Sometimes, at random times really, I feel a strange feeling in my chest and have to stop what I’m doing. Be I washing dishes, taking a bath, or even writing, the feeling shows no discrimination. It strikes when it will.
The feeling is a strange one. There is hope in there, that I know. However, it’s mixed with even doses of frustration and knowing there’s something just beyond that door if I can figure out how to open it.
Sometimes I feel like there is a story in me. Not just any story, mind you, because I’ve written a few. No, this story is special. This story is more of me than any other story I’ve ever written or will write. This story doesn’t need to make it to being a best seller; this story will satisfy me simply when it is completely written.
Sometimes I feel like there is an epic novel in me. It incorporates all I have been, who I am, and who I will be. My love and hates are there. My fears. My longings. Even the things that bring me shame. And yet, it’s all of these things, the elements of an honest human experience which makes this story great.
There’s a story in my heart that is all of the above. I can feel it. My heart holds it and my hand aches to hold the pen that will finally write until it hurts when the dam finally bursts open. When the words come tumbling through my mind so fast I can barely write fast enough to keep up with the pace.
There’s a story within me that has been patient with me as my life has been writing it. There are great, almost unimaginable gods and universes, and yet there are simple things like the love between to people and enjoying a single flower. It’s the quiet of poetry and the shout of glorious passion.
The words flow through my veins, begging for the sweet freedom of the page. They want to flow out of the pen with the ink, thick like blood and just as important. There’s my life, my cells, my necessity, flowing out onto the page…
If I could only write the story in me.