Thursday, January 02, 2014

Being resolute

After a significant hiatus of laying low (being the approximate gestation period of a human or a cow or a premature bear elephant (edited)), I have decided to reopen my musings to public scrutiny.

Although I have always enjoyed writing, I have recently been reminded anew that writing is as cathartic to me as playing or listening to music is to others. It stokes my endorphins the way running energises others. It calms my frazzled nerves and helps me make sense of a broken world, fluctuating emotions and the need for more. I guess one could say that writing is my drug. Zoloft* is my other drug.

I amuse myself sometimes when I reflect on past writings. I wonder where the wisdom has gone or how the wonder evaporated. Much has happened in the last 2 years and many lessons learnt will now only ever be remembered in memory because they were not written.

Throughout my life many people have told me in various ways to simply "grow up." That somehow wonderment and appreciation of the beauty of possibility was futile and foolish. I believed them and ceased writing simply because I thought that I needed to stop living in fantasy and rhetoric and start living in the grown up world of "reality." I am not one to regret even though the lesson learnt is bitter to the taste and raw to the touch.

Dreams can be stripped away but the result is not betterment forged in tough love. Far from it, the searing pain and dull ache that echoed of lost hope and forced self-denial concluded in mistrust, distrust, frustration and even hatred. I do not want to hate. It is a tiresome, burdensome thing to wield disdain as a Silverback does. It is emotionally draining to rise to manic incoherence and after to be numbed by stupor, unable, unwilling, to continue the fight.

Though I may be a cracked shell, I am reminded that it is no longer I that really lives but Christ that lives in me. After the shouting matches and night terrors are through, Christ is still there. Not the naysayers who belittle joy or the well-intentioned who fail to act, but Christ. Who else hears the hollow screams that pierce an already frail spirit? At the end of the day, when time fades and I read these words as though narrated by a different person, I know that Christ lives and because He lives, I will ink paper with my soul and not be afraid.

* Zoloft is my dog.

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