Been wondering who I am. I keep chasing shadows, peering through keyholes and opening hidden drawers, searching for long forgotten friends, shimmers from the past. Why have I slumbered for so long?
Yet the passion is blossoming inside me once again, from the place inside my heart where it's patiently been hibernating. The longing fills my being, my very senses: words woven together to dance across my consciousness; stories harboring in wait, longing to be told.
And they will, for I know I am a Writer, no matter how many times I've forgotten in the past.
"She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages. That's all writing is, apparently, capturing sights and thoughts on paper. Spinning, like a spider does, but using words to make the pattern."
From The Distant Hours by Kate Morton
Image from rainbowsandhippos on Tumblr.
Peering through a window of maybes and possibilities, wistfulness and hopefulness. I'm trying to remember how to paint my canvas, though I'm having a difficult time deciding which colors to use. Perhaps I'll choose all of them; I love rainbows.
