There may be something to filling my schedule to the point where I simply don’t have the time to think dark thoughts. My own thoughts, which I cherish so much and hold dear, may not really be worth that much. Nor were they ever worth so much. I am not talking about those rare moments when inspiration seems to chisel its way in past my own constantly running inner mouth. Inspiration from God, where I say something approaching profundity, is always welcome, and never my thoughts. For whatever it’s worth, anything I’ve written that helps others, enriches their minds and souls, makes them feel empowered, peaceful, safe, etc.–it’s probably not my thoughts. Which is not to say that I am only capable of writing endless drivel of pure depravity. I am simply saying that my thoughts are like what you are reading in this paragraph–blah-ass crap that I feel the need to occasionally output. When I write enough of it, it inevitably does loop itself around into becoming the product of the ego–and the darkness creeps in.
In filling my schedule to the point where I don’t have the time to write blah thoughts and think dark thoughts, I end up feeling extremely out of my comfort zone–I am becoming a persona of sorts–a personality, a surface being without depth. But, at the same time, my inner depth is being reworked.