Writing...

When I cease to write, I cease to live as I was made. That is not to say that writing is who I am, rather, writing is too deeply a part of me to stop. Like a butterfly with no color, that would be me with no writing. The butterfly wouldn’t cease to be, it could still fly, still function. But, something just wouldn’t be right…

Writing is the kite string that keeps me grounded. The feathers that help me fly. Where as Jesus is my roots, writing is my stem; it keeps me going. I understand myself better when I write. I express myself freely when I write. If life was a cage, which is most certainly is not, then a pen would be my key.

What some people feel with paint, a guitar, when they run, with a camera, in giving… I feel with a pen. I do not believe that feeling can be fully explained. A thorough dissection could be done, but to what avail? At each core you will find something different. Dissect my writing and you will find me. I believe that to be one of the main reasons I write. When I dissect what I’ve written, I better understand what I feel… at the very core of my words I find little pieces of myself.

Be careful when you read what I write and judge… One entry is like one piece of a puzzle. You can not possibly have one piece of a puzzle and believe you know the whole picture. You can not possibly read this entry and believe you fully understand who I am…