I write but I never publish…

I write but I never publish I am not sure why. I write just to write, and I do not realize that sharing it would be a great deal of help to others. Some post I decide to share but most of them I do not.  Most, I never publish and isn’t that merely the opposite of what my intent here is for. I need to learn vulnerability.

I am scared of being vulnerable. Most days I feel like a pathetic human.  I don’t know anything about my life, and where it will lead me- there is no certainty in anything. I have no answers. I am just as lost and confused. But I’m trying. I’m at it. I’ll continue at it. And I will either fail again and again, or finally succeed.

And if it is out of fear, then I say the hell with it! I am not scared anymore.  Not one of our trails is the same so we have to follow our own path and no one to tell you which way to go. I’m pretty far in the journey, and I’ve made it this far I might as well keep going. Even though, I am constantly lost on this trek too and I cannot tell you what to do, but at least I can share my experience and well I can shed light to a bit of this path.  The same path we are all following with our own direction and compass.

My compass faces North. I want to go up. So, I will only look up. That, I know. If you want to look up with me, dream with me, risk it all with me. Then by all means, come with me. You are not alone. We are not alone.

I write and today, I will publish.

 

yours truly,

 

Leah

 

 

Love, my dearest.

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Have you forgotten the days when you were ash, when you lay in shadows and glittered in the mist of the moonlit night?

And your walk was humble on the ground, and you saw a miracle in a single rose and magic in the stars?

Love- my dearest.

It has always grasped you and sheltered you even when you were ash burned from the fire of a most passionate love.

You know how low one can go, low enough to think I have died and reincarnated and simply remembering that-

everything seems beautiful… like the bird singing on my windowsill this morning, up on the 11th floor of this loud city of Los Angeles, was beautiful.

Just moments of self-reflection and remembrance of the pain this peasant heart has rooted from.

 

never forget-

love, my dearest.

 

Bonnie Bluebird