There is such pleasure that comes when it takes no effort to jump into the pages of a book.
I read and re-read the lines because there is such beauty in them. I must battle against my impatient habits to appreciate the gift in my hands.
I rarely feel this way, if ever, about an author or her writing. But today, I am so grateful that this book caught my eye. I feel depths of appreciation for this talent.
I yearn for such talent. The kind that is created within us but honed over a lifetime. I try not to regret anything in my life but today –
I regret not knowing my talent sooner. I regret that I am 31 and have, what seems, to have been honing skills that have brought me to this place. But with no knowledge of what this talent is, I feel, lost.
But I hope for more. Because though I bend to pessimism and despair, I feel that somewhere in my soul, I have accepted that it was never meant to be this way. Life was meant to be about more than this defeat.
I have been thinking about hope for some time in the past two weeks. I ran the gamut of emotions that comes when you realize that you no longer possess it. Regaining it seems to be so much slower and riskier than I had ever imagined it to feel. I thought it came just like the sun does. Easy, shining, and bright. You never reject the sun. [Correction: I often do.] But hope? I don’t know. I’m filled with doubt.
Tonight, I am inspired by a one Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. Tonight, I feel that I wore a bit of her voice in my writing. Amazing writing does that to you. You want to wear it and wear it until you figure out what you love so much about it.
The more I stop to appreciate things like art and writing, the more sad I feel. It’s that sense of knowing how far you are from any type of excellence. A sobering but necessary and realistic way of seeing the world in 20-20. It’s the place from which you must choose to press in, say no thanks, or remain heartbroken.
Stories to come.