I can't read enough words in one day. Actually, I can't take in the amount of stories that consist of paragraphs filled with sentences made up of words - the way I want to. I have spent quite a bit of time the past month reading. Books, blogs, websites...and many of them have stirred in me an intensity that I am not sure if I can explain.
I have a friend who writes professionally that shares intimate thoughts and struggles with such a grace and beauty that it makes me feel like I sitting next to her, drinking hot tea as we are trying to figure life out together.
When my sister writes about her new adventures with running, biking and swimming and her yearnings for hiking and exploring it fill me with such a sense of pride and honestly inspiration to try something new as well. AND to live in an area where we could share our love for the outdoors.
What I am trying to say, poorly, is that I love stories. Learning about people through their words as they try to express feelings and hopes and memories and the best part is when I resonate.
I spend a lot of my day to day minutes, looking at others and feeling as if I am in some way superior to them. Or inferior.
I want to write well.
I am completely prideful the fact I haven't dyed my hair.
I am prideful about what kind of music that I listen to.
I am genuine.
I am broken.
I want to love.
I yearn to be loved.
I yearn even more to be known.
I speak words that others don't want to say or hear.
I stand next to.
But when I can look at you and see that you feel the same. STOKED. In those moments, I typically put my hand on my chest and sigh deeply. I don't have any words right then.
Do I have it all figured out? I feel like I do. But I forget what it is that I figured. I say words that I wish I could take back, I hold in words that I wish I was bold enough to speak. I hesitate to love, loan, share, listen and hope often.
To sit beneath the vast
I strain to hear
will I know
hold onto reaching
light shines in the darkness
open let go