Potential is painful.
...because what if I die before I did everything I could do in this life?
Potential is painful. It knaws at you from the inside out as a reminder of all you could be, if only you were a little more you. But you’re only the you you are now. And that gap… well it can eat at you if you let it.
I’ve been so obsessed with becoming that I forgot the art of being. But who I am? Well, she’s kind. She’s loving. She makes strangers feel at home and has found home in herself. She’s returned to her roots in more ways than one. She’s committed herself to God. She is, alas, imperfect. She has so much further to go. And yet, how beautiful is it that she never loses sight of her dreams, that she’s still writing, that she still dares believe in so much more.
She’s always been this way: a lover of words, a dreamer of lives beyond anything she’s known, a storyteller of worlds that others will one day call home. She’s always been a bit out of place in this world because she was born for another—one that is coming surely, brought to life day by day by each word she dares speak aloud. She talks to the wind because few see the world as it could be. She doesn’t mind much anymore. She’s learned to love the minds of strangers. She sees how each is a puzzle piece in a tale that only God could write. She’s still stubborn, still tries to take the pen out of His hand when she thinks it’s moving far too slow. She never can though, and then she looks back at the perfection of how it always unfolds.
She wonders how dreams become, wishes to speed up time, calls out to the heavens because she… so longs for the divine. And in this world, one where everything is just so mixed up, she can’t help but search and search and search for any thread of this divine love.
All my dreams lead back to that. To a truth which I’ve always known but was born to forget.