds when the present often  feels so barren. At some point the sun slinks away and exhaustion sets in. My bed beckons my heavy head and heart to seek shelter within its sheets and duvet. With windows wide open, letting in the night’s coolness, I whisper prayers dripping with thanks, questions and pleas.

It begins again the next morning. Words fail to be written down. Out of fear I refuse to open my journal, to let loose these words upon the page. Fear that once I sit down there will be nothing to write, thereby exposing myself as a fraud and the people who encourage(d) me to write as liars. Fear that if I pick up the pen my life will change in ways I can neither imagine nor control. So I settle for silence, for sabotaging that which my heart most desires.

Today. Today I woke up and declared, “Today. Today I will write.” No longer able to keep the words securely stowed in their proper place, I write. Whatever the outcome, fraud, liars, loss of all control, the words must breathe, must exist outside of me where fear no longer constricts and suffocates.

Here you are my friends. Here you are my words. Welcome.

 

 

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One response to “Today. Today I will write.

  1. Pingback: Fits and Spurts | Reflections on Possibility

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