The birds. Its always the first thing I hear in the morning; chirping, songs in the midst of the early morning hours when darkness still reigns. Its the most beautiful thing to me, hearing them, their sweet sounds. I always envision what its like to be a bird, to fly, to soar amidst the tree's and the sky. Irregardless of the fact I'm somewhat afraid to fly, I'd still do so, given the chance. I have to thank the Lord for allowing me to hear them, really, cause I can't imagine something else so lovely to arrive to in those lonely hours.
I've been writing for nearly five hours straight, and my hands are incredibly sore, cramped. I've always heard that, when something is truly your passion, you forget the pains and costs of chasing after such things. But I don't really believe that. I think at times, your passion becomes your pain, because although it drives you, it also holds you down. Crushes you if you don't succeed. A double edged sword, I guess you might say.
I've been writing on stories for over ten years now, at least the serious versions. Journal writing since I was 16 years old, as well. Sharing your thoughts is harder than I could have imagined, allowing someone in to see you from the inside out, but I guess if you're comfortable enough with yourself-eventually that discomfort gets replaced with something else. Security, certainty.
Its going on 5 a.m., and all I can do is think about what it would be like, to be a bird.