Being inarticulate and without words.

I am a reader and have been all my life. I read other peoples words and constantly wonder at the beauty in their expression. I read poetry and prose, fiction and autobiographical accounts of lives that are unfamiliar, but that become known to me through my reading about them. I adore language and the images that it produces. I read in 3D and I can layer time, place and person in a single sentence created by someone who has imagination, eloquence, flair, and a gift for writing.

 
I began writing this blog over a year ago and have written about events and memories that are personally relevant to me. I do not possess the gift that turns an ordinary sentence into something special or beautiful. I wish that I did, although I am not playing to a gallery or an audience and do not need that accolade.

I just want to be more articulate.

I wish that I could truly convey how my life has changed so profoundly since my sister died and how it really is when I lie awake at night, thinking, missing her, and wanting her here so badly. I haven’t the words to describe the constant loneliness that overwhelms me at times when I think of her and my life without her.

I wish that I could be more expressive, not to make people sad by my words, but to be able to write about what is important to me without censoring my words, and to be able to write from the dark empty place that lies within me that continuously misses her.

It is probably my own fears that hold me back, that stifle my words because someone in my family might read this blog and think that I have lost the run of myself. I should be braver and not care but I do.

I am shackled by tradition in ways that can be comfortable and familiar on one hand, yet jail me in another with my thoughts and recollections. I am a coward as I do not recount honestly and transparently all the time. I do not want to hurt or upset people with my reminiscences.

I have many stories to tell, and the reason I write this blog is to leave a life diary and history for my children.

My ‘2013 New Year’s resolution’ I hope will introduce a revolution in the way that I write. I will endeavour to be more articulate and truthful, to recount the feeling behind the story, and to be less restricted by my own enforced moral code.

I write as a complete amateur in comparison to the many authors that I admire and love, but universally we share the same desire to make our feelings known.

Is this what destiny should be?

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