The story is waiting, but it won’t wait forever.
I don’t have the first line yet. When that pops into my head (or possibly sooner if I get impatient) I will commence writing it.
The same way I started writing this article when the first sentence rolled across my inner eyes like some cosmic ticker tape.
Creativity has been studied throughout recorded history. I’m not interested in studying it, only experiencing it. And making my experience manifest through the written word.
The compulsion to be aware of world happenings, both the obvious and those unreported by the mainstream, fades with every passing day. I feel I have absorbed enough information (both conventional and alternative varieties) to let go of delving deeply into the narratives. I keep my finger on the pulse of events, but with a light touch.
I suspect that the endless barrage of alarming stories in mainstream news is intended to beat us down with despair and fear. To close us off from our hearts, our source of love for self and others, our deep connection with Source / God / All That Is.
Picking up paintbrush or guitar or pen, on the other hand, can instantly flip the light switch and illuminate our Higher Selves’ radiant alignment with Source.
Government-funded education in the US stopped supporting “unnecessary“ classes like art, music, and other creative pastimes decades ago. And no wonder, since heart-centeredness appears to be mightily discouraged by the globalist agenda.
I feel fortunate that I benefited from a public school education replete with music and art. I can’t imagine my life without them.
Or without the dominant art form that has chosen me, storytelling.
I take up my pen and await the story.
My tale has nothing to do with contemporary events and supposed realities. It is much higher and deeper and wider and more elegant than can be imagined by those artificially intelligent fact-checking drones who seed the mainstream storylines of the world.
Au contraire. My tale has everything to do with the truth of the heart.