{taken from Pinterest. I looooove Sylvia Plath}

I’m a happy girl. Somehow, my writing doesn’t always display that. Often these words roll off my fingers and suddenly sound melodramatic, serious, too far below the joy-sorrow border.

Perhaps it’s in the weaving, a sad thread winding between each bend and fold creating a slight sad glint with a touch of melancholy. Who knows? Maybe it’s just a dream voice that mumbles these words, the imaginary writer sipping weak coffee in my brain.

This moody writer broods cross-legged, humming with her brow pressed in my brain. I let her out when she gets ornery from eating too many soul-stirring Sylvia Plath quotes (somewhat ironic- she failed a paper on Sylvia Plath but can’t let go of her infatuation). She bends to sad songs, sways under cloudy skies and rejoices at claps of thunder. She’s responsible for much of my literature palate– seeking the dark and twisted and tortured poets and writers. She also can’t spelled very well, blames it on a hurried mind or a trick of heredity. Truth is, she doesn’t always pay close enough attention to the words she writes or says.

She tend to shy away, but sometimes the other tenants that influence my mind strike up conversations. The daughter, the friend, the student, the sister, the thinker, the cook, the laugher, the runner, and most often, the Christ-follower gently shakes her shoulder, bringing her some things to contemplate. Each one sometimes leads her away from the coffee, and into something else. Something a little different.

But it’s essential. I cannot be completely her, completely any one of them.

As I’m learning, the beauty lies in the conversation.


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