I used to write for an audience, and I still consider — usually — the weight and effect of each word. But more often than not, I write for myself: to calm down, to remember, to clarify elusive thought, to analyze my anger, to dream.
I write an essay during church, using the scripture or song as composition prompt. I scribble notes on a pad while cooking, while reading, when I wake in the middle of the night. (One sheet of yellow paper on the floor beneath my bed holds a single line, describing the work of a medical researcher, pulling away a layer of skin, trying to find the face of God. I don’t know where it came from or when. But I recognize the handwriting as my own.)
Even now, as I type, I look at the clock and realize I’ve been at this for close to an hour.
And I wonder, will anybody read this?
Does it matter?
pulling away a layer of skin, trying to find the face of God
I read it. It matters. I bet God read it, too. It matters. Keep pulling away the layers of skin. There’s something in-between each layer and something underneath it all.
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