Logging in here to make this daily writing effort, I see so many stories. From the writers who want me to write about the word of the day, to the people who want to tell me their story, it seems we all have a bone to pick these tunes of song. These words are just like Psalms to me, each and every one.
Writing psalms, I am a misfit and I got the point that this is writing thing is terribly funny. People laugh at me, my writing and the way I dress somedays even. Trying to make a point in these verbal expressions of laughter, I died by the sword in their minds. There is death too in the knowing that I am far too open to that knife’s point. Numbing myself to recover from the point of their jest, I wonder, is there a point to all this? It all seems laughable.
God, writing these paragraphs every morning doesn’t make sense to me. Does it make sense to you? This whole wax on, wax off
bullshit is slowly bleeding me of the precious time that is supposed to be a gift from You. Is this really what you want me to be doing with my time? I question your prompts to continue and quite frankly, I’m angry that you keep asking me to do something that is worth nothing.
I do this because I am worth nothing. This is a waste of your time and in a good way, I suppose, since you asked me to keep writing. Without you, it’s a big cosmic joke without a point anyway. I need you, and I love you just the same as I ever did in this never ending story.
p.s. Savior, could you send someone here who will love me too? Awwmen.