I'm feeling deep and rich and purple today. I could sprinkle out a few pieces of brightly-colored confetti as normal, or I could write some of the things that are moving me deeply.

First, my writing. I know some of it is quite good - for what it is. I'm a very objective person, and my writing reflects that a lot of the time. One of my best friends told me that my writing doesn't have much passion, that I haven't yet found what I want to write. I thought she was wrong at the time, and in fact, if I'm being truthful with myself, I still do now. I care about my writing. Still, that one comment was enough to introduce doubt into my peaceful certainty that what I'm doing is right.
It's strange how this particular friend's comments tend to do that. She says things that hold a particle of truth, perhaps, but that read far too much into the particle. Thus the confusion: I don't know whether what she says is completely right or not.
Still, I know God made me to write. I can do it, and countless people can't. This is a gift I absolutely have to use. There is no way around it. If I stopped writing, I think all the moisture would pull out of my flesh and leave me a stiff, desiccated corpse. Or rather, perhaps all the moisture would pull out of the world around me, and I would watch its grey remains with old and tired eyes.
On the other hand, the particle of truth in what my friend said is that I am young. The core of solid truth inside me is extending tendrils into every part of the world I know, but honestly I know very little. If I don't keep writing now, however, the core of truth will grow bigger and bigger, but the tendrils will stop extending. I communicate everything real through writing, since I wasn't gifted with an extraordinary ability to speak. I speak silently.

What is this private burning inside me that looks at the world and heaves to speak and to say, "It's so obvious you're not happy! Why do you persist this way?" Why is it that I must cry when something is beautiful and I know that it is beautiful and why it is so - but I know that millions will never know, and that I am too small to help them, but that they must be helped? I don't matter. The truth matters. What makes me think I can communicate truth?

As for the other items that I'm rolling over and over in my head - some things can only be discussed in a private journal.  ¶ 9:06 AM