Not quite the same. . .

Gone – flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun
From the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart.
~Alfred Tennyson

Tonight I need a journal; a quiet private place that nobody can see. I need an ear where I can whisper secrets,  without worrying that they’ll travel. I need a friend that’s bound in paper where only far-removed future strangers might read what I scratch down.

But my journals sit stacked in my nightstand, full of old sermon notes, forgotten prayers, and silly sad sketches. They’re like a friend who moved away, and with the distance, we lost our intimacy. I can’t quite bring myself to pour my soul into those pages again. It’s just been too long. We’ve grown apart.

Like a shallow new friendship that only serves to remind me of the void left by more meaningful modes of expression, I sit in front of this computer screen. Somehow it lacks the depth and whispery thoughtfulness of the old pages, but it is what I have.

I barely know how to confide right now.

My heart feels drenched, but with saltwater, like a big beautiful beach of teary fullness. I don’t know if you write about this confusion, or if you just sit with it. Some things cannot be written for sharing, but still should be written. Isn’t that so?


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