I have spent months in front of blank pages, searching my heart for overflow that will spill out onto the table in the shapes of letters that I can rearrange into words that will express what I mean. But I don’t know if I mean anything. At the heart of it all, I have been fighting to play the role of God, and at the end of it all, I hope God can still use my good intentions. I have idolized my right hand that holds the pen tight like I have or hold any sort of power in and of myself. Like it’s my words that change lives without, or aside from, the Spirit behind them. I’ve been sitting here for months with nothing to say, acting like I can force myself to pour out art I didn’t paint, and call it my own. So my Lord, I don’t know what’s in store from this day forward, but I’m working on casting my right hand into the lake of fire, so teach me how to write out of something more than my fear. Let’s be clear, I think so much that I can’t think, and clarity is barely a recognizable word to me. If am album comes, it will be an act of God, like the miracle it is that I’m breathing, or thinking myself into the same ground I buried creativity in at the dawn of “success” before I forgot where the hole was. It’s amazing to me what pride can come from something that I had nothing to do with. So I’ll be writing with the hope that it’s not me who speaks because, trust me, my words don’t amount to much of anything as lifeless, two dimensional shapes on pages that I hate for having minds of their own. It must be beautiful, for a creator to speak a word into being, and have it transfer exactly the was he foresaw it. A true artist.