Okay, maybe 23 isn't that old, but it sure isn't 16. That was when I first started writing--when I was 16, I mean. And for some reason, that feels like the beginning of all this. Not just my writing, but my life. Anything before that feels kinda...frivolous.
You know, the normal childishness, the hopes and dreams I once had; they feel kind of trivial now. Maybe because they were childish. Maybe because I know what I want to do now. And maybe because I know my reason to live.
And as I sit outside on my porch and stare up at the late winter stars and the full moon (thank You, God) with the early spring wind teasing my hair, I'm reminded of how far I've come. Of how far I've been brought. And I'm not quite sure if the tears that cause the dragon-in-the-moon to blur is from the unexpected brightness, or nostalgia.
For a long time, I felt like I didn't belong anywhere, like I...couldn't find that special niche meant just for me. And as I grew older, it didn't feel like it was getting any easier. It wasn't until I started my freshman year of college that I began to feel the inklings of what may be my reason.
Writing.
And even though the road hasn't been easy and some choices weren't so black and white, I feel as though I was never alone. My family and friends were always with me, cheering me on. My King led me every step of the way.
So, now, at 23, I feel as though I can honestly say that I know why I'm here. Yes, sometimes, I may waver, and even stumble; but the knowledge that I have my purpose, gives me the strength to go on.
"If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." ~C.S. Lewis
