still not convinced

It’s a really silly thing I do, making excuses for not journalling when I’m being weird and melancholy, because, really, that’s what helps me to overcome it. It provides a release for the thoughts and emotions that otherwise remain trapped inside of me. Traffic jams and drainage blocks are never good for flow.

Yet, I run away from that, thinking that I can escape these thoughts and feelings some other way. Thinking that if I could just write a song or draw something or do something else amazingly creative, that I would be free. That’s silly because it’s only after I face up to myself in my journal that I am free to do those other things.

Or is it?

It’s sort of weird to think about. But I do think that for me, I need to write. And that in itself can be creative. I forget that, because I do not often believe it. It’s just words on paper, on a screen. Ordinary words that we throw around every day. What’s so special about a bunch of words? I submit tons of them to my professors each week. Creativity? It’s just homework.

But what if there were more to it? What if I was able to look at everything as having meaning, being intentional? How would that change things?

Dramatically, I suspect.

I’m sort of rambling here, instead of journalling honestly. Why do I do this? Am I afraid? What of?

There’s always that gap between who we think we are and who we actually are. But who gets to decide the latter? Friends? Family? You? God? How do you ever know?

There’s also that gap between who we are and who we know we can be. Oh boy. And you’ve got to get the timing just right. Not too fast, not too slow. Can’t run ahead, but don’t fall behind either. And only when you’re in the right place can you even begin to move towards that (elusive?) goal. It gets kind of frustrating.

But it’s all about self-control, isn’t it? Not for the sake of itself, but for something greater. But what? What is your something greater? What are you striving towards?

Perhaps I run because I am afraid that if I stop, the ground will open up beneath me and I will fall into that gap. One of those two gaps. Or both. They probably merge and become one big gap.

Perhaps I run because I am afraid that if I keep stopping, I will never get anywhere.

But perhaps by stopping, I progress. Because there’s no point in running if you aren’t going in the right direction.

And yet, even as I say this, I know that I will struggle with this for a long time. Probably the rest of my time on earth. Oh, to have the faith of a child.


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