Lately, my life has run away with me. All I seem to be able to do is bounce around in the saddle of this horse without reins to hold or a trail to follow. Even my journaling has suffered as I write in retrospect about events / dreams / ideas that occurred days, even weeks, before. I write feverishly, trying to get it all down before the next turn of events swipes the pen out of my hand. And if I don’t write at all? Well, those events may soon feel as if they never happened.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that only a fragment of my life gets recorded in my memory, the rest disappears as if it happened to someone else. Writing has always been my witness. Sure, witnesses can have different versions of the same event, but the point is, that someone saw it. If I didn’t write, whether journaling, fiction, or nonfiction, I don’t think I’d have any credibility in my own life. Because I write about what happens, what inspires me, what moves me, what angers me, what shapes me, I can actually see the trajectory of my life as it flows over time.
Especially now, in this spooked-horse scenario I keep finding myself in, my life racing in conflicting directions, I need my writing more than ever. I need the grounding force of the words on the page, the happenings that become even more real as I record them, the dreams that, even if they are never fully realized, are imagined in full flower.
So, race on, life! Fly away, days! I’ll find a way to capture you. As writing is my witness.