Summer is normally one of the seasons in which I write the most, but this summer was different. As I looked back into the pages of my journal I realized that I haven’t written as much (or as consistently) as I used to. This intrigued me, and I could not help, but wonder why that was.
After some considerable thought I’ve come to the conclusion that I write more when I feel burdened, depressed or direction-less than I do when I’m joyous, excited, and full of adventure.
For one of the first times my life is adventurous and joyous, and though I have more stories to tell I have less time to tell them all. Once I was longing desperately to understand and be heard, but now I’m too caught up in the beauty of life to try to write it all down. Before this year, my life was defined by solitude, thought, and reflection as I tried figuring life out, but now I am doing things.
I’m adventuring. I’m living. I’m loving.
Now I write differently. When I speak of adventures I spare myself from the details and simply write out all the little things that I loved. When I speak of myself I speak of things – simple observations – I’ve never noticed before. When I speak of others I take a deep look into them and reflect on how I can best love them.
I find myself writing less about where I’m going to go, and more about how to get there. I write about how to love, how to sacrifice, how to live, and how to be a better man for those I love.
Where I am now is a place that I never thought I’d be. I used to write in hope of being here, and now I write in hope of living this out fully.