Stepping out on a limb. I am fearless. I am courageous. I am me. Bold and Beautiful, my soul glow, my emotions plastered on the walls of my notebook, and my heart open to receiving anything new. Mind focused on dispelling limits, internal barriers, and external constraints.
And yet I don’t read my writings. Asked why I write. I don’t really read my words that spread thin and wide across blank minds. My belief and passion lies in the action of writing. The therapy of writing. The experience of putting thoughts and concepts into reality and emotion that transcend my beliefs and soul. And what if I am not the only one thinking this way?? How will I ever know? If I first cannot conceptualize my own thoughts, my ability to understand and be understood would diminish.
Writing is like painting mental pictures with the tips of your fingers. Slowly mapping out paths to victory, success, and pain. It’s like retracing all the coloring books, simulating life in the reverse and the forward. It is a plan of action, reflection and preparation. Writing captures images, literary photography through phrases, memorializing topics, exploring people, and paying tribute to history and legends. It is history rewound, fast forwarded, and paused for a glimpse into the surreal, reality, the artist, and the mind.