Confession

I have been lax in my personal journal writing for going on two years now. What used to feel familiar and comforting now seems a daunting chore. As I face a blank page, the smooth, round pen turns angular. I rotate it between my thumb and forefinger hoping to find a place it can rest. My mind starts racing. The clear pool of thought that inspired me to pick up the tools of my trade begins swirling as a gushing whirlpool. There is no calm place to settle.


I long to be honest again, opening my heart and my mind to the light of the blank page before me. There is nothing so condemning, or sanctifying, as confessing one's self to the blank page. The woven fibers soak in the truths and lies disclosed to them, safely stowing the locution for reflection across time.

The blank page of a private journal is guarded by an opaque wall. Only God and the one who confesses gain access through a small keyed gate at the far side. There is no entrance for others. I am disgusted by this, this atmosphere of taciturnity I have created for myself. I have stifled my own voice and left myself numb to the voices of others.

I feel the need to confess to others, to be transparent to those I claim to call sisters and brothers. Is this why I can no longer fill the blank pages of my journals?

“Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”- 1 Corinthians 13: 6-7