juncture

New Year's Resolution.

Write.

You say that I can. That it's a natural talent given to me by the one that created and creates and cares and destroys, but I don't utilize it like I should. You say that when my thoughts flow out into letters that create words seaming into rivers of sounds, patterns of expression and conclusions it means something to those around me, but I choose quiet introspection and a silent inner commentary of the lives around me over communication.

I've wished to be talented my entire life. I wanted to draw cartoons of the nasty teacher and make my classmates laugh, but my artisan apprenticeship fell short with a few lines and circles. I wanted to be an athlete, running like I was born to, dodging defenses with the ball dancing at my feet, but my stardom fell short with a few clumsy passes and zero points. I wanted to be in movies, on stage or spend time behind a microhpone, but my inclination towards enternainment fell short when I realized I'm not entertaining.

I've wished to be good, to be famous, to be accomplished at anything, but discounted my ability to compose passages that mean something to someone. Ignoring the one thing I can do without wondering if I'm good enough. Blocking out the one thing I can do without having to constantly second guess myself. Ignoring my ability to put feelings into words, onto paper and spread. I'm done wishing for something that isn't going to happen. I'm done wondering why I'm not good at anything that counts, when something I am good at is right in front of my nose. Writing counts. Writing is my talent. I can't change it or make it count for less or more. Writing is.

New Year's Resolution.

Write.