The remarkable outcome of suppression is freedom.
It is a difficult task to write like a tortured soul as I am sitting on a sofa cozily typing, while my fiancé brings me tea…not to mention choral music wafting in from our bedroom stereo. It is even more difficult to articulate this mysterious inner-longing to be an indescribable human being. Sometimes I want to say profanities just for the hell of it. But I am not an unhappy person. Truly I am happier than I’ve ever been-enjoying the beauty of the earth and its heavenly pleasures—provided by an extravagant lover who is God. Do the feelings of insecurity go away? I have asked for them to go before, but they only seem to become more manageable and less prominent as I produce art and lovely sounds from instruments. By “manageable,” I suppose I mean surrendered to the Father (that’s God).
I would be a better writer if I didn’t live for the things I write for, or, perhaps if I didn’t have the things I’ve always desired. I have a lover now. Desiring romance is, outstandingly, the most frequented topic by artists—whether deliberately stated, or found subtle in the under-tones of music and poetry or paintings. The pursuit of something not yet grasped is what excites the reader or audience or spectator.
Is this why artists get divorced? Is this why the romance of the most romantic Romantics crumbles or darkens or separates the love from the lover?
Is the importance of having words to express more important than having someone to whom those words are shared?
It seems a vicious cycle. The greener grass cycle.
I have an uncanny relation with the most angst-ridden and distressed art-makers with dark spots in their souls, and waves of emotions on any given whim—while simultaneously enjoying the freedom, happiness and profound joy of child-like simplicity and faith in a gracious, good God.
I am blessed to have found someone to spill myself to daily. In five days I marry him.
Thank you Jesus Christ…
