When I Bleed

Photo by Thomas Martinsen

I write when I get cut. I write when I bleed. The words flow out, staining the page and tainting the air with the faint smell of copper.

I think most of us are that way. Creation is birthed from adversity.

I wrote when my Grandpa died. I wrote when I was fed up. I wrote when I felt bogged down and wanted more.

I, and probably we, write not to rant (mostly), but to feel…to express…to be. If you’re anything like me, you’ve always been better at communicating through words on a page than through your spoken words. There’s something about visualizing someone’s heart as we write, seeing and hoping to relate and share. It’s much harder to see that face to face.

Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s just how we’re wired.

Up to this point, the only reason I’ve written if not due to my own pain, is as an assignment: a paper for school, a new blog post or a project at work.

Even going back through my journals, most entries are built on the foundations of discomfort, want and pain.

I’m going to change that. Writing should be something more than a response. Writing should be an action, a routine and a charge.

I’ve noticed something recently that’s affecting me. I’m finding myself increasingly unfocused, distracted and unmotivated…and I’m not alone.

Our world is awash in a tide of activity and staying clear of it is now the exception, rather than the rule.

We all have a message to share. Mine is about walking a different path than the norm. It’s about belief, hope and self-examination.

Regaining focus, gathering what we’ve lost and letting go of what we don’t need is the way forward.

This message is the anvil and forge to shape my craft of writing. Here’s to moving forward.