And So I Write   


    I read.
    I've read my entire life. Since I was little, books have been my best friend. I was never a very 'social' person; I was shy. Books gave me friends, they gave me adventures, they gave me the experiences I longed for, from within the walls of my home. They empowered me and affected me so much, that I wished I could somehow do for others what they had done for me.

    And so I write.

    I live.
    I live a life that's had its fair share of downs, its depressing times, its hopeless moments, and its pain. Who I am might not be pretty to the world, but sometimes honesty is exactly what we need, because somewhere behind our social profile is a real, broken person in need of help. So from behind my own profile I have come, bringing out who I really am, and hoping that someone might follow that lead and open themselves.

    And so I write.

    I dream.
    I dream of stories and worlds that have never existed. I imagine people, some based on those I've known, some entirely made up. People with hopes and dreams and faults of their own. In my mind I create their stories, and interwoven somewhere deep within them is my own story, told time and time again, the story of who I am, the story of my life. And I look at these stories, and I see faces and souls that could belong to anyone, and somewhere inside me I wonder if someone who reads these stories might see their own story within it also, and if the story becomes a mirror into their own soul.

    And so I write.

    I think.

    I think of this world, of the countless souls within it, and the endless sea of the questioning of right and wrong. And I think of what is right, and how so many have not heard nor understood right. I think of what I believe, and I realize that words mean nothing unless they are centered on something you believe with all of your heart. And I think of the one gift I have been given, and how I hold in my hands a way to share with the entire world what I believe, and what is right.

    And so I write.

    I listen.
    Though not as often as I should, I listen. And somewhere in the stillness is a silent voice, a voice that has always been there, though is sometimes drowned out. I hear the words spoken by the One who formed me, and who knew me before I was born. I hear the voice of my Savior, whose hands took the nails that should have gone through mine, whose love is beyond any human comprehension, and who saw fit to hand me a dream.
    I hear His voice in so many places, in so many ways, guiding and directing my steps even when I am not aware of it. And I hear Him as He tells me to not be afraid, to take the leap even when I do not know where it will take me. And as He whispers a dream, a story, a vision in my ear, and tells me to do it.

    And He makes it clear. And He is faithful. And for an unknown reason, He called me for this. My life is His, and wherever He guides me, whatever He gives me, I will glorify Him.

    And so I write.