Writing

Still and again the question so often on my mind is whether and when I will find something I can do that others actually want me to do. When will my gifts align with the demands and desires of the times? Will I ever understand the purpose for me? Is it so simple to do what I do with the hours of each day without the weight of the why making heavy the day?

If I write something each day, will the product  be worth the price I pay in lost sleep and frustration? Will I get better or worse if I force words to the page? Does the act of writing improve the art of writing?

I read the words of those long dead whose pens did carve the page, and I wonder what thoughts of mine will last beyond my breath if I don't share them while I breathe. All I can do is write what comes to me and wait to see what comes of it.