the fear of writing

I like to write with words of all sorts of things, seen, communicated, and interpreted by words. But in the essence, in this confusing monologue, what I am really trying to communicate (with words) is something that I have perceived but have not yet achieved the words for it. And in this I struggle. As illiterate as I am, I am still capable to acknowledge wonder- and thus be called to a responsibility to lay witness to it. As much lay I am to the bare of myself, I have the capacity to acknowledge that at least something is greater than myself, more beautiful, or more powerful. Therefore, let me re-introduce myself. I am mere nothing, but the eyes at which I have seen the things I have seen. And know I speak. And what I speak of is what caught my eye. I hesitate, I've been living and thinking in a world with seemingly no meaning- the blunder of daily grueling life. I am wealthy healthy and well. But in a deep sleep. Lulled away by a faithful revival, the new day with plenty time afore to anticipate. I have space from the intensity of others. I have a hole to hide in. There is always a brake pedal for me, and I wonder if it is better to just throw it out. Because I have yet to find the speed... at which I can see that that is all I am and that I can go no further.