Thoughts on writing and other means of sharing

Surely it is questionable how one can constantly and persistently open one’s veins allowing one’s life to splatter across the page, especially when each encounter leaves the writer drained and a little dimmer.

What is this compulsion to examine one’s own soul, the drive to share lessons learned from each encounter, real or imagined? Why this thirst for something better, even when seemingly, there is no satisfaction within reach in this life?

…Except for this hope, glimpsed in the corner of the eye like a wayward lightning bug appearing in the darkest halls of our lives; leading us further into the darkness. Is each uncertain step further into the vapors faith, foolishness, or both? But then again, if we could understand it all, if we could see it all, would it be faith at all? And maybe, just maybe, in our brighter moments, might we be lighthouses for one another in this journey we all share? For when we shine in the darkness, it has no answer and the substance of our hope is revealed.

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