When asking syllables to hold the feelings I want to tell you about is too much, when words can’t spell out giggle or free or soul, I just write over there. I just write til I can’t any more, I fill pages and books and some times burn them, then I dance. I leap and jump. I always cry. Music speaks for me when I can’t say a thing and I started drawing and the only thing that came out was silent tears. On paper. And screaming, on paper. And longing, on paper. And I always cry.
Because I opened my heart, I said them out loud and watched them go: this dream of mine.
And for a while there I didn’t know how to spell laughter, I could only hear it. I didn’t know how to photograph full, I could only see it. I didn’t know how to say Yes, I could only march in it. I could only watch and listen and learn. I could only see and feel and hear, I couldn’t speak.
It was sacred ground.
I could only walk it.
I could only watch it.
And I believe the best in people, I always will. I believe I was created by a Creator, and in an image TO be a creator. To create. It’s pieces of fear and long-gone voices of doubt that keep me waiting for my time to go and it’s pieces of me and the still-quiet voices of victory that hold my hand and shout “LET’S GO!”.
There’s movement and motion, always has been. I’m just ready to jump on the ride.
Nothing is scarier to me than saying this here.
But nothing is worse than waiting forever.