I'll be honest: There are some things I miss about the "old me." I've felt a few sparks of it over the last week, remembering when I used to get so lost in music and carried off to some distant land in my head where I conjured up the most beautiful and aching prose I've ever written. Tonight, I was reminded of it again when I visited one of my old online haunts. I'd created these lovely page layouts with clever headers. And the content—how it had flowed like an endless river! I never imagined back then that the well would run dry when I went dry. Not that I ever imagined going dry back then, either.
It's not the end of the world because so much good has come in its place. I'm doing things today that I would have never thought possible. I'm living my life upon a good, spiritual basis. I can lay my head down at night without resentment or regret. And that is all inexplicably wonderful.
Yet, the artist in me still feels cheated at times. I've found my voice, but I lost my muse. I trust that it will come back in time. All things in God's time. I believe He gave me this gift and intends for me to use it. It will come. It must.
We make sacrifices for the greater good. I don't miss the drink, no. I only miss the childlike freedom in which the words would pour out on the page with a passion that has yet to be matched. Somewhere along the line, my confidence took a blow, and the fire faded. There are times when I want so desperately to get lost in writing, but I can't lay down the first paragraph. And there is no tangible solution. I know—I proved to myself—that the old days cannot be reclaimed. I tried. Many times. I always failed. Then I had the sense to recognize that it wouldn't ever come back, a lover lost at sea. So I don't dwell in thoughts of things that can never be. We make sacrifices for the greater good, and we accept the things we lose along the way.
I trust that the fire will come back one day.
No comments:
Post a Comment