Life is busy and beautiful and lovely until I’ve stopped writing. Because I’ve stopped writing?  In spite of the fact I’ve stopped writing?  And that’s why I’ve stopped writing? I can feel the effects deep down in my soul. As I fight off this cold and try to motivate myself to do the mounds of homework piling up and the therapeutic cleaning needed, my soul is longing for a story to tell.  My life doesn’t make sense if it’s not in writing.  My thoughts jumble, jostle, and reoccur over and over and over again until they are poured onto a page or a screen.  Not for anyone else to read unless they want to.  Just for me to make sense.  And ask questions.  And ponder.  And understand. And escape.  And face head on. And recover.  And recuperate.  My story longs to be told but as I live my story I tell it less.  I need more quiet moments of written self reflection.  Then it all makes sense.


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