I like to write.
But I can't finish what I start.
I'd like to, but I falter and sputter and slam headlong into the writer's block that encompasses the room.
It isn't enough that I run out of ideas mid-sentence, in some cases. I'm left with weak metaphor, slack plot lines and a threadbare idea not weighty enough to keep you warm on a summer camp out.
So why do I feel compelled to write at all?
It's not like any of this really means anything in the eternal scheme of things. I doubt that anything I've written in my journal has the power to become canonized as scripture for even the most Pygmy-minded people.
And the persuasion that begins the thoughts churning is like the wheel in the hamster cage that slowly winds down to a stall when the errant hamster jumps off to pursue something more enjoyable.
I'd like to think that I have eternal potential in the words I attempt to shape into thoughts and feelings on paper or digitally.
The secret part of my soul that wants me to write sees so much more than the everyday mortal that attempts to meld that divine vision with the limitations of the flesh.
But the mortal half of the equation lacks the vocabulary to translate from sacred to profane or commonplace without losing the beauty that only comes in snatches...and apparently as only a personal view.
I hear lyrics in my sleep of songs that my soul has written. I play music on the strings of my mind's guitar but agonizingly cannot reproduce them in the telestial circumstance that meets me when the sun rises.
The songs I hear in my mind and heart are moving and celestial and glorious - and out of reach.
Like the stories that litter my personal file, they are not meant for anyone but me.
And I don't know why.
But I write.
I labor over words unspoken and lines of music which will never be heard.
Maybe the music and written thought are only a reminder that Someone is mindful of my desires. I can't view these moments as a bad thing. I'm just sad that I can't do with them what I sometimes feel I am meant to do.
Like Beethoven, I worry that I have offended both God and man by not living up to my potential. Unlike Beethoven, I have no magnum opus to share that marks my passing through mortality over time.
Unless we speak of my family and friends.
I hope the marks I have made upon the parchment and note paper of their lives will help them to find their music and their voice in their own lifetime.
I pray that I have done nothing that would prevent them from seeking for and finding that which is the highest within them.
Words are both a tool and a privilege. With them, we can share who we are with our strengths and weaknesses, vulnerabilities and skills, and deeply personal soul with those who will care for that piece of our heart most tenderly.
I only hope I have cared for those pieces of others' heart in a way that makes them feel safe and loved.
Too many words, not enough substance in them...my thoughts are unwritten in this life, my feelings too deep to surface in a harsh world.
