I am writing a book, one that has already been written. Nothing has come for the first time. All things have before existed. Truth. Yet I press them firmly; my fingers to keys as though to create is to begin an existence anew. Perhaps. Momentum present. It does not stop. Vibration. So high that my thoughts far surpass my ability to write them. Catch up. Hurry. Chase them down as though through a dark alley leading in the direction of there. Where is the there of my running, and to whom do I journey? He said to go within, that I am destined to find the answers there. “But how?”
Silence.
Somehow there in the silence am I able to hear the voice. “Is anyone there?” I wonder to myself though I know deeply that I am alone. Is this to be the solitude of my own soul, this dark place of my own hiding? I have traveled here for years not just in this time now. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” There is no one to ask. It is only I who stands here at the gate of life, knocking.
Filed under: creative writing, happiness, Meditation, Oakland writer, Spirituality, Uncategorized, writing, Writing process Tagged: Acceptance, aloneness, creative writing, hope, meditation, prose, self inquiry, silence, solitude, spiritual prose, wisdom, writing, writing process
