i went through a few months where i soaked up all of the books and songs that all kind of sounded and looked alike. they all told me how i should feel and what i should think. i nodded along and was comforted that others had experienced similar confusion and frustration...i was comforted that others had felt a similar pain. i told a friend that it was crazy how all those cliche phrases that i had once scoffed at, presently came spilling through my own lips. she told me that was the beauty of our common human experiences...that there was a reason why cliches became cliche.and though i still think that there's brilliant beauty in that, there's something i've missed out on. i was recently sitting with my cello and wondering why i felt such a deep gratitude towards it. i realized that it's because my cello never tells me how i should feel. instead, i'm able to play what i'm not able to say. through my cello i'm able to express all those things that i don't have an answer for yet. i've realized that in the course of being comforted through other's stories, i've fallen into a well of commiserating, and in that well, i was surrendering the pen that writes my story. i was letting my story drown in the hundreds and thousands of other stories that were beautiful, but certainly not my own.
i recently saw lymbyc systym play live and realized that i like my music without words. my heart will always flutter for brilliant songwriting, but i like it when music, every once in a while, just tells me to feel & think rather than telling me what to feel & think. i've resolved in my heart to take back the pen and write my own story again.
so far...two words have been clearly written.
"practice resurrection."
image: papertissue
