That crazy, mixed-up, confused sense of disatisfaction. It comes uninvited, slicing through my self-esteem like a knife through butter. Trying to describe it is like chasing the wind. I hate it, but when it’s there, I do the best writing I’ve ever done

It’s always been here, we circle each other, eyeing ourselves warily, not letting our guard down. It’s part of me, and without it I’m not whole, yet I do not miss it, I welcome its absence whilst acknowledging its presence

If the post doesn’t make sense, neither does this strange yearning that creeps in. The only way to placate it is either writing or sitting in His presence. For I know that is where it comes from, where it is rooted. There are times I just want to be there for ever, I know I can’t stay on the mountain top, yet the valley holds no sway over me

Remind me who I am, Lord. Bid me follow you, to the desert, to the mountain, the quiet place where I reclaim my identity. For this sense is really a search, a longing to know myself and my place, but my place isn’t in this world. It’s with you