My journey is my writing. It takes me where I want to go. And where I need to go. Yes, sometimes where I don’t want to go.
My writing is like a journey. I know the process so well. The words and the sentences are like home. Like and old vehicle. They are comfortable. But they are always new at the same time. The words are always on the page in a new form. The sentences put forth have never been before. Like snowflakes they are unique.
The journey of my writing takes me places I know well. When I am writing it is like in my dreams. I know the words as they come to me. I see the visions of the words. Each sentence forms itself in my mind one at a time. But not the whole paragraph. And I don’t always know the way the story will end. Or the paragraph will end.
My writing is something I direct. But it is also something I follow like a trail of bread crumbs. They were left there so I could find my way. But through the woods, and across the plains I do not know where they take me. If I did I wouldn’t need the path to be marked.
When I start writing I do no always know where it will take me. The ideas which will become a part of the journey. The images which will flash across the page. The words come on their own. Like friends to assist me on my journey. And then they go on their own when they are done.
In my writing I am always moving. There is love and dreams in my writing. It isn’t a small room, in a cluttered house where I live. But a large world of light and life. In my mind I’m going to so many places. And my writing is the vehicle. And sometimes I am the driver. And sometimes I am the passenger. Even when I know the route.
If I keep on writing maybe a part of me will keep on dreaming. Even though most of me is stuck in a different reality. If I am writing then I am loving. Remember to dream is to love. And writing is a form of dreaming for me. It is a form of projecting my ideas into the world for others. But do the others see my dreams? Do they see my love?
Much of the writing journey is alone. The formation is just me and the words. And maybe later someone will read these thoughts. But often they sit unattended. They wait at the train station for someone who never comes.
But my writing isn’t for the others. It is first and foremost for me. And for me writing is air. It fills the voids of my mind with life. And when I push it out old thoughts are released. Like a rush of exhaled breath. Old ideas are pushed from my mind. Writing is the journey I take to health. Writing is the journey I take to wholeness. The journey to love. To God.