Born loving to write, instead.

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I wish I had been born loving to read,

Because I never could endeavor to read every book in the world, and still untold numbers of them would catch my eye and I would read those I could, patiently absorbing each one, simply for love.  

I would never run out of material, and I would never be able to finish it all -- a perfect answer to the sadness that comes from limited resources and the pressure exuded by insurmountable tasks.

I wish I had been born loving to read.

 

 

I wish I had been born loving to paint,

Because to see the expression of the mind in a picture, would be an incredible thing.  To will the paints around the canvas; to stretch them and move them just the right number of times to create beauty or imperfection...I can only imagine this.

I know that to the painter it is not, but I imagine the painter’s work to be more gratifying, somehow, more visual, more tangible, more replete.  Just a look, and you know your work is done.

I wish I had been born loving to paint.

 

I wish I had been born loving to throw pots.

To feel the movement in hands, to shape something so intentionally, so specifically.  To enter into dust, fire, and fragility.  To stack finished pieces next to each other on a shelf.  To give something meaning, to create its life work for it in its shape and form...to dignify the ordinary with beauty.

I wish I had been born loving to throw pots.

 

I wish I had been born loving to make music.

With my own voice, or with an instrument, to charge a room with sound is power.  The ability to hear with perfection, what a talent.  To respond to melody in harmony or dissonance, willingly, intentionally, with accuracy and beauty...this is power.

I wish I had been born loving to make music.

 

Instead.  

 

I was born loving to write.

With so much need to say, and an equal need to withhold.  The undying possibility of overdoing it, or missing it altogether.  The extent of work it takes to excavate truth from the inside; to fight to bring it out into the cold world, unsure both of its survival and its reception.  The wage of war between thoughts worth writing down that never are; and the ones that are written down that don’t deserve the space.  The fluctuating availability of the mind, and a pen, simultaneously.  The lure to write it down coming at times inconvenient, but potentially indispensable.  The inability to listen to beautifully crafted lyrics while writing. The certain knowledge that to write is to bare the soul -- the challenge the fear of baring the soul badly, incorrectly.  Worse than that, is to want to bare the soul, correctly, and to not know how.  

 

Not yet.

I was born loving to write, instead.

 

Mallory OvertonComment