I’ve been trying to blog more often, trying to keep my little space updated with current thoughts, stories, etc. But it’s been hard.
I haven’t had the time to do as much surfing and reading as I used to, so haven’t found much inspiration for topics to write about. It’s left me feeling stale, and the writing came forced. Which for me is weird, since writing has always been a joy, a release.
Maybe I just didn’t have anything to say? Or anything to release? Who knows.
My usual sarcasm, while still there, has been far less prosaic, and more prone to pithiness.
I try to journal as much as possible – and usually my blog posts are an offshoot, if not outright copy, of my journal thoughts. Lately, my journal entries have taken a decidedly different turn.
Pithy observations and commentary have given way to free form verse…
I’ve always been rather secretive with such personal works, sharing them infrequently. Though I will freely write opinion and humor, shaking off criticisms like a duck sheds water, when I wax poetic, or even prosaicly poetic, I become far more shy. It’s these works that lay bare the soul, displaying raw emotions and where criticism stings most. And so, I’ve kept most of this form very private.
A few select pieces, distant enough from the emotions and passions that wrought them, have been submitted (and yes, published) in various places. The works of my youth have been lost to many moves, and perhaps that’s a good thing – labored, painful things expressing teenage angst.
And it occurs to me, I stopped writing anything even remotely poetic when I married… What passions stirred were such they couldn’t be voiced, even in private verse – and so were kept under self-censorship. When the only expressions accepted are those that focus on the divine, and when your own expressions would be considered profane, even blasphemous, it’s wise to simply not write.
Two years have passed, and slowly the restraints have fallen away – I’m finally allowing that part of me to come out from its hiding place, starved and thirsty, pitiful and aching. And thus have been my thoughts:
I feel like one just waking from a long sleep, when the cobwebs of dreams have not yet cleared and the morning light seems soft and surreal. When the worlds of reality and dreams collide and dreams become real, and reality itself seems but a shadow.
In that moment, it seems possible to reach out and take hold of the stars themselves, to make fabric of moonlight and sunbeams, to hold the very heavens in the palm of your hand.
A moment, outside of time and place.