Newly Written, Purposefully Composed

With words seldomly able to express the whirlwind of emerging thoughts and feelings, I find myself oscillating once again of whether to try to write again or not to write. I hate the stereotypical ideal of insightful, prayerful, writing-in-a-journal or blog Christian girl. I ask myself again, Why is that bad Beth? I hate that that bothers me, and that I constructed a label of identity that I once saw befitting, and now view it as another suave form of conformity. I have to see this juxtaposition of messiness and madness at my core. And these are not bad, despite what we are told. This takes effort that would either propel me on a whim of curiousity that furthers my appetite of learning, or lodge me under a brick of condemnation suited only for those of inferiority. I unconsciously adhere to the latter. So I candidly rebel from writing--for a purpose none other than to keep myself from envisioning myself as this sacred being or one not good enough, who is only falsely perceived by my mind. Letting the river of thoughts create its own route of intention does something to me. This canvas becomes its own designer. I could control it and what I intend to be and how I get there. But how could I? It'd be of superficial production. So what the heck, I give in. This pool, or rather this well, that resides within wades forth a superfluous amount of water, yet without attempting some form of escape, my interior is drowned. For some time, I hope this writing will be my escape. I guess I will know if I have no more posts. I don't want to pretend like I am some thought-conceiving connoisseur, because I am not. But I am human. And to be human is the most perplexing thing besides GOD. So may the madness be conveyed! And if anything, may this madness produce goodness and resonate life that has so unknowingly been dismissed.