The Brightest Lights; freedom

I've been grieving a bit. I know considering the date, my civic duty should be to talk about how the grief is still heavy from the events of more than a decade ago. I still care and I still feel it, but my pain at current is for the pieces of myself I have let be buried under the explosion of my life. The person I am is trying to escape the rubble. She's been clawing and scrapping to be set free and I've been suffocating her. I've been trying to be pragmatic for longer than I can even try to point a finger at. The problem, for me anyway, with pragmatism is that I don't feel real feelings when I'm sensibly picking out classes for a career I don't really want anything to do with. Or deciding to stay home from a spontaneous road trip in favor of saving gas money. Or not going on a mission trip because that money could be mortgage money.

I used to love music. Almost more than anything else. I used to measure my life by songs. And sometimes, in the most inappropriate moments, melodic words want to bubble out of my throat.

I never used to feel more alive than when my pants were dirty with paint and there was charcoal and clay underneath my finger nails.

The only thing I've ever really done consistently is write. I have a bin full of journals that I used to work through my life with. I crave words. They are the currency that my soul thrives on. It's all that I want from anyone, more than anything. It is my love language.

I don't even care anymore how I got to a place where I'm not doing these things. I just want to change. Right now. I am no longer the woman who does things she doesn't want to do or acts like someone she's not.

I am a writer. I am an artist. I am a lover of music. I am alive.