i'm not going to lie.
i completely had forgotten about this blog for a couple days.
my friend blatantly asked me if i had given up on blogging. maybe not in those exact words, but the same message all the same. i didn't really think that this was a very meaningful blog, but apparently, one person checks.
so i won't give up on this blog.
no sirree bob.
as well as my own personal paranoia that i write now and again, i somehow feel like i owe a part of my gift (if that's what you call it) to someone who needs it (if whatever stuff i spit out is what you need anyway).
i won't lie, this determination might not last long.
but hey, i don't get a lot of sleep anymore, so i might as well try.
i bought this fantastic book yesterday. its close to seven hundred pages, filled with the craziest and most insane stuff i've ever read. and i find it fascinating. all these people, all these pages, have some meaning. whether its just something they did one day, or a message sprouting change; i've discovered that every single poem from every single poet has one thing in common.
they all write with heart.
and that's what brings me out my shell, writing to complete strangers, or my friends, or just the air. the written word is a funny thing, and honestly, it never fully satisfies.
i think that's what causes people to write anyways. that they struggle and strive for something better, that when they get writer's block, it's because they know that there is a different, more sophisticated word that could be used. or that this sentence can be cut out, or that they didn't completely explain an idea or thought.
we think a minimum of a million thoughts a day.
at least write one good one down.
with love and light,
eve morgan
my friend blatantly asked me if i had given up on blogging. maybe not in those exact words, but the same message all the same. i didn't really think that this was a very meaningful blog, but apparently, one person checks.
so i won't give up on this blog.
no sirree bob.
as well as my own personal paranoia that i write now and again, i somehow feel like i owe a part of my gift (if that's what you call it) to someone who needs it (if whatever stuff i spit out is what you need anyway).
i won't lie, this determination might not last long.
but hey, i don't get a lot of sleep anymore, so i might as well try.
i bought this fantastic book yesterday. its close to seven hundred pages, filled with the craziest and most insane stuff i've ever read. and i find it fascinating. all these people, all these pages, have some meaning. whether its just something they did one day, or a message sprouting change; i've discovered that every single poem from every single poet has one thing in common.
they all write with heart.
and that's what brings me out my shell, writing to complete strangers, or my friends, or just the air. the written word is a funny thing, and honestly, it never fully satisfies.
i think that's what causes people to write anyways. that they struggle and strive for something better, that when they get writer's block, it's because they know that there is a different, more sophisticated word that could be used. or that this sentence can be cut out, or that they didn't completely explain an idea or thought.
we think a minimum of a million thoughts a day.
at least write one good one down.
with love and light,
eve morgan
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