21.12.11

Songbird.


...in you little bird, there is more than a song
rather, forever, there will be
what has been all along

in your voice, and in all else
I sit in the quiet, while they praise all else
but I hear you songbird, in the whisper of your sound
for all you sing of is waiting to be found...


I used to write. I have years worth of notebooks, journals, pages and pages of paper, scribbled upon by biros, late-night thoughts and dreams expressed in ink. I loved that when I wrote, my thoughts and that moment in time were immortalised forever. To be able to articulate an emotion, an experience or a moment is an artform. To be able to shape letters and words and sentences and adequately describe something so complex and beautiful and elusive is akin to the crafting of a beautiful song, I think.

I haven't written as much lately...numerous notebooks sit unfilled, and my thoughts cannot be ordered in to the neat, horizontal lines of the pages. Instead, they fly around inside my head, captivating and frustrating me. How does one determine what her song is? How is it that I once had a song, a tune, a melody, yet now it has been snatched from me, and I am left wondering how to put my pen to paper? Ernest Hemingway said "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." This implies vulnerability...to write is to create, and what is created is a black and white illustration of ones own soul. To sing aloud of the joys and sorrow within my soul is surely something I fear. Yet is this not what we all desire? To be open and honest and thus to have no fear of neither man nor beast? To be at peace with ourselves, with others, with the world? I find it fascinating that life is full or ironies; that God created such paradoxes in this life. What we fear, we desire, and what we need is akin to what we avoid.

Most of it all comes back to the same thing; identity. We wish to belong, and to belong we must appear acceptable to those we love so that they will have us. In belonging, the little holes are filled inside of us. But lately I have found,  my desire to express myself overrides my fear. Loneliness is not an enemy, but a mere acquaintance. I must write. Yet I continue to search for my song.

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