To Replenish With Words


To Replenish With Words

As I write each story, I feel a part of me captured within each line. I feel a sense of freedom for my soul, for my life. No longer held to the wills of my pain, holding to the miserable existence of my misery. I find a new path with each story, though they may never be more than words to others.

They are a new seed for me to plant. And like any farmer would tell you, you plant more seeds than will grow. Keep planting seeds, eventually you will get crops. But at the cost of time, of work, and discipline. Nothing of strength, of lasting taste, is ever created in the burning of one candle.
Much patience is equated to each growing moment for the seeds I plant. Hundreds, maybe even thousands will be planted before I see my words become something more. Become something other than a rain drop for my seeds. But rain for others seeds, words for others souls. A place where one can come rest their weary eyes and find themselves embedded into what pours from me, as much as I am enthralled in my words.

I don't write this is a pretentious thought, that my words carry more weight than others. But rather, that my words are consistent in planting, that I do not leave myself one day without them. And much of our lives, we are left without consistency, but to the consistency in the plain of the deary outdoors of lonely habits. Of punching the card for minuscule profit, or wasting moments in a once beautiful relationship, to only watch it fade away like wings to a clouded sky. 

We are fallen angels to the weak will of our flesh. So many become inhaled by the reaping of the familiar, of the easy, and the mass. With each day slowly feeling their soul become no more than a stain upon their wall. And no matter how hard one tries to erase it, to cover it up, it remains. 

It whispers for help, for comfort, for excitement. But is it not easier to leave it upon the wall like the blemish that it is? To let its pain nibble ever so lightly at ones heart? To let that missing piece be but a missing piece, to never fill the void, to fall hopefully to a numbing abyss? To become empty in the eyes, like that of the sky above cityscapes, is this not easier?

But never does this happen, never does the pain fade in the naive choice to neglect, to ignore. When one throws away their story, their love for life. There is no escape of the acute pain that salts each new wound. And this is why I write my stories, as not leave a sliver of me behind the walls of paint, nor to be forgotten upon the walls of my own home. I pray, that what I replenish in myself, will restore those around. 

 For we are all in need of giving and in need of faith in ourselves and something greater than our bones. We are all upon this world with great purpose, big or small. But too many stories are tossed, before they are even written, before, they are even read. 
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Thank you for reading, I hope these words found you in good health if not. Please begin today as a time to write your story, if only for your own sake. If you wish for more, click any of the links below or purchase a copy of the emotionally depth-ed A Man's Traveled Heart 

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