I wish I was a better writer.
That I could take the words in my hands and mold them to the depths inside of me for all the world to see.
I wish I could convey emotion easily.
That the words would slip from my pen and onto the paper and you would understand beyond my limited eloquence.
I wish the raging waters of my soul could pour out of me like a waterfall.
That they wouldn’t dam when I open my mouth. They sit there pressing so hard it hurts, the pressure building, and threatening to explode, but there’s nowhere for the waters of my soul to go but out my eyes and down my cheeks.
I wish I wasn’t afraid of being misunderstood.
These words that flow from mind to fingers don’t come with ease. How hard it is to vocalize when one is paralyzed by the dread of not being known.
I wish I knew the right words to choose.
That I could explain to you that writing isn’t easy. Art never is. Is this what is it to be an artist of words – to forever feel your own insufficiency?
I wish wanderlust was an easy thing.
That the thousands of worlds and wishes and yearning for all I haven’t seen didn’t consume me like a fire, burning me with their intensity. Yet I’m afraid of it’s burning out. It’s frighteningly hot, but frighteningly frigid without its flames.
I wish I was good.
That I did everything right. That I wasn’t bound by these chains of my inability to think well, to write well, to do well, to choose well, to balance my emotions well. I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.
I wish for understanding.
That the world around me would be bright with clarity. That I could explain to you all that burns inside me – the wanderlust, the pathos, the excitement, the words that bleed from me, oh there’s so much more behind it all. Trying to tell you is like handing you a bowl of ocean water – it amounts to nothing compared to the vast expanse from whence it came.
That I could understand those near and far from me. That I could find words for the empathy that pulls at my soul and stretches toward yours.
I wish I could grasp His love.
It reaches for me in the sunlight, and falls on me in the rain. It encloses me behind and before. I don’t understand it. Lord do you not see the stains upon me?
Oh all sufficient Savior, give me what I need.
She did not want to move, or to speak. She wanted to rest, to lean, to dream. She felt very tired. – Virginia Woolf
For behold, those who are far from you shall perish; you put an end to everyone who is unfaithful to you. But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord God my refuge, that I may tell of all your works. – Psalm 73:27-28
For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. – Romans 8:26-27