Year one of my blog I attempted to write daily. I was more successful at times than others.
Year two I actually managed to write almost daily for a large part of the year.
Year three, I realized, I could not make the same commitment as other bloggers and set out to post at least once a month.
Last month was the first month I missed my mark. I didn’t stop writing, I just stopped posting. I go through these periods where I want to hold on to the drops of knowledge streaming from my mine. Eventually, I release them, once I feel they have germinated long enough to sprout and bloom.
I enjoy writing. I enjoy your comments and likes I think more than I realized I would. Sometimes, we have to hold onto ourselves a little longer so we remain whole, especially, as artists.
Artists create from experience.
Artists divulge secret thoughts in their artistry.
Artists are transparently exposed to the elements of the audiences’ minds, preconceptions, and suppositions.
Some of these elements are true and others not so much.
What prompts me to write today is a need to release in a form I have come to find solace.
My writing rejuvenates my soul.
I know people are hurting today by yet another demonstration of targeted misplaced hatred.
I recognize many are searching for answers and for some those answers will never come.
I appreciate the pause the nation, if not the world, has taken to grieve the senseless loss of life.
I mourn the slain.
I pray for their families, their friends, their love ones, and the love ones they will never have.
The tragedy is tragic.
The incident deserves space in our hearts, in our minds, in our thoughts, and yes, in our conversations.
My issue is not with the events.
My issue is with the reaction.
And, for some it may seem callous.
I confess, I questioned myself.
I wondered if living in this world has desensitized me in ways I do not understand.
I wondered if my anger at what I can only classify as debilitating thinking is right.
Am I wrong for cringing when I hear a person say “they no longer feel safe”?
It is extremely difficult to stomach, when it comes from a person of faith.
What is this weird concept of safety? We are only as safe as the intentions and dedication of someone else to harm us or themselves. Of course, there are things we can do to mitigate the threats to our safety, but living means we all live with a certain level of uncertainty. It’s called life. We seem to love creating boogeymen so we have a reason to raise our voices and be heard. Or close our doors and not be seen. Pick your prison!
“I’m screaming inside, because it would be impolite and disruptive to do so on the outside, “Hello, who do we put our trust in?” “What world do you live in?” “How can you proclaim power and cower every time darkness breaches the ‘Circle of Life”?”
As a writer, words build bridges.
As a writer, words tear down walls.
As a writer, words lift up dreams.
As a writer, words silence nightmares.
As a writer, words speak for the mute.
As a writer, words invoke change.
As a writer, words are eternally hopeful.
I guess what I’m saying is the situation in Orlando, in our nation, in our universe can breathe darkness in the shallowly places of our lands. In these times, we often lament about the incident long enough to allow time to pass before the next great tragedy. I am not here to take away someone else’s method of coping. If this is how one needs to cope, cope on.
I simply find myself frustrated with the lack of depth of our arguments, of our comments, or our display of power the size of a toothpick in an EF5 tornado.
Deeply Sadden and Frustrated,
The “Day 165: As A Writer – the Real Tragedy” (text) by EYHCS published under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
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