It seems my voice has been drowned out by my own thoughts. The busier I become, a slave to my own ideals and expectations, the more I seem to push writing to the wayside. What purpose do my words play in the big, old blogosphere? I don't know. I don't know that even matters. However, I do know I will not find my true, authentic voice unless I write. I will only be silenced by the onslaught of picture perfect Instagram posts, followed by links to blogs that inspire and make me aspire. . .but stifle my onslaught of words.
Sometimes it seems my words are all I have to offer as a gift to a hurting friend, a confused child, an angry person, or my best friend. Writing for me is an undisciplined practice, a dream that was born in my heart as a child who filled journal after journal with stories I now share with my own kids. Where did that dream go? Did it die because it wasn't practical? It wasn't an easy feat so I locked the memory in the deep recesses of my mind? I don't know. I don't know that I'm the same writer today, anyways. Fiction seems a far away avenue that I wouldn't even know how to begin. I'm an avid reader, but a writer? Not so much these days.
Is it a book contract that makes ones words matter more than someone else's? Or is the writer offering a glimpse into their world that should be accepted as an invitation to understand them from their perspective? Again, I don't know. I do know I've been silent for too long now in this space. I also know that my thoughts don't stop just because I haven't written any of them down. So today I write some words. Maybe tomorrow I'll write some more.
