Writing

I will never make a living off of sharing my inner music

But every time I spread my words across the screen, I somehow feel lighter…more relevant.  Tuned to the constants that run through every page of my life.

I often wish I could produce the movie of phrases into pictures because pictures are so much easier to share. No one likes to stand and read…but [flashes of color? It is doable].

So yes, this is a selfish fixation that comes and goes through out my own private seasons.

I like it.  I like those lettered pictures that fly out of the tips of my fingers before I can fully form them into something someone else may believe deemable.

It does not happen regularly.  It is not consistent.  And sometimes, things begin to flow and then turn chunks of ice backing up and flooding sideways-making a alphabetical mess.  Emotion is like that , you know.  Out of our own control.

I write for my emotion.  It is the part of me that sees things the other parts of me overlooks.  It is the melting ice of change, the drowning of sad days, and the trickle or rush of running joy.  My words are my river and my water.

 

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