I write because writing is slow; writing is probably the slowest part of my life.
In writing, I have found a small window to express to my audience simple thoughts.
This crookedly framed window was not my first preference; nor surprisingly my second.
To be blessed with song is how I wish, but I have no voice strong enough.
To be blessed with speech is how I wish, but I have wit not fast enough.
So I write. With time and parallels, somehow I fractionally recreate moments.
I dwell on experience and feeling, sometimes for days and weeks on end.
Usually out of frustration, I release those lessons to flight from my worn stage.
Maybe my parallels will intersect with yours and create a collision we can’t shake.
The other morning, I stared at my coffee as the steam wandered northward.
What beauty was given to my eyes by something so simple!
In examining the steam wavering, two images came to mind:
The first was flag fliers at a Charismatic church I visited two years ago.
The way they waved with unrestrained motion is significant to me.
The second was the plastic bag scene in American Beauty.
Manipulated to beauty, the plastic bag danced proudly in perfection.
Those two memories played over and over as I watched my coffee grow cold.
I will exhaust myself trying to sing with splendor and speak with persuasion.
Writing has been that bridge for me to believe I have the capability of being understood;
Not always in fullness and accuracy, but understood just enough to believe I’m okay.
Does this make any sense to you? I surly hope so, but again prove my point if it does not.
The hour is late and I must retire in hope of finding what little sleep I may.