I have neglected words for far too long.
I have turned my back on dusty journals crammed somewhere in a brightly colored box in a carefully cluttered apartment. I’ve walked by them and felt the twinge of guilt that comes from realizing how many memories I’ve left unwritten. I’ve heard their siren call from the confines of my closet and put a pillow over my ears to drown out the sound. The haunting melody that is the stories of my life.
I have deliberatley abandoned the powerful feeling of my fingers marching their way accross the keyboard. Weaving stories of love and loss and lessons learned.
I have let life sweep me away willing, allowing myself to get lost in the ebb and flow of the mundane. The normal. The predictable wackiness that I owe it to myself to document because every second of it is oh so beautiful. Every feeling, every experience, every moment deserves its place in my tattered journals.
On my poor, rambling blog.
But why is it when we need words the most, they seem to escape us?
Or is it us, escaping them.
Filling our mondays and tuesdays and wednesdays with the same simple tasks, promising ourselves we will return to our words tomorrow. Next week. Eventually.
Perhaps it is because sometimes, our words are too powerful.
They strike a fear in us that we run from with a determination we didnt know we had.
Words can lead us to a place we would rather neglect.
An eden of emotion,
A paradise of inner contradictions and heartaches and feelings that are messy.
Sticky, toxic, dangerous.
Terrifying.
I don’t want to run anymore.
I want to find my words again
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