And some day, maybe today, someone will read your words and they will not click the like button, and they will not leave a comment. They will not follow you or praise you or reach out to you.
And you will not ever know that they were here.
But they will have been changed by you. They will have been deeply caressed and loved through your words, and they will nestle into them, collapse into them, fold into them, keep them tucked inside the beating of their fragile heart all day, all night.
They will not say a word or leave a mark, for in the reading of your words they will be left temporarily unable to find their own.
Some words are born so that others may feel safe to die.
And all of this you will not know, for there will be no outward sign of the crossing of your hairline paths.
But your soul bears eternal fruit by the nourishment of this brief, secret encounter, for it knows of your having touched this phantom figure in the shadows. Your soul can see what you cannot; it knows what you cannot. It has always known.
This is the knowing you sense in the pressing whisper of your inspiration, calling you to begin, again and again and again.
Asking you to write for the invisible ones, that they may see.
These are the wings of things we seek to create for and don’t know why. There is a reason, though it is cloaked and shrouded in mystery and legend.
There are souls who come just to take a peek. Let them come, let them, let them, let them.
And on days when you feel you have nothing to be grateful for, that you are failing in faith and footing and love, you may be grateful for the ones who came to pass without a trace.
And remember again the greatness and strangeness, the vastness and beauty, the certainty of God.