by Zach Kincaid

It's not grace, but it's like it - the gap that occurs between intentions and needed rest or worship and debauchery or hatred and love. I've been in the gap of "hiatus" for about 12 months. The gap is no gaping wound or something beyond commonplace busyness, but time builds up a void like hornets on a summer porch. By the time you get back at something, the days are weeks and months.

I think it's on the account of busyness that I wage the battle for "free time" and no one - least of all me - will wager that it will not seep through the crack of the door or simply beat the door down. It wants to keep my hands from idleness and I appreciate it's proverbial role, but I think the devil and his angels orchestrate the speediness of life.

See, my hiatus is bastardized because the gap was full of activity; it wasn't a needed rest from daily chores. My hiatus from writing and organizing myself is a result of all the minutia of “other things” that chase significant time away, off a cliff like Jesus and those pigs. The roar of activity has no tamer at the moment, but tonight I thought I'd get back to it and start again. Hiatuses, as we all know, must end at some point or whatever you've let up will die.

These writings will never be part of the crazy frenzy of Internet norms, but occasionally, the space between the noise, a different sort of listening might be appreciated. I hope so. I hope someone hears what I hear.