Sometimes I wish I could sum up my emotions in colors. Then again, I’m a bit color blind.

            Sometimes I wish I could take all of this inside and wrap it around a song. Then again, I don’t know how to play any instruments. And I really shouldn’t sing any solos.

            I have enough energy to run a marathon. Yet I get out of breath walking up the stairs.

            I want to dance the night away. But nobody wants to dance with a sweaty mess anyway.

            I want to strap on a football helmet and hit somebody. But I’d probably be knocked unconscious.

            I want to see a crowd waving in front of me. But that’s just the screen of my iMac taunting me.

            My world is one of words. I’m in the confines of a story. My journey is on some kind of page. Electronic or physical. That is my medium. That is my mode.

            Sometimes I wonder why God blessed me with the ability to work with words when all I want to do is weave through melodies? I want to grow thick and large and become a method actor. I want to spend hours perfecting the background vocals on a perfect song. I want to show the midnight stars and the falling moons and the spinning sun.

            Yet here I am. Locked in words.

            Sometimes I wish I was better equipped.

            Sometimes I wish I read more.

            Sometimes I simply wish these stories didn’t fill my heart and head and mind.

            Sometimes I wish I could be free.

            I wade through the swamp figuring out a way to find them. I deliver them all wet and muddy to the reader. Sometimes they make sense in their messy glory. Sometimes they stay there and dry out in the hot sun.

            I would love to take these feelings and not fit them into words. I’d like to put the feelings into a picture or a sound or an action.

            But no.

            This is my world. The A through Z. The sentences and the paragraphs and the lines and the punctuation. Following in massive footsteps. Barely having a clue what I’m doing.

            The fingers type away and the mind wanders and the soul aches for this breaking bashful bloke to get rid of it all somehow. To scoop it up and put it down and get it out. To get rid of it and to finally feel free.

            But even when there are no more words, more come at midnight. Even more come in the morning.

            A dam fills and the words need to come. The fingers need to type. The stories need to be told.            

            A curse. Ten thousand verses. For better or for worse. My soul and my heartache. My doctor and my nurse. All these things summed up in these simple fragile things. These words. These endless words filling me and fulfilling me.

            So I am stuck. So I continue to write. So I continue to work with all of these endless, eternal words.

            I always feel so not worthy. Yet it’s the only worthy thing I’m capable of doing.