I'd love to write something sweet and beautiful and heartwarming right now. I would. So desperately. But life doesn't give us that all the time. That's why I write fiction sometimes. I'd love to say I write for the beauty of the words and the impact I can have on lives. But sometimes I don't. I'm not that altruistic. Sometimes I write because I'm hurting. Because friends are hurting. If I were as spiritually advanced as some, I could just submerge myself in prayer and scripture. I'm not there, though. Sometimes the words I write form another world, a fragile sphere only lasting as long as I create it, as long as I can read it.
Sometimes writing keeps me sane, gives me hope, gives me an escape hatch into some different place for a few minutes. But those few minutes help. Maybe it's just like imagining warmth in a snowstorm. It isn't real, but the thought of a fire can make me feel warmer and give me another glimmer at the end of the tunnel.
I wrote this a couple days ago. Or re-wrote it, really. And as I read it again, it does help. I hope it might help you too, or if you don't need help right now, that it'll at least make you smile.
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