I’ve
come to an epiphany having approached it over a few years, thus making it not
really an epiphany at all. This strange non-epiphany is that I am a writer. I
need to write. Writing is the only way that I have found myself to be able to
create. To create is a fundamental human need, perhaps stemming from the image
of God, and the perceived lack of any ability to do so has been one of my life’s
greatest frustrations, sometimes leaving me forlorn. I don’t know how I came to
possess the ability to write reasonably well, but it is all that I have. I know
that it may seem cliché, but like a painter uses pre-made paints and canvas to
quell the urge inside of them to bring an imperfect creation into an equally
imperfect world, I too must use words that for the most part I did not create
to bring into this world something imperfect and unique to me.
What
if I have no words in mind to say? No subject to expound upon? I think that
this is where I must change. Whereas before I may have given in and fallen into
that aforementioned state of forlornness, now I must write anyway. For to be a
writer, I must write by nature; the goal not to be prolific, but rather to
assuage the creative itch.
God,
please bless me.
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