Triad

I lost you last night. I’m not sure what is mine to lose anymore,
but I lost you. And it hurt, but not that bad.
It seems your heart has gone from living, vibrant, pumping in my hands
to ash. You’re crumbling and
swirling about with the soft breeze that turns up my
collar. Bones around which our flesh once hung now
pound drums in mourning of all I never could have been.
I hope these are the last,
last bubbles of air escaping as my
hands hold our head under water,
last time I’ll turn in my sleep and turn myself back
over to the suffocating, gasping
last breath of you
and I.

I became a machine of valid
and invalid,
ought
and ought not.
And for naught.
Gears and cogs
gear up to bring down the pendulum
first across my pride, then back into
my soul. Ticking slowly,
stopping not.

Amid this most fruitless wandering I
Find a wasteless way.
Two roads diverged in a wood and I
Sat right down between them.
Choosing neither and hating both.
But furrowed brow and bitten tongue could
Never have made it known
To me that all roads here before lead but to one
Unknown, that all roads here before lead but to
Home.

The pain is in my foot.
My foot is in my shoe.
Therefore, the pain is in my shoe.

Question of the day: What makes God praiseworthy?

I don't have a good answer to this yet. I'm still working on it. I feel like my worldview and faith demand that I have a response to this question. Maybe you could throw in your opinions to help me out? But please do it anonymously so I can play devil's advocate without anything being personal.

I like to bathe in the satisfaction I get from being dissatisfied. It's a warm soak, but the air is always cold against my body when I get out of the tub. It's the tragedy of my life to strive for what is Good only for all the wrong reasons. I keep you at a distance; far enough to function, but close enough to hope that you might see what I become and be bothered by it.

My God, stand back and take a look at the wreck of a man this soul has become, a waste of all he has been given. He holds the inverse of Descartes. "No one shall bring it about that I am something, so long as I think I am nothing".

"Behold! I make all things new." Revelation 21:5

It's salivation. That's what it is. It's desire and shaking and some kind of hurt from God only knows where. I can't claw my way out. I look at these hands and they're useless, I'm useless. Just when I feel like I'm holding on I realize that I've grown too tired to pull myself up. I'm bringing all things down upon myself. I choose this. Eventually, I choose this.

Is what I am worth all this? Can I really attain anything in this world, or even the next? Would it "be better for him if he were never born"? I'm pushing, pulling and fighting and still "the truth" seems empty and THE TRUTH seems far from me. Am I under attack? Or already underground?

What follows doesn't mean anything:

I am a product of my environment. The weather is cooling (at least in the mornings) and so is my temperament. I don't know which is the cause and which is the effect. Suffice it to say things are approaching. So far I've been pretty good about reacting. Not so much with acting. I think I am changing the weather with my thoughts. Where I am changes where I am going. It's pulling at my feet, gravity and all the rest. This building is ten stories tall and I'm eleven. Shatter. A thin film covers my body, my body is stretched out like film. Reeling on and reeling off. Ought and ought not. "Shortcuts: press Ctrl with: Y = Yesterday". Expansion and extension. I think it's different now. Seems more like me, more like who past me thought future me would be. Back when it was "her this" and "she that" it was more like we and less like me. Singing with a whole heart and letting the blood drops define your art. It has become. It is becoming. It is circumference. And area. Volume. In decibels. And cubic centimeters. Expansion and extension. Flexion. Digression. Repeat and repeat. Et Cetera. Et Alia.

I wonder if I've gotten better in the past few months. I think there are a few people who would actually be able to tell me the Truth. Sort of "time capsule" people. Am I somehow more like myself than I once was? I know myself better. I know what I want. I don't know if I am what I want to be. Or if I'm on the track to get there. Or if there can be a track. Do you ever call someone the wrong name? Do you ever really want to call someone the wrong name? What does that say about your relationship with that person? Or what does it say about your relationship with the person who's name you actually used? I cherish old times. The romance of my life was stronger then, everything fit in place. There will come a day when I cherish these times. It will be when I cannot get them back, and after I have lamented this fact. Until then I'll be calm, and pretend to be angry, pretend to be frustrated and grind my teeth. My hair will get long and my teeth will get long and the minutes and seconds I use to measure my life will get long.