Lament of a Writer

A thousand souls are trapped inside my head yearning to break free; to be seen and heard by those who want to read their stories. Like the woman who sits alone by the pool, reading her life away and hoping that someday things will change. And the woman who sings soulful tunes that bring tears to the audience's eyes, and she seems happy, but the moment she leaves she is overwhelmed with despair knowing that she will be returning home to an empty apartment and a cold bed.

Then there's the frightened child who endures the abuse of the Monster. Who is this monster, and what does he do to the child? What will happen to the child? How will he grow into the person he is meant to become? And the bereft young man mourning the loss of his family. He is chosen by God for a purpose, but what will he do then? And the weary traveler dying of thirst who can find no water even though it lies just out of reach. And the elderly woman who tries to flee from a ghost of the past. Their stories are fragments. Nothing more.

All of them are scratching at the inside of my skull in an attempt to escape. Even though they are there together, they exist alone. They cannot see each other because they each have their own story. But what IS their story? It is not the story of a power-hungry scientist, an archaeologist seeking answers in the soil, or a paranormal investigator trying to help a lost soul find redemption. What, then? Father, show me the stories that you wish for me to tell! Show me, so I can finally set them free!