Oh, how I want to write more of my story. How I want to explain. How I want to help others in need. But I am stuck among the trees of the forest, unable to see the grand scheme of things. The storm of words has gained momentum and I’m being swept up by them.
I love to write. However, I am having such difficulty in collecting my thoughts. Writing is my curse. I wish I could let it go. I wish it would let me go. Alas, I know it won’t. The winds will only pick up, whipping my mind into a frenzy of confusion.
It is like a burden. Yet, a form of release. Oh, how I hope the storms pass.
Unfortunately, in my opinion, I am a writer. I was born with thoughts in my head that wanted to be written on paper. I set to work as a young girl, creating an office from upturned plastic tubs, giving myself deadlines, bringing my copies to anyone who would read them. I wrote about dogs, and birthdays, and the animals I met on the farm. What is there to write when you have yet to live a life?
As I grew older, the thoughts, wanting to be written, remained. But a pen would not fit in my hand, the cursor would not stop blinking, the sight of a notebook turned my stomach. I could not, would not write. Yes, I wrote for school, and always received good feedback. But that feedback never felt right.
I don’t write for feedback. I don’t know what I write for. Yes, I write for feedback. Of course, I want to affect with my words. But there are so many sometimes, and then there are none. How do I capture, organize, remember?
Unfortunately, I will always have to write and there will always be a storm in my mind. I am learning to capture the inspiration, to reign in the winds of words, and put something down, finally, after so much time of blank paper.