Sometimes I write a passage, or even a line,
And have no doubts, it’s not mine,
But an extension, of the divine,
From His inexhaustible vine.
Line by line,
Tethered to me, toes to spine,
Ravage through my body, intertwined,
Wrapped around my heart, reaches my mind,
Until I become the passage.
At that point these words are not mine,
They’re for all humankind,
And all I can do is share in kind.
Often when I write, I may only write for a very short period but I am exhausted . Most of what I write occurs in the space of minutes. But I can often fall straight to sleep involuntarily after it. Admittedly, the bulk of the writing occurs at night, or early morning at the break of dawn as birds rise up like fleeting thoughts exhaust.
I wake with pen in hand or hunched over a keyboard with a million letters typed in afterwards from my face pressed on it.
At that point I retire to the fact that those words in particular are not mine. In essence, nothing is ours, we’re all on borrowed time, we’re all offered an extension of mercy to even be breathing.
“He created you and what you do”, says God to humankind.
How then can we take recognition for being anything but just a tool for his inscription.
I am that tool at times, I am honoured, but I’m tired when it happens. I can’t explain to myself why a few lines drains me so much otherwise.
That is why thoughtlessly, pen stabs to paper, my hand the vehicle and my body the driver and the inspiration leaves me exhausted.