I'm terrified of writing this down because once the idea of it takes on form and is approximated in words then it is open to criticism and scrutiny that it wouldn't get without a definition. But I will write it anyway, knowing this. Fearing this.

A skeptical yet idealistic proclamation of faith in writing:
I do not believe that writing can save the world. But I do have a certain degree of faith or hope that it may save me, which is all I honestly hope to accomplish. What am I worried about saving myself from? From the parts of myself that threaten faith: despair, inactivity, lethargy, unmotivated, dead life. Why I have faith in writing I don't know, and am afraid to ask, despite my professed conviction that all questions are right of themselves and urgently need to be asked.

But if writing can save me, then it can save other individuals. Not everyone, but people who love and believe in it. It is faith in the possibility of redemption, really, that does the saving, whatever the means of redemption might be. And that possibility is there for me only because my faith is so, so tenuous, that I am constantly doubting it and fearing it and falling in and out of it. The minute that faith ceases to become a question it can no longer save, because it is no longer pulling me along, terrifying me and inviting me.

Why do I, like some sort of strange evangelist writer, feel so urgently that I need to be saved? Because I'm so aware of my lack of faith in areas where faith seems almost requisite for life? Because I feel continually unmotivated and disconnected, so that for me salvation becomes synonymous with simply finding something that is worthwhile to me? I'm going to let the questions be now, because I'm afraid the idea might be dying now, or retreating back to where I can't reach it. Writing this may have been one of those stupid 2 a.m. decisions. Oh well. Off you go.