Miss writing.

At twenty three, writing was my dream, my passion, my obsession. My mind was always on the look out for a story. Whether sad or good, my mind was hungry to translate individuals onto paper and have others share of their lives.
I have been writing since I was eleven. I am captivated by words. They are like colours, all different but contributing to one light. I fell in love with the words of that story- when a girl fell in love with a boy, and that story when a boy had adventures at his school, and that story about solving mysteries. I loved stories, the stream from the beginning to the end; the rollercoaster ride, the adrenaline and the sadness all at once. So I decided to start writing too.
I decided to imagine I was solving a mystery, telling a girl I loved her, praising the Master. So I wrote and my heart loved to write. In sadness I wrote. In heart break, I wrote;  in disappointment , I wrote; in excitement, I wrote. Writing became my escape.
I owned many journals from the time I was young. I would record the days, the good and bad, the high and low. And days later when years had passed, I would read the stories and see how far I had come.
How I miss my writing, that old old passion, that thing that made me calm when my day was haywire. Today I want to write but it’s got a lot harder. As soon as I put pen to paper and my heart pulls out. So I suffer with heavy burdens, heavy thoughts. I toss and turn in my bed at like one a-m and now a paper cannot even help me to sleep.
I end up turning on lights, turning on a computer, maybe a television, maybe a console.
And it’s not just for mourning, I mean my writing, for when I was twenty three all my writings were blessings. Commentaries and advice on the things of life, exciting encouragement on the things of Christ. It was easier then, but so much harder now. Is it coz I’m in a hurry to live my next moment?
For writing can’t be rushed, no, it can’t be forced out. It is like a river, or the brewing of a wine, or the bearing of a baby or the blooming of a fruit. Yet sometimes I need to move quickly, get over this, go ahead, life becomes too quick and I just have no time to write.
Yet I miss you writing. The highs and the lows and that God would revive me to tell those stories again. Yes I write still, but not as before, so God make it better than ever before.

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