When you write something that breaks you

It's the third week of my first Lent, and I'm feeling it. Oh, am I feeling it. This is a raw season, and I am going to come out of it a very different person than when I went in. It's a scary feeling, at once sobering and intoxicating, feeling myself dissolve in the chrysalis of time and waiting to see what will emerge when the stone is rolled away in three Sundays.

I've lost a bit of weight. More than that, I've been having moments. One after the next. Several of them back-to-back. And they're starting to get scary.

Take the one that happened last night, when I wrote this:

Neil's a softie. I'm a Christian here, and I *do* have problems with what you do in church. Because by the time somebody has to tell you to "keep it in church," your theology's gone very, VERY bad.

There were two likes, and one comment which I replied to, and that was that. Except that it wasn't.

I dashed that blurb out in two minutes. The gestalt of that link - the two likes (Leila's came later), the two comments - was over and done in fifteen minutes or less. And yet the longer I sit, the more time passes since I posted it yesterday afternoon, the bigger it looms. The harder it is to look anywhere without seeing it, without feeling like I'm looking away from it.

It's incomplete.I should've said more, or Miranda should've said more. There is something more that needs to be said, and it's too late to say it there. What I blurbed out is becoming profound, Bottomlessly deep, and I'm calling out from it, listening to it echo as it never quite reaches the top. I feel as if I were a child who'd blurted out some deep and terrible truth, and am still sorting out the implications of what I've just said.

And that blurb, which I hadn't realized I thought or felt until I wrote it, is staring at me.
Haunting me.
Taunting me.

Like a challenge I'm afraid to accept.