On Writing.

Sometimes, I feel the need to write—not just for myself, but for an audience. An audience of who, I’m not sure.
Maybe you.
Maybe myself.
Maybe just my cat.

Sometimes, I feel the need to write—so I can remember, reflect, record. So I can go back later—after time does its duty transforming moments to memories—and let the words wash over me again, perhaps over coffee: “Mmm… yes,” I nod. “I remember that time. That was a lovely summer/a horrible night.” Or, “no… I somehow have no recollection of that at all.”

Sometimes, I feel the need to write—to let the fervor in my veins pour out onto paper—messily, haphazardly, honestly, and raw.

Other times, I feel the need to write—but the pressure for perfection exceeds the need for existence, stomping life from its letters and quenching potential.

Sometimes, I feel the need to write—to remind myself who God is.

Sometimes, I read what I wrote about God, so I can remember who he once was—to me, ten years ago, during simpler times, before his image was marred: by hurt, by heartbreak, by lack. Sometimes, I note, he seemed simply kinder back then.

But I know that’s not true.

So I write—to remind myself it’s not true.

I write that today I woke up on my couch and made a French press for breakfast; and that the rain came down last night like a strong chorus, punctuated only by my own breaths and the boom of the branch that fell on my roof at 4am (this is a conservative estimate).

I write that there is a canister of Trader Joe’s cookies within reach of my right hand, ready for me to dive into (I already have). I write and wonder—if my hand will ever find someone else’s.

I write to say thanks to God, for this life he’s given me—perfectly imperfect and dancing to his timing, not mine.

I want to tell him how much I’ll always love him, even though dwelling in hard things for too long makes this task seem impossible.

But, I write. Or I try to. Because sometimes I simply don’t know what to say.

So, I write about it—how I don’t know what to say. And I let the unknowns hold a space of their own.

Then, I say a small prayer that God would always hold us. Us, with flaming hearts and untold stories.

We are the writers.

3 thoughts on “On Writing.

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