The Place Without Words

Some times I travel in the place without words.  It is a land of unexplored dreams and desires, a land of heartache and pain, a land of survival and victory.

In my mind, I sit alongside a dusty road.  It’s summer.  The sun is directly over head.  I’m barefoot and covered with dust and dirt.  Tears stream down my face, tiny rivers of dirt.  My sorrow is primal.  It can’t be hidden. I wait for sympathy in the form of a ride.  I want to be rescued.  No one comes.  Finally, I moved to the shade of an oak tree.  A nice breeze makes the leaves rustle.  Fall will come soon.

Drying my tears with the back of my arm, I get up and walk.   As I walk, memories drift in and out like sunlight and shadow casting shifting patterns on my soul.  I re-member myself into being in this place without words.  My story captures my attention.  In the light and shadow, I write without words. Rainbow colors fly out of me into the center of the sky.  I stand on my head to get a better look and then I fall.  I fall into the story.  I am lost.  I am found.

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


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The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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