Of Insecurity, and the Unreliability of Memory

I have formed a deep connection to a poet I view from distractions of the internet and my own writing. When she posts, I drop everything to read her wisdom. She makes me feel alive, directing my inner person, sparking outer activity.

My daily writing is an outward expression of what I keep hidden from most people. Everyone is excluded from my life except those who read my blog. I write as everything in life is but imagination and leads us to discovery of possibility.

I once thought publishing would be the end result but have since resolved to simply share my thoughts, rough drafts that need polishing. Since I have limited time, I concentrate on the new day and the new thoughts that rise from the sun burning away the darkness. The darkness that shrouds an important aspect of every person; wonderment.

I have no need to be remembered as anything special. I only need to be happy with what I have been. A person who has never lost her ability to dream and hope and let faith become an aspect of the child that lives inside.

I struggle with wanting to be overcome by the darkness. I do not say this to alarm but rather to shine light into a mind trapped by death. I long to sleep, forever, and then wake to see I have another day. I try and find gratefulness and beauty, no matter the energy it takes. Some days that energy is depleted.

This morning I woke to read another post by a poet who always lets me breathe.

I remembered handing one full-length script to a director who weighed it in his hand, smiled and said, “You must have put a lot of work into this.” Clearly, he had no intention of reading it. …

Source: Of Insecurity, and the Unreliability of Memory