I am leaving words unwritten. I feel unsettled. A rattling pot covered on the stove. A slow decay of regret to not do something I must do. Writing keeps me up at night, but not writing keeps me awake all the longer.
There's magic transferring life within to words; similarly, in different instances, there's magic lost in trying, when something impossible within wants out but has no way of finding its delicate form outside of itself. Words sometimes are enough, and sometimes, they are far short of enough. But these things, these words, this act of watching magic create itself or lamenting its diminishment; it is a strange fuel that speaks to me; what rain on glass feels like, or the movement of people in cars, or listening to life at play, souls at rest, standing statues still to eyes passing over them for busier exterior noise.
It is difficult to be steadfast in harsh judgment, to critique honestly, when the judgment is written in the language of your own words. There is ownership in the endeavor, to be dishonest is to disown it completely, to walk away from the passage as if someone else spelled out what you could not.
Write to know what is the honest side of your soul, the compassion within your judgment, the joy which belies the pain. We search so far and yet so shallowly into all that lies out there in the world wrapped in complexity but know so little of how to chisel the simple courage of words within. A small voice, waiting for a written echo. It rattles deep beneath the lid, full of our own private mysteries.
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