making the connections

But I always find that… when my life goes crazy I don’t write… but when I don’t write my life goes crazier. Writing is like the reminder of the cross to me. It is always there for me, it always saves me, but sometimes it is hard to approach, especially with a heavier soul. It is hard to look upon this empty page, this clean slate that He has given me when I know if I wrote the truth on these pages, the frustrations and the anger, the justification and the impatience, the longing and the jealousy and the fear. My pages would be blackened, too many words and too little to say.

So I’ll write about what makes me happy, a snapshot of a rare smile.
I have traded in these knifes and blades, the weapons of my downfall, for some dead trees and a feather and ink.

I will write for all the wrong reasons.
I will scribble the heart ache and the joys.
I will be real within my own reality.
That is all I can attempt to promise.

The words come swift and easy at times.
The words flow through my veins, coursing and redeeming and protecting myself from me.
I will write for Him. I will write of Him. I will. I can. I must.

I want to write words that haunt. that are written again in journals and blogs and on palms of hands because they caught the heart in a rough but loving snatch. I want to write words to show that they are bestowed with intrinsic power, that they can move and heal and give life and show the way when all you can see is darkness. I want hope to be redefined as a progress, not a parade or a perfectly packaged smile. To take a life outside the edges of pages and reveal to it the worth it has, to write those in the margins into pages and books that others can read and know. We are united by our words, by our heart ache and the human condition. We are divided by nothing but self-enforced borders and bone-crushing binds and devotion to perfectionism and prejudice.