It is a story || this writer's journey

And in a world of chaos and busy people;

in a sea of empty faces and broken hearts, in the time of storms when darkness covers the light, she ran like the stars were her destination and heaven were her home. The people she loved would ask her what was on her mind but the words were stuck in her throat, her heart being like a raging ocean and her mind like a runaway roller coaster. Each time her thoughts slowed as they neared the hill she thought she was beginning to grasp them and understand their meaning, but each time she got close they would disappear as they plummeted into the depths once again.

It was a game, really, one of struggling to understand and yet never being able to fully grasp what lay in her own heart, and the game turned into a storm; a raging tornado that swept her up and spun her around and slammed her into the ground: it was a storm of never knowing and being afraid to write down her thoughts should she ever manage to catch them.

One day she decided she had enough. She sat down, picked up a piece of paper and dangled the pen between her fingers because she had always been able to write down her thoughts even if she couldn't express them with her lips; because words were her plague and words were her redemption, but the page remained blank. Spaces became canyons and lines were long winding roads that reminded her of exactly how far she had yet to go until she reached the stars.

She longed for burnt sunsets fading into the purple night; for adventures that would leave her wonder struck, she longed to meet people that were seen as only faces in the crowd, she wanted to talk to strangers and point them to the Light, but most of all she longed for solitude and simplicity; a quiet heart and a listening ear for the Voice that was pushed out because of all the noise and strife inside of her heart.

She felt numb inside; she couldn't write and she could not speak. 

Life had turned a shade of gray that made her skies a dull, pale blue and everything that she tried to write ended up being thrown into the fire. it wasn't good enough. it didn't perfectly express what she was feeling and people would never like it. And one day as she was walking through the field; the sun turning the grass into a golden maze that bowed and moved with the wind, she realized that she had to write what her heart whispered to her. It might end up turning into little black scribbles, maybe no one would like it, but she had to write everything down. Every rise and fall of her hopes and dreams, every time she met someone that made her see things differently, every time she laughed and smiled and made new memories, every time an understanding and connection passed as gazes meet. She had to write it all down, and she realized that nothing kept the words stuck in her throat more than her own fear of not being good enough, because words will come and it doesn't matter how they end up on the page; scattered, or misplaced, they must be written down, because this was her language. This was her way of communicating, of understanding even when things didn't make sense.

Words were her plague and words were her redemption.

welcome to my world, I am a writer. ((a struggling, often failing, loving my job, learning all the time, writer.))