Known.

3.1.17

“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you its just words.” -David Foster Wallace

I’ve been sifting around the idea of need in each individual’s heart. My own voice has been silenced and stilled for quite some time now. My fingers haven’t pranced over and around my laptop keys in an embarrassing amount of days.

I know myself well enough to confess I’ve been hiding from the truths bubbling up within me. Coming forth to the open page is too raw for seasons like such. There’s no room to deceive here. Words don’t combine and entice unless they’re authentic; unless they probe at the vulnerable areas we’d rather leave unidentified, untouched.

The truth of your life always catches up to you. Your ability to masquerade around the seams of your everyday life is in direct relation to your overall emotional health. If we’re unable to be honest to the reflection staring back at us, if we’ve reached point where lying is easier and comfier and simpler than telling the truth, then we need to be told one thing over and over and over again: this is still our story to tell.

You walk through the trenches of your life. You wake up and rejoice at the beckoning of the coming day. You smell and make and pour your coffee. You sit in the languid moments and yearn for peace and peace and peace. You sit in the sun and you press your eyelids shut because the warmth of the rays provide a sort of gentlest you’ve never truly known. You read stories of redemption and purity and sacred ties because you want so desperately to advocate for the goodness. To believe in it. To stand up for it. To be part of it.

This story is yours to tell.

“Make it beautiful.”

-b

 

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