I am making time to write this.
Because I really think I need to.
Because I am tired and having a hard time writing anything.
But I think its just a change of seasons.
It has to be.
Otherwise I am in deep doo doo.
And I have a hard time believing that. Not after everything I have been through to get here.
Sometimes the words, they just don’t come. Sometimes they wait, and write themselves, someplace else, someplace very sacred, where words and stories and paintings go.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is wait for them. To finish.
It’s like waiting for the seasons to change.
Because that’s how I believe it really works anyways. I don’t think I’m really all that smart enough to come up with all the things that I see. I think its all already there. I just tell their stories.
And when you think of it, as impatient as I can be, I pretty much have had to learn to wait for everything. And when I do, its always better, then if I had gotten it what I asked for it. And I don’t want to sell myself short anymore.
Because I’m worth, and my stories are worth, way more than that.
And like I said, they’re not really mine anyways.
In fact, I’m pretty lucky I even get to write them at all.