Sometimes it honestly seems like there’s nothing more intimidating than a blank white piece of paper — or, more realistically, the blank white screen depicting the piece of paper humans have traditionally written upon.
Upon that blank page, you’re supposed to spill out your thoughts, your aspirations, your secrets, your mind, your being.
And the paper or screen absorbs those words.
Other minds might happen upon the words, read them and take them in. Maybe they’ll remember the words. Or maybe those words will be fleeting black characters that are briefly processed, but which never fully take root within the perusing minds.
And yet, we still write. Perhaps because we think we have something to say. Quite often, because there’s a persistent need that thumps within one’s inner being and begs to be relayed to the external world. The need grows until, at last, it drives the physical body to put itself to work and interpret the metaphysical by actually transferring those messages onto that blank sheet.
And, honestly, it’s easy to ask, after exposing part of your innermost self to the world, “To what end? What’s the use?”
The answer: Who can really tell?
I think it all hinges upon passion and purpose. If I truly believe in something, then wouldn’t I want to show that to others? Wouldn’t I need to?
So, we continue to write, to speak, to relay, because we need to. Because part of our innate human nature is a desire to communicate with and to be heard by others.
But you know what? Other humans will probably let us down in our endeavor to be heard and understood.
And that’s where I insert the source of what drives me to write on those blank screens.
I write because of my love for Jesus.
More importantly, I write because of His love for me.
His ear is always extended to us. He is always there to talk to, to communicate with. He is always there to listen, even if what I have to say feels measly and insignificant or monstrous and looming. And He doesn’t hear only to forget what I said later. He hears, He knows and He cares. And He extends a hand to hold onto.
That’s why I write.