somewhere laid out on the alter,
God’s my girl,
I truly love Her
I love poetry.
I love the way my brain claps together abject noises and “ghetto” syllables.
I love the essay, the construction of reasoning and my explanation for my concrete jungle thoughts.
The word essay originates from essayer the French infinitive , “to try” or “to attempt”. Simply put, I am making an attempt every day of my life to relish a fulfilling purpose. I want to spend my life using my gift, and spreading love. I hope to be the sunshine to someone’s day, to offer a word of wisdom or encouragement, even if it is in some of the most pedestrian ways. My whole life is an essay, an attempt to remain motivated, all while pouring uplift into the lives of others.
I knew I was meant to be an author when I recollect with how easily I was able to protract stories as a child. I always refused to abbreviate, considering every detail consequential. And because I can’t always drone on into ears, I usually settle for a less audible medium. Many moons lit the nights when I had nothing but a notepad or a keyboard to hold onto. Being the emotionally invested person I am, I feel everything deeply because of my big heart. Sometimes, I have no other way to sort out how I feel, and how to grow from the circumstances life puts me in, than to write.
When I write I sort out puzzle pieces and sometimes, I discover missing pieces. All in all it’s a beautiful process, to grow as a writer, before our eyes as I try and try again to produce enthralling and thought-provoking literary content. I’m still learning, so be patient with me.
As I said, my life is an essay, an attempt. So don’t blame me for trying. That’s more than most.