I’ve written before of the valleys of my faith, the days that run dark like the depths of caves, the silence that overwhelms, when shame threatens to extinguish hope. The days when I do not want to talk to anyone. The days after I write, the vulnerability hangover, when I’ve thrown my heart to the wild and it’s gone unanswered.
Those are the days when words come easily, they flow like the river of tears I wish would roll down my cheeks. They are the ache of a soul straining for relief, they are the wounds of a life left hidden for too long. They are the echoes that resound when there is nothing left to give, they are the beauty of the broken, they are the maudlin murmurings of the misanthropic.
And yet sometimes they are the easy way out.
Because not all days are sad. Not all require a torrent of words arranged to evoke emotions. Not all days spark passive aggressive pleas for sympathy. Some days are good. Some days are better than good. And sometimes in the midst of draining days comes a glimpse of the other. Continue reading