You would think for someone who prides themselves in the ability to piece words together on paper [or on screen], conversations would be nothing short than an honorable exchange with a word smith but assuming such things would only leave room for disappointment.
For me, writing is an open playground in which to frolic, pretend, unload and even dream. It is a place where not a single critic exists. Here, there is only room and life granted for stories - my stories, deepest fairytales, delusions and aspirations but when pens are stashed away, laptops powered down, my words become limited. I've often heard people state that my ability to express emotion in open conversation is a rare occasion and I most certainly agree. It is a statement I find no offense in. I am at best a novice at expressing emotion before others, worst of all, admitting their existence within myself. But something life producing happens when I am drawn to the pen. Conversations begin to form as gentle whispers lay burden over my heart jarring open a pandora's box of emotions stored away in a well stacked, cemented facade.
It is in writing that conversations between God and I take place, it is where I discover my love for another - a love greater than ever realized in the hustle and bustle of the day to day. Here, my language is neither Spanish, English, nor Christianese, though it borrows from another it is a language of its own. It is one that can only be deciphered with the eyes, understood with the mind and felt with the heart. Thoughts that time will not allow in instant conversation, writing does. To each his own. For the artist, his paintings bear the story, for the songwriter it is the song. For me, words will tell the story of the life that is, has been, and will be.