Lately, I've stopped writing with the intent of being read. Rather, I’ve begun to write for the purpose of understanding life more fully.
I've realized that I write to know myself. I've found that I don't truly know my own heart, my own mind, my own fully developed perspective on any certain situation until I've put pen to paper, so to speak. I think when my hands are moving. I suppose this makes sense, too, in light of the fact that I am a kinesthetic learner, and a constant clapper during worship.
Also, so much of the poetry I've written has begun as some cryptic, ambiguous gob of phrases with nothing more than a mysterious feeling behind it. But after writing and rewriting and pulling threads together and manipulating phrases, I find that the impression that was always there is finally visible even to myself. And so I know myself a little better than before.
In other news, I discovered yesterday that a friend I’ve been visiting with during tutoring every week for two semesters now is a book editor. I’m not one to harp on about networking and connections, but I found this rather coincidental. -Oh, but nothing is coincidental, is it? Providential, perhaps? We shall see.
Also, she wears truly chic nautical-themed outfits, with the anchor designs and blue and white stripes and all. There is a vicious rumor that I have a tendency to gush on about her outfits every single week. Oh, and I started it.