One page. In week one, you write a letter to yourself — the weight you're carrying, the room you're shutting, what you actually want. Then you seal it, and you don't open it until the final night. Six weeks later you read it back and see what the weight did.
This site keeps no account, no login, no copy of a single word you write. That isn't a missing feature — it's the whole point. We don't keep your words. Neither does God keep score. You aren't a row in a database; you're the temple now. The glory was never stored — it dwells. So you make the room, and you carry the letter. Paper you can hold, fold, and seal is the right home for words this honest.
Written to myself, in week one. Not to be opened until the last night.
The weight I'm carrying into these six weeks —
The one room I've kept shut — a habit, a relationship, a grief — and what it costs me —
What I actually want is You, not just what You give. Here's where that's hard to mean —
If You feel far by week three, remind me of this —
The one rhythm I hope I'll still be keeping when this is over —
Fold in three · mark the outside "do not open until ____" · tuck it where you'll see it.
Start it in week one. Open it in week seven. It's yours — we never see it.