Trying to write wanting to write can’t sleep so might as well. Making sense of it is not the prize just blah blah blah write to fill the time ease the soul keep from picking up someone else’s writing. Gosh, that’s so tempting. To read what’s already written, and so much of it. Could fill my days escaping into stories and pictures real and imagined. So many ways to take a trip without putting words to paper. But…….
What about my own creativity my own story, not my story story but a story. Although I suppose all writers have a bit of themselves, their heart their soul in the story they write. Yes? Maybe not. I’ve read some pretty crappy stuff.
Do you think our parents/ancestors leave psychic mush in our DNA, our neural net, the stuff that haunts us, that makes us wonder why we feel this way, act this way, think this way? What I mean to say, the things we can’t explain that don’t seem a part of us, but seem to have always been there? And not good stuff, let’s get clear about that. The dark parts, the sadness, the self-sabotaging thoughts, the complacency, the holding back on our dreams. Do you think some of that is ingrained by another life, another spirit?
There I go off in the ozone. I like it there. I want be to somewhere besides here in my own head. Been reading about our souls, before life, during life, after life. Reminds me this isn’t all there is, thank god. I’m not sure what is “there” but that other dimension is captivating engaging comforting. So much of what I give power to, what I may think is important, just plain isn’t. Just useless sludge.
And I will stop here, because if I tell you what the only thing that matters is, I will sound trite and like so many of those sayings clichés spiritual wisdom coming out of my you-know-what. The word, at least this morning, seems so over used and does not do its’ meaning justice. The meaning being grand, vast, empowering, blessed, heartfelt.
But, I do wish you much of it.
