A million pages written. A thousand chances lost. Stories yearning to breathe.
“The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live; a live thing, a story.” – Ursula K Le Guin
If the unread story could speak – then those I’ve written are crying; for they are all unread.
I reached for my journals and blew the dust off, watching it swirl and fall upon my trembling hands. “Just Breathe, Renea” – I reminded myself as I attempted to draw a full breath – just breathe. The ever present rattle of my lungs hissed as the air escaped from within. I could do this. I could not worry. I could not panic. I could not…fear. I could just…
Just Breathe… Just Breathe… Just Breathe…
Perhaps, I should try again tomorrow. Slumping against the shelf I place my heart back inside the wooden box with the faux book front; where it is safe once again.
Tomorrow, I’ll be brave. Tomorrow, I’ll lay my heart before you.
“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear;
but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.“
2 Timothy 1:7