Saturday, October 2, 2021

The treasure I collect is tin, what I fear holds no power, what I desire is false, I worship hollow idols.

Plant my feet here on the ground and let me be yielded to you, dear friend. O tragedy, my eyes are so clouded.

Mulish, I only stir when it suits me. Like a vole, I distract myself over and over, never going in a line.

Enter my will, Lord, and soothe my fevered thinking. Let me become a simple walker along the wide path you have laid.

Uncloud my view, Lord.

(Letter #2,457)