I have been wanted to write all my life. Correction ~~~ I have been writing all my life. I have been wanting to be a successful, published author all of my life.
I was digging through some of the stuff that I wrote a very long time ago, and I thought I would post a few here during this month’s NaBloPoMo. I was about 16 when I wrote this:
June 13, 1973
Love is the only survival, the only existence the only reason. For without love, what is? Love is all that is real in this world of false illusions. Pure, clean, chaste, love so often become abused, and it hides itself from those who are guilty of abusing, of mocking, love. Patiently, it waits to be sought for. When that time comes, it joyfully finds itself an embodiment to dwell in, making itself easily found to those searching. Ironically, love, in its blind need to be needed, hurriedly dwells in the wrong embodiment. Not being able to flourish, it leaves, this time hiding itself deeper in the forest of pain. Love becomes morose, sad, empty.
But love cannot be defeated, only abused and bruised. Only mistaken. For love, although blind, is wise. Love realized that within itself exists the only form of total life. Love realizes that love itself is life.
It is not a different emotion that mixes with love to cause confusion within the human soul, but it is the absence of love.
Love comes to those whom desire it so easily, yet it hides itself. To search for love is to pass it up too often.
Yet, to those who abuse love’s fragility, those who look for ways to mar love’s cleanliness, love itself runs to, trying to save them.
Love is surrender. To show pain, sadness, is to show love. To show happiness, joy, is to show full surrender to the securities that love can bring.
To have love together with love’s security is to have life. To be absent of precious love is to own nothing but death.