I’m just not the sit and watch movies all night type. I’m done shopping. That was so last week.
I’m staring wide-eyed. Wishing I could fly.
Flying is not bliss.
They’ll tell you. Those up there. With their money sitting in the bank. They’ll admit. Flying gets so harsh.
Harsh winds blow. Wouldn’t you rather be happy and crawl on the ground where you can go slow?
It’s a strange feeling, that which bubbles and burns. It’s a reminder that I can’t settle. That I haven’t reached quite what I was going for. That the way forward is up. (The story, the job, the things I’m hoping, praying, waiting for).
I find it so painful that I’ve wanted to write a story for so long but no fruitful intercourse has occurred to send me along giving birth to it.
Or maybe it’s been conceived but it sits, growing and waiting for me to conjure the strength to force it out?
It’s uncomfortable and yet I don’t know how. I feel I need time and leisure and lots of time and a writing space, perhaps a desk and a new MacBook Pro and greenery and scenic views to inspire me. You don’t really expect me to give birth in this prison, do you? But with my time I sit and stare. I won’t watch tv. But i won’t write either.
Remember when I was hurting so bad, all I could do was write? I couldn’t bare continuously reliving the immediate past so I stuck my hand into an immediate future. I wrote for all I could.
Stories are so much harder.
Birth pains, my friend. Labor for months.
If I could compile my notes and present them to you? But that wouldn’t be a story.
The baby is a story. The story’s a baby.
For unto us a child is born.
Lord give me strength to birth this. I’ll hold unto You. Give me what I need. Give me You.
And let me give this story back to You.