Writing for collective joy, writing through individual pain. Is the meaning all the same?
It’s been a while since I’ve written on a blank page. I don’t always know exactly how to proceed. I am no sage. No philosopher. I am just writing to work through the times. To feel the creativity of working through rhymes. It makes me feel as if there is something more to us all of than what appears on the outside.
I think of myself as an overactive mind within an often weary body. I live to think, to read, to write. Sometimes I feel so enclosed, so entrapped within myself, that I almost lose my physical self. I ignore the fact that I have this body. How do I forge embodiment without losing the sense of myself to everyone else? How do I trust that my thoughts are unique and mine alone while I also spend time here with you? How can I safely share my intellectual home? How can I find my individual way along without feeling perpetually alone?
I am uncertain if can independently find my way. Sometimes I feel like I need someone else to show me. I am not sure if it’s my ego, pride, or misplaced solo glory. But, oftentimes, I want to craft my own individual story. That makes the page my stage. It is the only place where I can freely reflect, grow, and create. Again, I acknowledge I am no sage. I am only now learning to design my journey.
With the written word, I strive to forge beauty out of otherwise meaningless strife. Tell me, is this a meaningful way to measure a life?
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