It would be easy for the untrained observer to assume that my lack of writing is due to a dry-streak. A lack of words for few topics that rarely invade my mind.
That would be far from the truth.
Words flood my mind. Sometimes at apace that drives me to the brink of insanity and I escape in reading or music or pray for sleep. Topics tumble forth like an avalanche only to disappear in a dark void of forgetfulness. When I am able to wrap my mind around a topic, the passion can consume and I become verbose and inarticulate.
It is therefore easier to not pick a pencil. To not set my fingers to the keyboard. To wrestle with the words and thoughts and emotions seems hardly worth the effort in a worlds saturated with commentary and stories. A cynical that has become so accustomed to not accepting responsibility for their own words that they will rip to shreds any writer or commentator whose views do not agree with theirs. Why expose your heart to such abuse?
Yet, it is the writers who have made the difference in the world. Bonhoeffer and his letters. Hamilton and his essays. Shakespeare and his plays. Bevere and her truth. Huxley and his stories. Wright and his hope. Austen and her dreams. Bronte and her quest.
The list is endless.
Never would I consider myself an equal with these writers. They are to be admired for one thing more than anything – more than their words and turn of phrase.
Disregarding the critique of men, they were willing to wrestle with emotions and words until a coherent thought found it’s way on to the page.
That is why they are heroes.
Complicated Hope 
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