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.
I momentarily lost my way: fogginess seeping into my skin, an ocean of raindrops. I cradle my inner compass against the steady beats of my heart and lead my ship into the sunlit horizon. My voyage is steady, on course. It's time to fly again.
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?
There's a hole in my pocket, scattering loose pebbles and feathers and fallen stars; even the key to the door slipped through a crack in the floorboards. I peer through the keyhole and watch the sun falling in slanted pools across my fallen treasures. Out here I dance with evening's shadows.
My dreams are fragile butterfly wings, a flutter inside my heart. The world tries to steal them, blow them away with the Autumn wind. What they don't realize is that, once born, my dreams can never be caged.