This feels like the end of one era, and the beginning of something else. Scary and exciting. So now what? I may never write on pieces of paper again, or on any canvas for that matter. Change - got to love it. I will continue to tell stories, to move people by being moved. Just that from now on I may be holding a different pencil. Maybe it won't be as sparkly and maybe it won't be shared with the rest of the world. Maybe it will be so quiet and delicate that only dogs can hear it whistle. But it will be my mark on the wall. I was here, I still am, and I want to be seen, to be understood deeply, and to not be so very lonely.
I'm always in owe of how the universe orchestrates circumstances to remind me that no matter how far I go, I can't outrun my past. How is it possible that I'm thinking exactly the same thoughts as I did on this very day years ago? How is it that I've morphed beyond anything I ever imagined I could be, and still have to deal with the heartache which started this whole journey? How did it came to be that I still haven't forgiven myself for what happened and how in the world am I still here? Tell me. I beg you, because I don't think I've ever been so desperate for answers. I know I have to keep pushing on, and in reality, it's not that hard if you take it step by step - sometimes I just wish I could leap beyond this phase, this constant struggle to define oneself, to find that one thing which can make you whole. But there are no short-cuts, no easy solutions and surely no simple answers. My hallelujah screams as loud as thunder shakes my heart, and even though I've long given up on predicting the outcome of this story, know that even after everything, I'll never stop trying.
