Misc.
After a season of silent I attempt to put pen to paper to no avail. Words do not come. The music doesn’t come. Trying to complete a sentence is like trying to force color out of a marker that’s run out of ink. That which gives me freedom to live binds my tongue and blinds my thoughts. I’m limited. And I hate to admit it, but it’s worth it. I miss my words, but I missed living more.
On a different note, my heart is troubled. I feel like I’m in a boat on a sea of distorted words, feelings, and perceptions. With each turn of the wind I hear the whisper from someone else’s mouth….words of division, words of doubt, words of bias…and I must sort out the words of wisdom from the rest.
Ehh. The heart is a deceitful thing, changes with the turning of the tides.
