Know I need to write. Have set myself up in a position to do so. However, I find any number of distractions to impede that goal.
What is my problem? Am I afraid? Why am I so skittish about putting down my thoughts? What am I really thinking beyond the fluff of the every day? What is on my heart/in my heart of hearts?
I write down a few words only to find my mind drifting to other vacuous and empty pursuits -- drivel that wastes my time, wastes my energy, makes my eyes hurt, and leaves me feeling hollow and unfulfilled. I know I was created for so much more. Writing runs through my blood. The need to express myself fills me with purpose.
Deep in my very soul I feel it bubbling under the surface. I know I am a word weaver. A bevy of words are figuratively percolating inside, waiting to escape and give off that same intoxicating aroma that a coffee lover deeply inhales at the first contact of water with those gorgeous ground beans.
The events of the past few years have threatened to render me silent. On this journey I have discovered pain can sometimes squelch the words. Pushing the pain down in order to simply survive is like putting a tourniquet on to stop the blood flow.
First there is numbness, then a surging and pulsing occurs above the site of pain. Eventually the band must be removed to somehow restore normalcy.
I have removed the tourniquet. Blood is flowing from the heart and to the fingertips. Pain still remains, but the silence must not. Now the silence has become as painful as the protection it once provided.
Where to begin? What comes first? In order to avoid a word hemorrhage, I may keep this to a slowly increasing stream and ease myself back into any sort of bursting forth eloquently. Let's see what emerges. Stay tuned!