I feel a disturbance inside me. From time to time, my pen drops from my fingertips and a pure, primal fissure of heat breaks loose, emanating a malicious stench that pours out from my pores.
During these episodes, rage builds up the pressure within, bloating, coalescing, making my skin bead with sweat. I struggle, I squeeze, and yet, I discover again that the inkwell inside me is bone dry. And I know the reason why.
I am at war with myself. A war, where one party feeds the sloth, and the another, ambition.
In a cliché storyline, there would be a clear divider of the good and the bad, but honestly, I feel as if I'm shortchanged here. In both circumstances, the victor remains a threat to the overall well-being of this sacred temple, by laying waste to potential or worse, by castrating the values that tie in to community.
Maybe I've been burning the wrong oil in my lamp. Maybe, while trudging onwards into the night, I've inhaled without regard the noxious fumes from the unnatural flames. I could be causing my own hallucinations, going down wrong pathways because of a wrongly lit light.
No matter. After all, people can hardly rewrite the past, but one can rest for a clearer chapter of the future.
As I set up camp by the crossroads and gathered my wood, I feel as if I've leapt into writing without a second thought.
I've struck this match, and there's no going back. At least not for now. Ready or not, the hand that guides the short-lived taper of fire___ can't afford to waver. The time had come for a sluggard to put on the iron shoes of a workhorse, in order to grind a lifetime of falsehoods into truths.
After all, the incentive and reward of learning lies in the capacity for growth. If I don't feel like what I'm studying is helping me, how would I get the motivation to carry on?
I have to give this flame a fighting chance before it gets burnt out and wasted, before I lose my purpose to open the eyes and directly speak into the lives of people, before I embrace the chill that has incessantly eaten away at my passion to touch, equip and empower those that I love.
At this very moment, I believe in writing. I believe I can do more than access the imprints of entire lives, entire nations and cultures bound in volumes. I believe that I can seize this medium to share and flesh out extraordinary ideas, to write a feast for the eyes, to weave visual music that will outlast the century, and forever influence thought!
The trouble is, I've started a fire with wet wood. I have no previous concrete experience with writing. The tinder I've haphazardly sourced out from the barren surroundings aren't in the best condition they could've been.
For better or for worse, the fire sparked to life, and I fed it kindling by the measure. Soon, my interests grew, along with my investment in the growing flame, and I knew, I knew that I couldn't turn my back on it now, not just for the fear of losing its heat and its beauty, but also because of the real fear of losing control to the fire's volatile nature. The night grew long, and soon enough, I heard the fire mocking me amidst the crackle and sputters of its flames. I heard it sneer. I heard it whisper my faults, my pride, my lusts, and my shame.
Awake, foolish human! Enrich this dreary reality and tear away from such pointless dreams, lest you dry up in the doldrums, covered with the cobwebs of lethargic thought.
Fire of new beginnings, strike me! Let me burn again in your intimacy. In your fire Surrendered to Your sovereignty I'm waiting in expectancy I'm always telling myself That the night is nearly over And the day is almost here. I clothe myself in your presence As the winter ploughs on Waiting For the sun to break the dawn.
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