I open the package in front of me. With each tug, my pulse races, the paper loosens and then delicately opens beneath my fingertips. Each small glimpse reveals a piece of what is underneath. The excitement inside me grows. It is neither Christmas morning nor my birthday; it’s better. In my hands, I hold a new writing journal.
My hand sweeps over the cover and as I skim my newest canvas, all I feel is anticipation. What are simply blank pages hold so much potential and will soon become a painted array of words. Many see empty white pages; I see a fresh backdrop for my creations and a safe place to express my thoughts and feelings.
As I sit comfortably at my desk, I breathe in the scent of my new journal. Memories flash before my eyes. Each recollection prompts a different emotion. My adrenaline starts pumping and my hand begins to move. The words flow through me like a crisp brook flowing through an autumn countryside. My words don’t have pigment, but they paint a most vivid picture.
No writers’ block today, just a personal dilemma to tackle. How could she do it? We have been friends since pre-school. To forgive or not to forgive, my mind bounces between the two options…
If done without much thought, my heart will yearn in opposition
If not done at all, my conscience will forever regret my decision.
The path of forgiveness, the strong person shall follow,
But the pain she has given me makes the strength in me fail.
To her own mind, an insignificant act
To my sensitivity, she has struck me like an ax cleaving an old oak.
Is forgiveness an act of the imagination? It dares you
To imagine a hope and a possibility that your hurt will not be the final word.
Does she deserve my forgiveness? In fact, is forgiveness even deserved?
Will I disregard my emotions, put aside the damage she has done, only to prove our friendship?
If forgiveness is an attribute of a person, and I choose not to forgive, is it a fault in my character?
Must I let the past go or hold on to it with vigor; I will use my power to forgive rather than hold on
I am the bigger person and I will try unendingly to disregard her indiscretions
I will not forget just yet, but my forgiveness will lead me down the path of morality.
Her destruction -- irreparable; my forgiveness -- constant.
I shut my journal, inhaling a final waft of paper and ink. Writing allows me to express myself, instills confidence in me and helps me act with conviction. It assists me in sorting out emotions and evaluating my choices. I consider myself a moral person, yet I realize that I am human with all the frailties of a human being and reaching the best conclusions are not always easy. As I set my journal aside, I feel a renewed sense of calm.
