Today I gently blew the dust off my keyboard for the first time in years. It was more of an exhale filled with resignation, really. With shaking hands and a wavering heart, I went through the motions of a long forgotten, half-memory type habit that’s much less sure than the muscle memory of riding a bike… I began to write.
I threw on an old playlist brimming with the angsty, heart wrenching songs beloved by a girl that had come and gone before me; a girl seemingly irreconcilable to the woman I am today. I read old works (published and unpublished); laughing at my former language choices, cringing at what I considered witticisms, and kissing my own old wounds. Nostalgia is the boat that carries the burden of my retrospective grief, because that poor “lost and afraid” twenty something had no idea how great the good years were going to get.
I both mourn for the girl I used to be, and am incredibly grateful for the state of my soul, the stillness in my mind and the days I am living in.
The Girl With Storms grew up into the Woman He Chose. And even in her weaknesses, she is worthy of His notice, and she is loved.
Today there are no declarations of a resurgence of writings. These sentences are merely the rising steam off a stockpile of built up convictions that I must write. I have no excuse for the years of silence. No half-cocked explanations. Only the notion that in the search for who I could be, I have left behind a crucial part of myself. Abandoned and betrayed, the once treasured romanticisms in my heart have been left to fade.
I tip my hat to them. And to you, reader.
Conclusions were always the weakest part of my writing, but the blame lies with my distaste for goodbyes.
Until next time.