Thursday, August 7, 2014

The only thing worth making sense of

She wrote words, one after the other: 
vertically, horizontally, diagonally.
Any direction, 
she would write. 

She wrote words just to see them, 
imagining how they would move. 

Serendipity would sway, 
then skip. 
Pompous would walk tall,
 nose held high. 

She wrote to make sense of things. 
She never could make sense of most things.
Other than writing to make sense of things, 
which hardly did make sense.
Even so, she wrote and wrote.
 For, answers were not her desire.

She wrote to feel things deeper, fuller-- unconditionally  
She welcomed emotions, 
flowing ink as their refuge. 
To feel, she knew was a gift.
Her hand could cramp, her mind could tire,
yet, ink would flow, nourishing her pages. 

She wrote to see things, even unpleasant things.
Truth comes messy and marvelous, this she knew.
The thread of her journal once unraveled, 
along came what she once thought as true. 
An unraveling of innocence, an unraveling of ignorance.

She wrote to say, "You're not alone." 
To think there are souls out there, who were never told. 
Never told what they feel, what they've done, 
what they've endured,
is a piece of the story, not the whole, 
not the end. 

She wrote words, one after the other:
 filling pages, emptying pens.

She wrote words, discovering she had made sense,
sense of the only thing worth making sense of.

She wrote, and knew it was a gift.
Not the writing, but the discovering. 

She wrote, knowing the world would always ask: 
"What's the purpose?"

She wrote, knowing she would always write:

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