I wish I could write like Barbara Kingsolver

I've never been to Africa but when I was reading The Poisonwood Bible, I felt that I could see Africa. When I read the words they painted a very vivid picture in my mind as if somewhere in the grey matter there was a canvas and each word added a color to it. I almost believed that if I closed my eyes I could smell the scents and feel the textures of the village in which the characters lived.

My cousin Vicki once told me I was "muy sensual". She's Spanish and didn't mean I was sensual but that I experienced life through my senses. I suppose in some ways, that does make me sensual. I love to feel the softness of skin against my cheek or it's warmth against my palm. I love to bury my nose in my lover's neck and breathe her in. If I close my eyes I can feel her coursing through my veins. And I love to experience the kalaidoscope of colors exploding in my mind like fireworks when making love.

What I'd like to be able to do is find expression for all the feelings and scents and colors and textures of life that careen through my mind every second of the day. I feel tongue tied when trying to speak them. I feel illiterate when trying to write about them. While I dabble in painting or drawing my strokes with the brush or charcoal fail me.
I feel mute and withdrawn and incapable of sharing all of me with others because what I manage to communicate is such a small fraction of what's within.

My dreams are big and my disappointments bigger. And I wonder what my purpose is because I really don't seem to know. Do I have a purpose here? Every time I think I'm coming to understand it something happens to cause doubt. At times I feel as if I'm not even a part of myself but rather that I exist outside of myself watching as I go through each day. Invisible in so many ways.