Peddling my soul

So I woke up this morning wondering what exactly I had left to sell to help me make ends meet. Being a writer is hard work, there are so many of us out there and so many people want us to write for free, for notoriety, for “experience”. So I thought about the contents of my home and my jewelry box and thought what can I sell to get through another few weeks…

The truth of it…not much. I stripped down to a simple existence a long time ago. I have bought and sold the contents of my life many, many times over the course of this journey. Now all I am left with are the contents of my soul.

So I peddle it here.

My soul sits here on virtual paper for those to take what they need, to meet me at solidarity, to inspire me to continue peddling the contents of what makes me …me.

I have come to understand that I will no longer settle for an ordinary life and even if it means swallowing my pride and giving up yet another home, another vehicle and what’s left of my worldly possessions that it is nothing I haven’t faced before and despite my body’s best efforts to fail me and despite my minds best efforts to thwart me, my heart’s will to love and survive is stronger still than the sum of my disappointments.

The heart of it is…I had true happiness, it was brief and fleeting, but I had it. I felt my soul’s connection and it was as glorious as is written about. And now I know I will never settle for less than that happiness…I may never have it again, but I will not be content painting roses on thorns.

The life of a writer is an odd one. We peddle our hopes, dreams, lives, loves, heartaches, imagination, creations and souls. It’s only tangible once it hits paper. There is no product that we can say is “useful” or that you “must have” to make life easier. We aren’t the next great mop or car part or technologic advancement. We are the sum of our mind’s contents. Paid for thought and we are our worst critics. I’d rather have my content ripped to shreds by even the most novice critic than by my own hands.

I am positive other writers feel the same. And even when our content measures up and we have one voice’s affirmation that what we have written  is relevant, we live in self doubt because we are selling our souls for you. And the soul is the truest measure of the man (or woman).

I imagine my mind as a bustling marketplace filled with alleyways of brightly colored signs beckoning your attention and I am the shop keep calling you over to sample my wares. Only my corridors are packed with worn out places, tears in glasses, tattered tapestry and dizzying descriptions of a life that even I can’t believe I have lived.

And I want you to buy it all.


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