Often when I'm feeling the urge to write, it's because I desire to say something important. Or impressive. Or both.
But really, what's better is to say something true.
Truth will be misunderstood and maligned. Its implication will be dismissed and missed by the ignorance of blindness. I know. I do it all the time -- in darkness, I stumble over the twig across my path, because I didn't see danger. Or I see and decide I've got it covered. I can handle this impediment in front of me, I imagine, believing myself impressive, thinking along the lines of Adam: Hey, it's me; of course I can do this. Next thing I know, my legs are tangled and my nose has pounded turf.
But truth won't cause the one who receives it to stumble. Truth can only, by nature, lift up; it will not destroy. Lies destroy; when all's said and done destruction is all a lie can do. Truth knows the annihilation its opponent brings but is not afraid in the slightest. There is nothing, truth understands, that can keep itself from remaking, redeeming, joyfully renewing what came about by the lie. Truth will never flag in zeal; truth always brushes me off and says There, there.
Like air particles -- noisy ones -- the lie surrounds me, and I listen. I'm covered in lie-smog, yet I am not of the lie. I'm not the lie, but I'm not the truth. I live in a process toward the truth. Somehow I know the truth reaches over the topmost bar. It streams past the locked gate, toward me. Not a single fumble matters. No awful word is measured, no crumbs spilled are counted. I am loved, and that is true.