I remember Her. Her is not a flesh and blood; not a mind or a soul. Her exists within me. When we have Her sad songs have a strange effect on us. We mourn how those songs once made us feel, how we know we will feel again one day when Her disappears. Yet we rejoice always that we have Her now. Even as our eyes narrow and hearts flood with the sorrow we remember and the sorrow we foresee, we are numb to it now. Her is fleeting. I remember Her. I just wish I didn't.

Let it not be that I get what I deserve, even if that is what I want. I can’t talk to you; you are inescapable. It is of no use; there is not an end. Bothering all the time with where am I, how are you, what will be, and most importantly, what has been.

What can’t ever be? Can it be there is never a we, always, only, a me? And what is me? A collection, vast and above time, of all we’s. The we that cannot be is the only we that matters to me. Blasphemy.

Again, ignore. Brush it aside as one and once and for all. I just want to give it all away. I don’t want what you taught me, I don’t want to remember anything anymore. I just want it gone. I want one. And you took that from me. I took that from we.

God, if I become anything, let it be that I become something who trusts all things, instead of something who reviles all things. Let it be that I become all things; it is my separation from all things that takes everything from me. It’s not that I hate what I am, it’s that I hate what I’m not.

This all starts outside the window and collapses toward my widow. For there may be some woman who has already lost her husband to all this. She’ll never know, but does that prevent a tragedy? It doesn’t seem so.


In some future (perhaps the one that begins at the end of this sentence), I will be something worth confiding in.

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?