And so I come back to this space. Not because I have a clear direction of what I want to do here but rather because I know it to be who I am intrinsically. I must take this energy and shape it into some thing I want to become. I feel the day forming into a cadence I love. I feel my essence at peace with this pen on paper, scratching across the page like an itch that won’t go away.
Yet I still cannot speak about it; cannot hold my focus; cannot choose a goal. It is limitless, formless in fact, and I can’t find a mold to contain this fire. After all this time, I can’t see what it is I want to write except that I want to write and I know that is my true way in this life.
I find kinship in the stories of other writers. We are the same beast given to our survival with the same approach. Perhaps I just need to commit and return again and again.