I long to write.
I’ve written most of my life.
The other day, I found a story I wrote when I was 5 or 6 about a toad and a flea that were pals. I have binders full of essays and poems and short stories through high school and college.
I have boxes and shelves of journals and notebooks and paper scraps containing events, thoughts, sketches, worries, heartbreaks, goals, dreams, successes, joy. There have been times I’ve written daily and others when it’s been a lot less frequent than that. I cherish these records; records of who I was and who I’ve become and who I want to be. In hard times and happy times, I’ve reviewed their pages and received strength and clarity.
I also have this blog. This blog has never had a true vision. I communicate through it. Sometimes, I want to have thousands and thousands of readers and be witty and cleaver and share my thoughts and life with the world. Other times, I want to be silent. Most of the time, I just try to share little bits of me and I feel satisfied. It happens irregularly, but it happens.
I find myself, refine myself, through writing; Heaven communicates with me when I write.