From time to time, as I thumb through my writing I stumble across pieces of which I am especially proud. Those pieces capture what I believe to be my inner self, the person for whom I’ve been searching my entire life. But they are incomplete, each of them. They serve to point only at a piece of me, a shred of my humanity that can’t be fully understood without knowing how they are connected to the other shards of my self that usually remain hidden. I wonder why I am proud of those pieces, even the ones that paint pictures of someone who seems to be, at his core, fundamentally flawed and irredeemable. I suppose my pride arises from the writing, as much as the substance of what I wrote. Or perhaps it’s the simple fact that, on reading them, they bring tears to my eyes with their ability to extract an emotional response with each reading. One day, I’ll figure it out. And, one day, I’ll have the good sense to marks those pieces in some way so that I can, when the mood strikes me, assemble them all together and attempt to make some sense of them. I get angry with myself when I try to find one of those pieces and realize that, again, I don’t recall enough specifics about it to know where to look. I don’t recall any more about it than it again brought tears to my eyes. Yesterday, or perhaps the day before, I came across one such short…essay, I suppose I’d call it…that affected me in that way. I thought about marking is, but didn’t. And this morning, I can’t find it. It’s “here,” but I don’t know where. Maybe I should make a New Year’s resolution: to get better organized, so I know what I’ve written and where to find it.
Edit: I found the piece I wanted to find. My Sovereign Sky. It won’t bring tears to your eyes the way it did to mine, but that’s all right; that’s not what I was trying to do.
