Writing is a great way to share joy, as well as work out frustrations and pain.
But sometimes, you can’t go there. Sometimes you are not free to tell the world that you hurt.
I shed tears today. Someone lost a child and I shed tears for them. It’s a pain that brushes like sandpaper against one of my own. And it consumes me in the moment as I feel to the depths of my soul.
I hold them in my mind as if I hold them in my arms and I weep with them. I pray and I weep.
And normally, it would feel good to write. Normally it would make sense to write. Because somehow in writing, things would get worked out. Somehow in writing, some sense would be made of it all.
Somehow in writing, a transformation would take place.
But I can’t. And I surely can’t here. It wouldn’t be right. It’s not my life to share. I feel pain, but the source does not belong to me.
But yet it is on my mind and it is all I can think of as I need to write.