Sunday, January 7, 2018

These things called books

I am writing my life. 

Not literally, not yet at least, although I hope to get there at some point. But in the every day, in the choices I make, I sculpt the words of my existence. In stringing them together - as Shakespeare taught with consonants to punctuate meaning and with vowels to express emotion - I write.

(And on really good days, I create songs to sing.)

These things called books.

Last night at work, I wrote in my journal. I am definitely not supposed to be doing this, but I had the time and needed to be responsible to myself. My heart was hurting at the end of a budding relationship, my first attempted since leaving my ex. It ended abruptly. I felt betrayed in trust. I turned to words to understand. They told me what I already knew, reassured me, comforted me. 

These things called books are sometimes of the air, invisible but older than time. Destiny has a bad reputation, it feels so heavy, iron-bound and I am a believer in the errratic, ectsatic human mess (at least for me it is often a mess) of free will choosing. But there have also been connections made of late where words were not needed. I am remembering the beauty of friendship. It feels rather special to be able to feel someone far away without having to write a line, as if fated.

In my mind's eye, I can see my book starting to form (even if there are days, many, when I leave the pages loose lying around, I walk over them unnoticing on the floor). If I open the cream cover, I can nearly trace what is written on the dedication page with a pinky finger: "This is dedicated to...loving myself." And oh, that feels so vulnerable that at times that I am ashamed of it, I want to erase, erase, erase but I can't, for it is written in gold.

This breath, this moment, I just exhaled. I am here, I am here and I am writing my life.

And oh, the stories within.