Sometimes I just feel like writing.
To grab that favorite pen
and feel the smoothness of the ball rolling ink across the pages…
forming words
and making thoughts that much more tangible.
Why do things have a way
of just streaming out as they do?
How is it certain words
and certain curves
just seem to flow in an almost musical and spiritual way?
It all just feels so refreshing and relieving!
There are no worries!
All cares are exposed and released.
There are no insecurities or fears.
Penmanship is perfect in its imperfections!
Why is it that this is a way in which I feel so much closer to God?
It doesn’t fully make sense to me.
Many others connect in ways that seem
so much more readily inviting than this.
Am I really so lazy?
My hand spreads across a papered surface.
The feeling is met with confusion
between desirable and undesirable.
Ink layers itself on the bulge in my pinky.
The small guiding muscles ever gently begin to cramp.
Striving for “good” handwriting begins to cease
as readability takes a back seat to the flow of feeling –
in literally every sense.
Letters become mixed as
new angles and swirls are experienced.
It’s a nearly existential sort of soft exhilaration.
Now if only meaning could be put behind the scribbles.
But this is art in and of itself.
It pours itself out of the recently creaked and exposed crevices of my heart
and even soul.
To add meaning would almost mean to snuff out the totality of freedom
or the exposure to beautiful rawness.
Rawness.
Something usually expected as painful,
wounded,
and negatively exposed.
Here the word only brings a refreshing sense of being unveiled –
something gloriously innocent,
young,
pure,
inspirational
and naked.
O to be innocent and naked.
Completely released from everything
that ties
and holds
and pulls
and reasons
and points
and pins
and stretches
and falls.
O to be released.
Sweet sweet release.
O to feel release.
To feel satisfaction.
To experience such fulfillment.
To experience such divine loss.
O to be at such an emptiness for words…
Words…
