I guess I could just hoe the grass out of the turnips or rake around the back porch. Instead here I sit holding my hands in prayer and punching these keys. What messages am I sending? What is my purpose? My focus? I always dreamed of a life of speaking, yet here I sit telling stories to no one.
Partially fixed in this purgatory, doing what my heart tells me to do. Living out dreams I only once imagined. Writing words that have touched a few. But is it fulfilling enough? Am I doing all that I could? Too many questions for a mind, it’s time to clear out the thoughts. Allowing myself to breathe, to hone my skills, to tell my tale. For no matter what we do, isn’t worth it if the passion doesn't shine through.