reflection // why I write.

my pen lures me to the wooden desk. a blank sheet -- a bare canvas -- beckons me. my pensive mood must be satisfied, and I sit, writing desk before me, but frustration threatens to sweep.

 write. pen your heart's musings. let the words flow in cursive or typed script. just write. 

on many occasions, my old fashioned heart pines to write in eloquent speech, yet my hopeless mind cannot grasp the perfect word. my vocabulary meets its boundaries and so often times I feel inadequacy. my hopes are disheartened. I fall into a state of ennui. I covet dear friends who seems to present their thoughts with such fluency, such passion, and look upon my own with disdain. frustration overwhelms me.    

yet, then I realize I have lost focus on what writing truly reads to me. 

each artist must find their skill in any art. whether be painting, sketching, water-colouring, photographing, or  crafting --- every  artist  must  place  their  individual  mark  upon   their   work. even writers.    

"An idea, like a ghost ... must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself."

>>------> Charles Dickens

a writer's voice is penned through the words they use. they are the writer's tools, yet the heart is the source with which the voice is developed. a skill one must nurture and discover as time progresses...

yet, now we come to the question of "why do I write?" why do I invest so much of my time and passion into stringing words together to form sentences? why do I sit and endure the frustration that often times overcomes me to scribble a mere happen-stance or story? 

memories. like that of a photographer, my heart longs to capture memories that slip away so easily form my mind. stringing together beautiful sentences into a necklace of pearls, turning the drabbest of details into a pieces of art. capturing the emotion and charm of a thrilling moment in time. nurturing my ethereal dreams and creating something tangible that I might look upon and never forget. 

words are not merely words, but time capsules to which enrapture the moment. and unlike memories will never grow dim.      

lovingingly,
the girl writing in the garden. 
to be continued? 

[images via pinterest]