I'm as empty as these pages start out before I fill them, but I've not filled one up in (I've not filled one up in)... And I've heard it said that a blank page is a blank page for a new beginning, so may the choices that we make, well...
Christ, if we're being frank, then at times I feel like you've got writer's block. It's a tempting thought 'cause you know I get that a lot, and I keep wondering whether or not it makes you more relatable. If you've made yourself available to sympathize with my temptations, then there's got to be a correlation between the album I can't complete, the way my wife pushes me to be a man that I can't see, and the overwhelming fear of art that's a product of my apathy. (And that that's all that that'll ever be.)
Or worse yet, the sum total of critique at the expense of creativity.
Dear dust, my soul clings to a lot of idols you construct, and I wish that I could just let my God be God, and his gifts be gifts. Yeah, let my savior be my savior and let my money be what it is. (But I've got a wife to justify the worry for the sake of my future kids, and the life that I'll feel like I'll have failed my son for, like my father did.)
But no matter how hard it gets in every single day I wake within this narrative I live in, there's just no security for me unless it's a story that you've written. It will always be a mystery to me that before I was it was finished, it'll always be a mystery to see the mirror reflect your image.
O! you're the only hope I have! All of my stories leave me wanting, and all of the ghosts I've conjured up in the past threaten to come back to haunt me and act like a foundation. If you make yourself available to sympathize with my temptations, then there's got to be a correlation between the artist and his drawing, the perfecter shading in the final scene that I can't see, and the ink that is the very fabric of his nature flowing in me.
(And that said author wrote himself into the story.)
So may that ink spill out onto these pages and bring you glory.
Dear friends, I love you with words no poet could ever pen. I love you with a heart that weighs as heavy as the ocean, and I will love you with a depth that reaches to its floor, but when (it's floor opens up to swallow me whole, o! and) I am no more, the only word that will live on will be that which was never born!
"I sought the Lord, and afterward I knew, he moved my soul to seek him, seeking me; it was not I that found, O Savior true, no, I was found of thee! Thou didst reach forth thy hand and mine enfold; I walked and sank not on the storm-vexed sea, 'twas not so much that I on thee took hold, as thou, dear Lord, on me. I find, I walk, I love, but, O the whole of love is but my answer, Lord, to thee; for thou wert long beforehand with my soul, always thou lovedst me!"
Dear friends, dear saints! Your story is secure. We all are more free together tethered to our maker than we ever were before. May our adoption be secure! The only word that will live on will be that which was never born.
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