It’s almost midnight and I am having an awful time trying to fall asleep. Too many worries like everyone else, I guess. However, I do try to look within myself and find the response I need to issue to all of you, the reason as to why I write.
My significant other has been drinking beer in the garage. I went downstairs with him to look out into the night sky and just shoot the shit about life happenings. That is the best thing about having a significant other: shooting the shit about life. As I sat there, a term emerged from me. I kept racking my brain trying to understand why it is that I feel this inclination to write, and I think it is because I see myself as a healer.
I write because I want to heal those around me from their cynical ways. I have seen bright souls become bitter. I have seen lives grow sour on the roots of their own egoism. I guess I enjoy my tiny life. I enjoy my menial job, my coworkers, what I eat for breakfast every morning, and how I decide to spend my weekends. I enjoy the grunt realism of it all. I enjoy the raw, true feeling of just being alive.
Sometimes, when I am alone and not a soul is around, I feel so blessed to watch a sunset, or see a hummingbird harvest for nectar. I find pleasure in the small things.
One day, I truly hope to get some photography up here. I would love to share pictures of inspiration and hope. I would love to give food to feed hungry souls. I feel that I could do a better job with images than short stories.
I think it would be cool to mix the two mediums: fiction stories and photography. I foresee one day my creativity will go and blossom from there.
As of right now, I am going through a hard, vigorous training of learning how to be true to myself once again. Growing up and trying to be a responsible adult has held me back, in a lot of ways, from the art I have always wanted to create.
As I get older, the more I understand the importance for me to take a step back, look at the work I create, and love it because I love myself.
I have always had visions in my head of what I wanted to do. When I got out of high school, I just wanted an apartment with a stack of bookshelves. My world has opened up so much since then. Now, I have a Master’s in Library Science, I live in a house, and I can devote my life to writing and love. Some may say this is a wasted life. I don’t feel that way. I feel it was the only true way to reach my dream, and my destiny, of becoming a healer.
The question even I sometimes become plagued to respond to is this: What I am trying to heal them from?
-mean words and actions we do to one another
-a trapped mentality of how one should survive/live/love
-unwarranted desire and unnecessary need for excessive monetary gain
-the delusion that true love ceases to exist
-the scars of greed
-acceptance that we can’t predict the future
-acceptance of death
In all, I think there are a lot of things I am trying to cure the human race of. I guess this is why I wanted to become a writer. I wanted to help people. I think I would have made a great therapist too, but I guess this is the next best thing.
I hope we can all heal each other with stories, art, and love.
What do you all think?