Writing on here feels almost like a desecration of what I have written previously. Stored on this little website is what I would describe as Em in amber. Captured just as I was and how I thought and the things I felt. Documentation of the human experience is such a saturated field that I do not believe I have much to contribute; however, I try anyways. Mostly because I believe that when I seek to gain the Avatar state that I'll have a head start on clearing my chakras.
Continuing to write here also feels like a clean middle finger jab at my sophomore honors English writing class in university. Shame on you, Deirdre. Making me feel that my writing was adolescent and boy centered. OF COURSE IT WAS I WAS 19. But, what I had hoped for -- a bit of a writing mentor-ship because it was something that I loved -- didn't happen because that is all you said. I wonder where my life would be now had I actually pursued that with you and become a writer. Where would I be now... I continue to love writing. That is apparent by my shelves and shelves of notebooks that only become more expansive each year.
I find it interesting how, as I experience life more and more, my experiences render me more and more speechless and without words to describe them. Oh, how can I possibly get down all of these things in my heart that are wanting to explode out?! I want to write about the genuine excitement I feel when I see the sun on the barley that sways in the most perfect breeze as birds sing and the whole sky is dancing watercolor madness. The little small and ordinary leaps of the heart as you catch the glimpse of a Maybe person and you fall in love a little bit more with the world. The flow of ink to paper as you write exactly what you mean in parsimonious terms. The thrill of inspiration as you find you have been on the path you've always dreamed of but thought was far away. The perfect song playing as you settle into a bath. Electricity flowing in your veins as you set out on a highway for something new or something old, but something.
There is so much that I want to be and so much that I am not. But I am so much more the person I have dreamt of becoming since I was a child, that I can take peace in that. And know that in five years, I'll look back and realize that I've become what I wanted at this age. I'm going to keep writing. Maybe not on here. But, I will. I promise.
Continuing to write here also feels like a clean middle finger jab at my sophomore honors English writing class in university. Shame on you, Deirdre. Making me feel that my writing was adolescent and boy centered. OF COURSE IT WAS I WAS 19. But, what I had hoped for -- a bit of a writing mentor-ship because it was something that I loved -- didn't happen because that is all you said. I wonder where my life would be now had I actually pursued that with you and become a writer. Where would I be now... I continue to love writing. That is apparent by my shelves and shelves of notebooks that only become more expansive each year.
I find it interesting how, as I experience life more and more, my experiences render me more and more speechless and without words to describe them. Oh, how can I possibly get down all of these things in my heart that are wanting to explode out?! I want to write about the genuine excitement I feel when I see the sun on the barley that sways in the most perfect breeze as birds sing and the whole sky is dancing watercolor madness. The little small and ordinary leaps of the heart as you catch the glimpse of a Maybe person and you fall in love a little bit more with the world. The flow of ink to paper as you write exactly what you mean in parsimonious terms. The thrill of inspiration as you find you have been on the path you've always dreamed of but thought was far away. The perfect song playing as you settle into a bath. Electricity flowing in your veins as you set out on a highway for something new or something old, but something.
There is so much that I want to be and so much that I am not. But I am so much more the person I have dreamt of becoming since I was a child, that I can take peace in that. And know that in five years, I'll look back and realize that I've become what I wanted at this age. I'm going to keep writing. Maybe not on here. But, I will. I promise.
