The Still Small Voice
I still don't know what this is. But I'm writing because I have words that bubble up inside like Tetris pieces. They build up if I don't direct them to a place to fit together. I had intended to make this about about the Plagues that have infested this summer. I intended to complain about how I found bedbugs in my mattress and everything I own no longer feels like my own, but instead the property of this infestation. One which has meandered even into my thoughts, a constant very breathing presence. I have nightmares. I'm not sleeping. I can feel things that aren't there. I'm still waking up every few hours and have a hard time falling asleep. Moments of apathy are the waxing moon of something inside me. It might be triggered by some past heartache, some fear of the impending future, anxiety over something I've said. But I'm going not going to talk about that either. The PCUSA didn't mean much to me growing up. I didn't know what a presbyter