For a long time, I was spiritually dead. If I couldn’t see it, taste it, touch it, or explain it, it wasn’t real. The only place I felt something holy was when I was writing. Something mysterious happens during the creative process. Many artists feel more like conduits than creators.
I’ve written myself through many personal struggles. Each time, it feels like I’ve written my way back home. Every character, every scene, every resolution brings me one step closer to reintegrating with myself.
Just because we don’t understand our existence, just because it seems like a cold evolutionary process that will be pointless as the sun absorbs the earth, doesn’t mean there isn’t some divine plan being executed, some beautiful piece of music being played out. It just means we can’t fully discern it yet.
But the holy contour of life is there, and we sketch it out every time we write.
What are your thoughts?