Why I write?
My words are my light. My words are my darkness. My words are my journey. My words are my destination. My words are my home.
They are nothing I ‘make up’.
I don’t do words.
Writing is not my skill, it is my trait.
My words are the process. They are my tools and my material at the same time.
Words set the stage and they perform. They are able to build and to dissolve. Words are the story and the narrator – all at once.
My words are like street dogs. I let them run free and this is how they thrive. I treat them with care. I don’t restrict them. They have a place in my heart and this is why they always come back to me.
If I put them on a leash they get cranky. If I overindulge them they spoil.
Words – I use them as they use me. I become them. I am transcending through my words as they transcend through me.
My words are my thoughts but they are also my brain.
My words are my ascension partners. My words are my closest friends or my worst enemies. It depends. (And no, this is not a matter of perspective and this is okay….)
I can’t say ‘I want my trust back!’ I can’t say ‘I have to trust’. I can ‘just’ trust.
If I allow my words to be, they unfold. This is writing. It is a subconscious outlet of my expansion. They are nothing but a valve – but just as crucial as a pipeline for delivering drinking water.
What are they delivering? Words are the messenger but also the freight.
Words are zen. Words are dao.
Words are everything if you let them. Words are nothing if you take them too seriously.
Take them too accurate and they will become your prison.
Let them go wild and they will become your shelter.
The other day there was high water at Isar after three days of heavy rain.
There is a swimming spot I had been visiting regularly during this summer season. It was kind of an island amidst my favourite river here in Munich.
The flood water rearranged the whole river bed. All the algea were washed away.
No stone was left unturned.
The currents had changed. A wooden stamp had built a little whirl pool in the very center of the river bed.
Everything was renewed and refreshed. It felt like a restart.
And this is what words do if you let them flow. They rearrange themselves. They become more powerful. They clear themselves. They settle.
This is the really f***ing difficult part of writing. Your mind wants to control. It wants to know the end of the sentence before you even start typing.
It wants to outline the whole book instead of creating the first chapter.
True beauty, the real raw beauty lies in imperfection.
Did you ever consider a tree as imperfect? Did you ever think ‘This tree really looks like shit here.’?
If yes, I’m sorry. I’m praying for you.
Your soul understands.
A tree is a tree.
It grows out of the elements.
It is the elements. It is creation. It arises out of destruction. It sprouts from the mud.
And so does your creation.
Creation demands freedom.
So, don’t do it perfectly.
Just do it.
Do it with your heart. Do it with trust. Lean into it fully.
Own it – and then let it go.
Give it away. If you cling to it, it will restrict you.
This is how you become a slave to your perfectionism.
But you know what?
Don’t beat yourself up for your poisonous perfectionism. It will make it worse.
Move to your rhythm. But move.
Don’t stay still. Don’t be paralyzed in the face of your perfectionism.
Smile at it. Be perfect in the now, but don’t try to live up to it.
This is how you integrate it. Accept and take action.
Instead of making a perfect plan, do the next step.
Put your faith into action. Don’t make ‘being perfect’ your goal, but make it your approach.
This all sounds paradoxical.
Let it be what it is and jump right in.
My words are exploring darkness.
My words are cutting and piercing through – until the truth leaks out.
This is how I enter the light.