The putting of thoughts onto a page has always felt magical to me—something about carefully weaving words into a tapestry to most fully display all the wonder an idea can hold. For years now, thoughts have clung to the back of my mind in disorder, hopeful for their eventual release, but I had turned my mind elsewhere, never thinking I was quite ready for the task.
But of late, unamusing musings have haunted my mind, seeking their escape. The ideascape which I had fostered is, it seems, not quite so buffered from outside forces as I had imagined it to be. My garden of ruminations waiting to be written someday has become a battleground insisting on claiming its voice now.
So now I write because I must,
because these ideas demand the words they are due,
because I cannot betray Truth, no matter the cost,
because Truth is best of all that is good.