a page from my journal in april

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Jumbled words. Raw. Unedited. Straight from my brain.


I was made for another world. I know I was. I think my love of writing has stemmed from more than just the passion and joy it gives me.

It comes from this ache, this longing, not just to write, but this … cry for beauty. I crave it. I crave it in my daily life. I crave it when I wake up. I crave it when I read great works like Till We Have Faces. I crave it as I gaze at purple sunrises in my rear-view mirror every morning. I crave it as I go through the mundane, the serious, the repetitive parts of life. I crave it in sweet, dimpled smiles, starry skies, baby’s laughter, daily bike rides, cricket’s song, summer’s kiss, the blank page, cursor blinking, I etch the words that flame my soul as my heart trembles like a violin string, and I crack like the spine of a book. This flame, longing, nestles itself deep into my psyche. The pursuit of beauty that calls me from the ocean’s shore, the mountains around, roses reaching rooftops, running wild, the everywhere, the now, the memories past.

This urge to write is my way of reaching for the incorruptible beauty found in the simple joys of life, fingertips caressing heaven’s gate. Why didn’t I see this before?

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