I couldn’t figure it out. Was I writing for me? For others? For God? What did the latter even mean?
I write because it brings me clarity, to my own mind and soul. To write things, to throw my thoughts into the vast world, clinging to the simple joy of remembering my smallness and having the ability to share it with others. Thinking, maybe our smallnesses together could become something more medium.
So was it for others? Could writing still be my secret hiding spot, my cave of retreat, if I was extending these words and offering them to the world? Was I changing the way I would speak or share or think or feel, to make the hearer more glad or more refreshed or more hopeful?
And if yes, could I even still say that it was my writing, my voice, when it was for someone else?
Anyway, all this to say: Bear with me, as I give this blog a makeover and grope for words to articulate as my own.