Don’t be sad, or tired, or lonely.
For that is enough.
I awoke this morning and the above words dropped into my head. Dropped with such a resounding clunk, that I had go write them down immediately. These words were not of me, I’m convinced of that. I don’t know where they emanated from, but this happens me from time to time. Words arrive, from a great height, like a stork delivering a new born child to an expectant home. I’ll never turn such words away from my door.
These words might mean something to you, or they might not. You may cling to them, like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a piece of his former vessel. Or they might pass you by, as you yawn and scroll lazily through your timeline, your fickle attention drawn elsewhere by other seductive words and messages. I am but one of many, I understand that, yet still these words come. And when they come, I must write them down.
Words lead me, they form me, they fill me, an empty, dusty, cracked vessel of little consequence. I am a sponge soaking them up, a crazed arcade character gobbling them down as life happens and I struggle to stay upright amidst the never ending change, challenge and consequence. Without words I am bereft, I need them like an addict needs that next drink, that next fix, that next reason to exist, to persist.
Where are your words? Are they out there, flowing freely across the crisp, white, virginal expanse of paper or computer screen. Are they breaking barriers and leaping continents with the squeeze of a nib or tap of a keyboard? Or are they rotting in the recesses of your dormant soul, never to see the light of day, never to be the light of someone’s day? To have such a talent is to be blessed, to ignore it a grievous error. The choice is yours, freewill such a double edged sword.
Words are my anchor. They found me, ground me, astound me when they drift across my mental landscape, dandelion seeds caught in a light, summer breeze. To let them pass by is unthinkable; so I cast my net and commit them to record. I bare them, share them, before they disappear into the ether from whence they came. They are precious, special, diamonds forged from deep, dark, unimaginable places, squirming to the surface.
These words are not mine. I am merely a curator, caretaker, shepherding them towards those who need them more than I do. These words may change minds, break hearts or build dreams, they are free to roam and flourish now, I have released them into this wonderful wilderness we call life. I turn away, for I know my work is done. Until the next time I am required to answer the calling.
I’ve been lonely, I’ve felt sadness, I am tired. These emotions have scarred and singed, the cruellest of caresses, the most unwelcome of bedfellows. I see them, sense them all around me as I write. They were written for you, yes you, for I know we have walked the same road. My best friend, or the stranger I pass on a busy city street without a second glance. These words are for you.
Do you accept them? Do you gratefully cup your hands and gulp them down, this oratory oasis of mine? Or do you stagger by, too proud to accept what stares you in the face? These words are yours to do with as you wish. My offering to you, this day. I move on now, to the next wisp of an idea, the next flutter of creativity. I leave this ground behind, my mark made. Do you see them? Where are your words?