Journal: No Different

My fingers crave the volume of words giving attention to the writer in this heart of mine, very similar to the craving for volume in vertical gain that strengthens these mountain goat legs of mine feeding my heart. 

Writing freely is a gift of time, that gives me a sense of being, no longer a search for meaning in why I write. Very similar to why I enjoy spending hours in the mountains running freely engaging with the monk I am at heart. 

A new landscape, a blank screen soon to be filled with these words of mine, tends to be no different than the landscape of mountains that my feet will soon kiss, bounding across Pachamama granting me space to be free. 

The antidote to my kryptonite that paralyzes every cell in my body, placing a guillotine choke around my heart, making it even more destructive, and no longer creative, morphing the artist into the boogyman inside of me.

Writing is an act of endurance, no different than life, no different than love, no different than running, or any act that we partake in, fueled by every heartbeat.