If I can’t write from my soul.

quillIf I can’t write from my soul, then it’s a pointless exercise writing at all.

If I can’t write from my soul, I am asking the sun to rise at midnight. I am laughing when I want to cry and crying crocodile tears when I want to laugh.

If I can’t write from my soul I am a spider with seven legs, though I may still walk I am tilted and only partly what I am. I am not whole.

What happens when you take my laptop and gadgets, my pen, pencil, paper and hands away from me so that I can never write again? I will cry my soul into a river, and then I will eventually speak it into the clouds until it rains down; a heavy torrent of expression.

What happens when you tell me I cannot express from my mouth what is in my soul at all?

I will move to it; my body a drum beat that the world can interpret.

I will sing it, shout it, walk it, swim it and breathe it and when you have taken all that is physical away from me, you will see that I was never physical at all, for the expression was not born of my body and mind. These gadgets, these things, these hands, this body, this mind…all of these receptacles and vehicles are the bridge of my soul. funneling, connecting and channeling the message of that which is greater, that which is all of us and everything combined.

You will see me in the branches and you will feel me in the rain drops.

You will see me in the sunrise, and in the eyes of a prowling panther.

I will be the breeze cooling you when you are too hot and the crackling flames heating you when you are frozen.

You will see me in the star, shooting in the jet black, night-time ceiling of nothingness.

My soul chooses to be written through me while it is in this form, and no matter what is imposed upon its expression, it will always find a way to be.

 

 

 

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