It’s not the same writing in the presence of someone else. It feels like I have to write something good, something fast, and something that makes sense.
At least I’m writing.
I haven’t written in a while. A month, almost, to be exact.
I’m in a much different state than I was the last time I was writing, but maybe that’s how my artist will grow. Maybe it’s important to try writing in different places, different thought starters, environments, you know. I think I have enough thought starters, just maybe not enough thought finishers.
I tried to write the other day and got about 3 sentences in. It feels defeating. It only feels fulfilling to think about what I could write because there’s no interruptions and constant thought and everything sounds better in your head.
Everything sounds better in your head.
I had a bath today and cried while I was washing my face. I’m not really sure what set it off, but I was thinking, hard. Thinking about everything and anything and my wedding and my family and my dreams and the fairies. I miss the fairies.
I miss when I was young and really believed in those things.
Not to say that I still don’t, but it’s more of an adult believe, and people call you crazy if you say you believe or just think it’s cute or that it’s a phase. Maybe it was, but it’s back.
I’m remembering things.
I’m thinking and feeling things.
Am I about to reverse it by smoking and drinking? Why do I like these things if they’re so bad for me?
I dream of my life in more ways than one and I get really attached. I think I get my hopes up before I can even understand more of the story.
I get excited and attached and dissapointed all in the same because I think, I sit there and think:
“Look how amazing this life is. This wonderful, beautiful, abundant life you’ve dreamt of. Look how perfect. It’s everything I’ll ever want before you know what knowing what you want even is.
And then my ears understand what my mouth tells my brain and crushes my souls heart.
And I remember where I am. And how small I am.
But then I think of our rock. Our rock that holds us down and lifts us up. Our rock that, too, is abundant, wonderful, beautiful, and perfect.
But I am small. But I am extravagant. What am I?
Why would He let me have the ability to dream of such a world if said world should not exist?
Why can I imagine a novel concept? Why can I be so creative if the canvas cannot be painted?”
So, I sit and cry. Or I stand, drive, lay, or think, and cry.
Because I think I just imagined a whole new world. And I think that what I thought was good.
In fact, so good that it could be the start of something. Some magic, some amazement, and something perfect.
So, she was ready. She still is ready. She is present and wonderful and ready. To do whatever it needs. Because her dreams have prepared her for this.
Because she wouldn’t be able to believe in it if for she was not able to believe of it.
Read it once, and then read it again.
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