Perhaps from improper investment of mental faculties or a change in prioritization of the brain space I actively use, more and more, in recent times, it seems that my command of the language is faltering, and I’ve met an impasse that I haven’t encountered in all my years of writing progress. For someone with a paranoia as severe as mine about my writing ability, the asphyxiation that occurs with the inability to pour forth language has me grasping about blindly, desperately trying to properly change course and regain possession of my words – and myself. Without words, I’m firmly convinced that I lack any redemptive feature to my person, as my proclivity for procuring language from imaginative, creative space will be confined to the average thesaurus-leaning writer. I don’t intend to sound arrogant, but mad? Perhaps. The insanity that calmly usurps the blood in my artistic veins is beginning to produce inimical effects upon my competence in thinking. Terror begins to beckon as I walk in a daze, unable to purvey the combinations of vowels and syllables necessary to quicken my spirit. Guilt begins to sink in as I realize that this may very well be the penance I pay for neglecting the continued study of quality literature. My aversion to reading literary texts, either for leisure or for academia, is beginning to bear fruit of the most discouraging variety. All these words that I used to hold in the palm of my hand are now slipping between the cracks of my fingers, cascading down around my ankles until I litter the area around me with knowledge lost.
However, as I think more and more about my unhappy situation, I begin to discover the more dangerous adversary at work: pride. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself and forgot that it was God who first gave me the gift I cherished and, to some extent, abused for my own personal gain. I had committed to writing for God’s glory at the outset of discovering that He had answered a desperate plea for writing to come unto me, but as of late, I have been wayward in my intentions. The pride that I felt, unknown to even my conscious self, was born of a free gift that God had blessed me with, and I have manipulated myself into thinking that it was my own aptitude that had borne me thus far. But I have been wrong in thinking that. It has always been God, and God alone, who has given me the words with which I grace the pages before me. If I lose my voice in speaking for Him, I may as well be mute and merely sigh wistfully of times past, when my own pride of life brought me temporary happiness and satisfaction. The joy I found in containing praises of Him within the circumscription of my – His, rather – propensity for utilizing descriptive tendencies slowly drifted away, as a dying leaf animated by the slightest of winds, falling onto the pavement. As a reminder to myself, I write for His glory and that this platform He has given me might bring souls to Him; all other goals are secondary compared to this sole destination. May I not say this in the sorrow of my waning talent, but in the true and honest hope of bringing more talents to my Master.