I miss writing.
I miss writing. I miss having a sense of connectedness. I miss having the feeling that my day was a story unravelling from the moment of dawn, and properly ended by the stroke of midnight.
That voice that once guided me is now absent, and I find myself fumbling throughout the day. My eyes are opened wider, but I cannot see. The sense of fear I have is even greater. Each step is made without a safety net. Actions are merely actions, I cannot connect-the-dots. The feeling I get is new, every action raw. Repeated, but raw.
Things continue to accumulate, maturation is necessary. Time knocks on the door.
Am I willing to embrace what I have in front of me? Am I willing to face this mucky-ness, clear away the hopelessness, but most of all, forgive what was lost?
This Life’s story [must be continued…]
