After a long hiatus

The urge to write, so strong my fingers tap, eyelids flickering, as I try to sleep - it hasn't kept me awake for almost a year now. The creative fire burns brightest in my soul when the stress of life is overwhelming. When things go smoothly, I don't have to burst at the seams with words and images, I don't have to hunger and thirst for beauty like food, or air. What is that urge, that we must birth something from within to render significance to the events that are shaping us? Is it wielding control over the very things we can not control? As if by constructing our own narrative, we might dull our own pain, blunt our own experience. Is it the drive to share or at the very least, shine a light on the dim and lonely path for the next poor soul who stumbles down it?

Choices and ideas flow out before me like a waterfall of intersections. In the chaos, I lose clarity, the end goal is lost in the mist at the horizon. I know what I want. I want to love and be loved, to be free to do that in the way I need to do it. I'm not here to argue what made me this way, or even whether it's right or wrong, generally speaking. I just want to be free to love and be loved.