It's been such an unfortunate respite from my loving keyboard and nightly dates with my Macbook. I was away from home without my computer charger. I’ve become so dependent on these posts, they force me to reflect and reflection forces me to process and processing enables me to love a little bit better, love myself, love those around me, love living.
I feel as if writing as become an unavoidable part of who I am. When I write, I feel like I am doing what I was created to do, as if the Universe is satisfied because writing is so satisfying to me. Perhaps this is a lie I’ve told myself in order to avoid dissipating my dream of becoming a published writer or perhaps I am discovering what it is that I love.
Considering this discovery as a reality has shed light on my luck, per se.
I am so lucky to have a dream to aspire to. I am so lucky to have people in my life who tell me, “I miss your posts, your blog is my favorite, I’ll buy your book one day.”
I am so lucky to have the inner security that has led me believe in myself.
I am so lucky to have been told and showed for my life’s entirety that I am worth taking care of, supporting, encouraging.
I am so lucky to know words.
I am so lucky to have quick fingers.
I am so lucky to have five keen senses.
I am so lucky to know what it is that I love.
When I consider the privileges that have been bestowed upon me, an undeserving soul, I am overwhelmed by the potential that should inevitably, therefore, be expected of me.
Before my mind becomes lost in expectant thought and my soul becomes crushed by fear of failure, I am drawn to the black keys that my fingers have been courting. I write because my life and the wonderful people in it have led me to these keys, these words, the cultivation of these thoughts.
Because I have been loved, because I have been given, I have learned what it is that I love.
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