It’s a Sunday eve, and I’m laying here on my bed with my laptop resting on my legs. My fingers are hovering over the keyboard, gently familiarising themselves with their old friends below. It’s been a while.
The light is gently peeking through the opening in the curtains, melting beautifully with the dim rays of the lamp to create a yellow haze in the room. There’s something about the golden glow that soothes me when I’m planning on spilling out my words.
The Staves are playing in my ears. The softness and folky tone of their voices in harmony sends me to a whole new place. The wonderfulness of their words; the magic in their lyrics inspire me. This music touches the soul. Evokes feelings you didn’t even know you were suppressing. Releases tears you didn’t realise you were holding in. Listen to them, I dare you not to feel it.
As I lay here searching my body and mind for words, I struggle. It’s a familiar battle. One that I’ve repeated every week since I was 17, when I first made the decision that I wanted to be a writer. There’s a saying by Ernest Hemingway that goes, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”. God don’t I know it.
Writing a post that comes from the deepest depths of my soul takes it out of me. It’s therapy in a way. You go on a journey. You learn something about yourself by reading, out loud, the thoughts that come from your inner, most precious place. Nothing fills me with as much joy or despair as sharing my words with the world.
What’s the point of this little piece? I don’t know. Does there have to be a point? Why not write for writing’s sake. Write because I can. Because I have the need, the urge, the desire. Because I’m here today, and I might be gone tomorrow.