Every day I write, about my life, things I experience or wants to be processed or said.
At least for myself.
I was wondering.
Something I caught myself doing.
Perhaps too busy, occupied with other things that kept me busy.
Which is very plausible, at least to me.
The thoughts that made me wonder, are the following.
Quite some time I am spending with this writing.
It isn’t making me tired.
I was questioning myself.
‘Why is this so important for me?’
With writing I feel so much fear.
The words in my head, but when I sit and start typing, something really makes me trembling and sometimes even sick. I become dizzy and start to sweat.
The only option I want to take is not possible, hiding in my bed.
However the pages seem to be writing itself, my hands won’t follow my head.
It is simply what my heart wants to say.
The passing of my mother, is holding me to the ground.
If I could hear her just one more time.
It was about 4 years ago I found out that she wasn’t alive anymore.
Something what came as a shock, although from inside I already new for much earlier.
A connection I have with her that goes beyond the consciousness.
However, overcoming death takes its time.
It is not an easy path to follow, I can tell from experience.
Knowing you are existing and nobody with so much love you can return to.
I know from the time we were together, but also now I am much older, her genes reside in myself.
I don’t only carry my mother genes, but feeling her love I carry.
This makes me less fearfull, for what comes after.
The fear of writing seems to disappear.
A process of becoming, by releasing her death.
To find her love is within me.