Journaling Month ~ Week 4 ~ End

~Here's an explanation of Journaling Month, Week 1, Week 2, and Week 3~

Monday-
A Letter to Troubled Artists
Maybe this isn't your time to create.  Maybe this isn't your time to find meaning.  Maybe this isn't your time to change the world and burn with brilliance.
Maybe this is your time to lay awake at night, listening to your heartbeat until 3am and watching the outlines of shadows you cannot understand move gently across your wall.  Maybe this is your time to sweep your hand across the sky and feel the loneliness there, to put your eyes up against the stars and wonder how infinite infinity really is.
Place your fingers against the piano keys and realize that it is you who plays the music.  That these actions, this observation of black and white keys produce the indescribable beauty of a song.  You have your instrument, you have your talent, and you have it all beneath your fingers.
Maybe this isn't your time to scatter your notes like seed among pigeons, maybe this isn't your time to stir up wings in to flight.  Maybe this isn't your time to understand.
But it is your chance to observe, to breath in the struggles and contradictions and hardships of the world so that you may exhale them as ecstatic beauty when it all comes rushing out in a gasp, a sob that you have been keeping inside you for this moment.
Your time will come.

Tuesday-
A Letter to Thinkers    
We are curious creatures, here.  The infinity of the universe stretches out before us and the infinity of existence stretches inside us and our tired eyes cannot discern between them.  But we try, stubbornly searching the horizon to try and find the line that separates the ocean of ourselves from the vast, confounding sky.  We ask the sun what it sees, bringing light to all things, we ask the moon what tears it cries, struggling gently against the blue, and we wonder if the stars are really anything more than pinpricks.
Some people, most people, don't understand when I reach up and try to touch things that cannot be proven.  They tell me to focus on the vast archaic explosions behind the stars, to stop dwelling on the constellations but my mind floats upward, it tries to fog up the mirrors that sparkle like gentle illusions above me.  "Don't you want to see your reflection?" I have been asked.  And I can only reply, "I do."
We do not know if anything is really beyond the sky.  We have never reached the bottom of the ocean.  We do not know what we really look like, inside the consciousness that stretches out from all of us like Subway systems across the universe.
But we have our thoughts, we have our questions and we have the ability to find answers.  We have a journey to embark upon.
A journey of reflection.  

Wednesday-
A Letter to the Weary
I am so unsure.
I am so unsure of the earth beneath my feet, of the life that spills from the cracks in my mind, and the tired workings of the two souls that mesh together like clockwork.  Sometimes I feel the rhythm of the world beneath my eyelids, and I know my organic heart is not of this world.  And sometimes I listen to the radio and the noises scatter in shapes that remind me of you, and I am alone.  But I think your ear is pressed against the other side of the music.
I am so unsure.

Thursday-
A Letter to Music
You are always there, laying close to me when I need to be alone, whispering answers like melodies and questions like verse.  You spread yourself out against the souls of so many, a testament to ideas.  I wish more than anything to see the world through your eyes, and by that, to see the world through everyone's eyes -- a different vantage from every note, a different pair of eyes for every word.  I will put on the spectacles of melodies, to see the earth through impossible collections of symphonic creations.  Will you take me gently in your arms?  Take me above this simple corporal body, to a well-worn place.  The rugged patterns fit my rugged tears.
Oh, music, the places I have been with you.  The things I've left behind in you.  The worlds I have created in you.  The light, like the ashes, you have scattered inside me.
I can only stand in gratefulness. 

Firday-
A Letter to the Lonely
There is a hole in the world.  People think it is theirs, their personal and empty burden.  They claim it is their invention, their creation, their original and unimaginable pain.
But it is collective.  It is a common human suffering, and the edges of that hole extend over all our souls.
All.
It is a rope, winding around the feet of humanity.  It makes us stumble but it connects us.  Like veins the gaps in our minds, our feelings, our earth, supply us with the blood we need to be human.
There is a hole in the world.  Peer down into it, over yourself and into the void that is sliding gently down in to Meaning.
I am so terrified of that hole.  We all are.  I think it is swallowing me, and I cannot tell if it is making me or unraveling me.  It is in my heart, and yours.  Growing.
Growing, growing.
Perhaps, when we say our hearts are breaking, we merely mean the pain of the ever-growing hole has become almost unbearable.  Or maybe the hole, that monstrous hole is what breaks our hot heartbeats.
There is a hole in the world, and it binds us all togther, one way or another.  It eclipses our souls, it leaks through our eyes, it connects us.
There is a hole in the world.
It is called Love.      

 Saturday-
A Letter to the World
City stagelights.  A play in three acts, a curtain call, but no intermission.  The stranger that sits next to you, and you try to tuck in your limbs so you do not touch him.  You never see his face.  He coughs halfway through the performance and then leaves.  You never see him again.
There will be so many faces, floating there in the stagelight like butter.  They speak of meaning, full of life and consequence, deluding dreams and clutching a profound sense of hope amidst all those timid tears.
You will be asked to find answers here.  You will be expected to speak of things as if you've known them all along.  But only questions will slip gently from your tongue.
Only questions.
And that is okay.  From the stranger who sat beside you, and you were too afraid to look at, it is okay.  Keep watching, let stagelights blind you, let words confused, let expressions undo you.
It is okay.

Week 4 - End
A Letter to You
I hope that, in some way, this month has helped you.  I know it has helped me in monumental ways.
I am unsure of what to say here, because even though Journaling Month is ending, the words, emotions and writing will go on and on.  To bring back what I said in the very first Journaling Month post, "Each beginning you or I face is contrasted by the backdrop of a thousand endings."  And this ending, here and now, shall fall away in to the backdrop of a thousand more beginnings.
I want to thank you from the very depth of everything I am if you have read any of my words, if you have found any joy in them, or have pondered over any of my sentences.  It is for you I write.
I will be back with more thoughts, more posts, more words, more life.  I am excited, and I hope you are too, for everything beyond our feet in this elaborate world.
But, for now, I will leave you with what I believe creativity boils down to.
I will leave you with the essence of my artistic endeavors --

Begin.
Understand.
Create.
End.



^(OvO)^