He has asked of me various times to journal for him. He gave me as a gift, a beautiful journal that sits empty of my words. It is hard to explain why such a natural act for me- putting ink to paper is also so very hard for me at times. Perhaps this feels more safe to me, putting words to screen like I always have. It feels natural. I can't help but feel almost like a poser when I begin to write on sheeted paper. I've always wrote on a screen- and so it is upon a screen I will finally do what has been asked of me. I do not always mind well, you see. But my heart is there. My passion is there. And the need to please Him, give more to him- grows day in and day out. One thing you should know about me, if anyone but Him chooses to read me: I am not perfect. I am terribly flawed. I need more than I can always give. It causes me to hurt people. I am doing the best I can in this moment. But I have also lived for other a people a very long time. This is the beginning of living for myself. I have found the definition of passion at his feet. I only hope to reflect that here, for him.
dance dusk.
spin amber.
hold out for hope that there's hope.
dream satellites.
scorn conformity.
fuck easels.
paint walls so where you've been
can't be ignored.
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