Even something as simple and innocuous as cleaning the house, sweeping and mopping the floors, brings back a flood of memories. Followed by tears and a headache. It’s got to be unhealthy.
I want to write about things that aren't painful. I want to write about happy things. Fun things. I want to write about all the lovely normal, boring, mundane things of life that we often take for granted when we are content. If I could find an unfettered way to bide my time I would. Even something pragmatic that doesn't dig too deep beyond the surface. And yet everything comes back to the brokenness.
Wounds heal slowly. The red blood cells work and work. New tissue is formed. Scars may be left behind when healing can not be completed. It's natural to scar, but how many scars can we live with? How many unhealed wounds?
How many trite metaphors can I write about without saying at all?
I want to write about things that aren't painful. I want to write about happy things. Fun things. I want to write about all the lovely normal, boring, mundane things of life that we often take for granted when we are content. If I could find an unfettered way to bide my time I would. Even something pragmatic that doesn't dig too deep beyond the surface. And yet everything comes back to the brokenness.
Wounds heal slowly. The red blood cells work and work. New tissue is formed. Scars may be left behind when healing can not be completed. It's natural to scar, but how many scars can we live with? How many unhealed wounds?
How many trite metaphors can I write about without saying at all?
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