I will never run out of words, and stories.
Life goes on and on, and so does learning, seeing, recognizing, appreciating, wondering, trying and stumbling.
And it’s all worth reflecting on.
It’s non-stop inspiration.
Because it is always new and always unique.
Even if you’ve done and seen it many times before.
I am no longer really invested or interested in writing perfect things: I am life, writing.
Not towards something, not as a means to some end (at least not primarily).
It doesn’t matter where it goes or how profound it is, how well-crafted or articulate, if I can make money doing it or if people cry reading it (although I can truly appreciate those things).
For me writing serves the simple purpose of being more alive and in life.
Life is writing, and writing is life.
It’s like breathing, like trees growing, like the movement of a fresh, cool brook hidden deep in the forest.
It’s nothing special, yet it is totally amazing, because it’s MADE FROM life.
It is casual, but it is also spot on, because it always IS life.
It is a process born from curiosity and awe and joy and constant manifestation.
How can there be writer’s block as long as there’s life?
How can you run out of things to write about when there’s a universe built from unconditional love, and galaxies full of misunderstanding?
Let life write itself.
Be the words.
Be life, consciously.
(Photo by @kellysikkema, for Unsplash)