My son, My son, what have ye done?

[1]

I don’t expect anybody to read this. Part of me prays that it is not read; yet it must be written. Just as the dying man cannot suppress his groans even though he does not wish to show it, so I will write. I am sure that some I know will stumble across this, most likely due to the algorithms by which this site selects what appears in their feeds, this fills me with equal parts fear and excitement. I cannot wait for this poorly written, needlessly vague and personal blog to be read and the ensuing mockery.

This will not be about preaching or teaching. It will simply be about the thing that I seem just about qualified to talk about: myself. It is true that those who have not met me will know nothing of me and it is almost truer that that those who have met me know even less. In fact I seem to know the least. For it seems I have been purposefully enigmatic when approaching people most definitely out of fear. Fear of telling too much leading to what I would consider vulnerabilities. It is not until now that I see vulnerability is one of the purest forms of living. To show weakness takes an immense strength which I have yet to muster, perhaps this is the first step. I cannot promise clarity (the irony) but hidden deep within the words will lie my truths.

I cannot pinpoint the exact reason why I am writing this, it is more akin to the ocean where the smallest movement at the bottom influences monstrous movement at the top; one cannot see the cause, only the effect.

I also cannot guarantee consistency, these require a calling rather than an obligation.

“Spirit of my silence I can hear you, but I’m afraid to be near you
And I don’t know where to begin
And I don’t know where to begin”
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