My depression seems to have kidnapped my passion.
Right now it feels impossible to dream big or plan ahead. Most of what used to excite me isn't stirring me or making my heart leap anymore. At least not like they used to.
But one passion has remained. It's flickering like a candle near an open window, but it's still there.
I love to write.
Writing helps me process my own thoughts. It's therapeutic. Cathartic. My scribbled notes in my Moleskine, unpolished and unkempt, tell me my heart's still beating. My Gritty thoughts sent out through the cyberwaves remind me I still have something from Him to offer.
Despite the fog that envelops me, I still love to write. And the significance of that isn't lost on me.
Pay attention to dreams that don't die.
I'm trying to pay attention. And keep writing. Even when it's all I'm able to do in a day.
So while I wait for the ransom to be paid on my other passions, I'll guard what He gave me and use it for His glory.
And I'll trust that---somehow---He'll use it for my healing.