My wind beneath your wings

It’s always nice to hear that someone likes your writing. Today was one such day.

My friend told me that a friend of hers really enjoyed reading my blog and I was thrilled to hear this. Hearing that I write well NEVER grows old with me, you know what I’m talking about!

My day however, was bitter sweet.

I love knowing that my writing inspires people out there, however few or many that may be, even if it’s just one, it matters to me, I take you very, VERY seriously. What I can’t get over though is that I am unable to inspire those who I want to the most.

Isn’t it funny when people oceans away can find some light from your words every single day and yet those within an arm’s reach, the ones who you write because of, the ones who fill the content of all your writings, are the ones whom you can’t seem to reach out to and ignite.

This is something that is my pet peeve. If I am a good enough writer, if my thoughts matter enough, if they make enough sense, why is it that those closest to me cannot draw from me? Why can only a random stranger from a distant country relate to the things I say, connect to me, to my thoughts? Why can only a person who knows nothing of me but what I tell them gain from what I say?

The reason this train of thought scares me, if you haven’t figured, is because I wonder if that makes me a lie.

I wonder, if you knew me, if you were to meet me or speak to me often, then would the value of the things I have to say dissipate? WHY?

Is it that you simply can’t take someone whom you know so well seriously because the droning of their voice becomes nullified background cacophony to your thoughts? Is it that when you are constantly by someone’s side trying to uplift them, it seems to them like you are nothing but a basket of cookie cutter lines? Why is it that they fail to see the sincerity of your words, the very real realm of emotions attached to everything you tell them?

What frightens me the most however is the thought that maybe I fail to inspire them because they actually know me, and that, my sweet reader is a frightening thought indeed.

If my life doesn’t inspire is there any use that my words do? Isn’t it a lie?

I don’t know my friend. You tell me.



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