For the love

Recently, in a room filled with who knows who, it turned out that there was kinship.  I just love when that happens. We are tempted sometimes to think that we are either so incredibly unique, or that our passions are just weird.

Take writing.  No, please don’t.  I don’t think I can like life without writing.

There is something about the relationship between thinking, feeling, and then putting those thoughts in black and white.  What is that mystery?  I still don’t get it, but I can’t stop. In a way, it’s like a river, being part of a current.  Not the current, and certainly not the source. Just a little drop that has the privilege of being invited to just be part of the water.

Apparently, I am not unique, nor is this passion , as there are many of us that want to be in this river.  The room I was in was sprinkled with writers who cannot make their living writing, but who live through writing.  I’m one of those.  Actually doing something simply for the love of it. No money, no anything.  Just for the love.

Concerning myself with who reads what I write is of little to no concern for me…probably exactly why I don’t make a living at this.  Most of what I say is stream of thought that winds its way from heart to head to limbs to fingers to keyboard.  Starts with the heart.

The current is what interests me.  Even more so the Source.

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