Remnant Thoughts

For all the thoughts too useless to mold into something worthwhile:

~ ~ ~

The stench of a thousand putrid bodies and their excrement fills the dungeon, but she’s the only one laying in it. Helpless, she struggles against the weight of new metal chains. They were crafted specifically for her, the jailor had said. And she had the dubious honor of being the first to wear them .

The metal encased her like a cocoon, leaving only her face free and able to communicate. Every breath meant a desperate heave against their tightness—an action leaving her only able to make sharp, halting intakes. For hours, she sits in her humiliation, bearing the brunt of her existence and struggling to make it another second in the darkness and the dank.

As she lays there, thoughts of another universe arises, and she returns to the image of a man in the daytime, a freedom outside of this world. His curly black hair crashes to his shoulders as he tips his face to the sky, as if to catch a raindrop on his forehead and let it drip down the bridge of his nose to his lips.

Yet there is no rain.

And she wonders if there ever was a man.

The images return in moments to her then, a Christmas party she crashed by accident and was welcomed with joy. A mere oversight her name had been excluded from the invitation. Again, dark hair by the tree, and she photo-shopped herself into the scene. How she might have interacted. How she might have kissed him had she had the chance.

She sees another man, blonde, standing over her and telling her that she was in chains, that she could never be free from them. Her defiant rebuttal had fallen on deaf ears. Her, “I HAVE BEEN FREED! I stand in the light!” a proclamation leading itself to nothing.

And here she was. In the chains. In the dark.

Scoffing bitterly, she closes her eyes and tries not to think of memories. But there’s only so much she can ponder without having been taught the finer intricacies of knowledge. She has nothing from which to reason, no foundational principles for her pursuit of philosophy. Her mind produces nothing of note, and she wonders if this is how she will die—traceless.  

~ ~ ~

So often, I leave thoughts untouched. I let them roam freely before they circle back to the universe I plucked them from.

“I don’t think you understand,” the journalist says. “I’m in need of a story, and I need you to give me one.”

“You don’t need me,” she says. “I’ve been a thousand different people and seen a thousand different places, but any story I have is not initially mine but that of the people around me.”

The world is a dark place. 

Thank you, we know. 

~ ~ ~

Somebody tell me if it is possible to find a picture of a man with a mustache and not be afraid of the outcome.

~ ~ ~

I have the carcicature, I just need the individual.

Who are they?

What is their name?

Where might I find them? How might this idea take off? I just need a plot.

~ ~ ~

I’m searching for perfection to describe you, but how can the imperfect human I am describe a perfect Lord?

~ ~ ~

The world is driving me to my knees, and I end up in a lost situation or universe, lying on the bathroom or kitchen floor, staring up at the ceiling as the water streams around me, trying vainly to capture this feeling of writing for the sake of writing, of typing gibberish with fingers that are so fast and flying across the keyboard across traditional patterned routes, and watching as the fan swirls above my head and the epilepsy sets in, and I’m tired of the world around me and everything that it entails. And I’m so longing to be free from this universe, to find myself in the middle of another universe, one where I can live a life unlike any I’ve ever known. And Father? Where are you in his life? Will you meet him in his suffering? Will you direct him in his love? Father, will you teach him? Show him? That you’re there, even as you’re showing me. SOMEHOW SOME WAY LORD

Will you show me your presence in the darkness, show me your light in the life I’m living?

 ~ ~ ~

Teach me to endure in the darkness. `

~ ~ ~

Stones of Home

I have sailed my ship to Tarshish
And been spit upon the stones of home
Undone in the belly of a fish
I cough up spittle, wading through foam.

I have built my altar

Buzzards circle above the girl who lays prone on rocky ground. She’s found the end of the north road but has chosen not to walk to its end. Instead, she finds a patch of rock not crawling with bugs and sinks forward, intentionally to the cement.

Here she stares at the sky, understanding that in the midst of her darkness, she can not truly consider herself depressed. She has Jesus. She has joy. Yet following Jesus leads to suffering, and suffering so often leads to depression.

Is this depression? She wonders.

Of course it is, she laughs at herself. I’m laying in the middle of an abandoned road at noon, fully splayed across it. People who aren’t depressed don’t do that. 

~ ~ ~

We’re alive. We’re alive. How great it is to be alive.

We are alive. We’re breathing. We’re still breathing.

I need your love like I need water. I need your love.

I

Need

Your

Love.

I need

Your

Love.

Father,

I need you.

I need your love. And Father, let me walk hip in hip beside you, commune with you even if I don’t hear your voice directly. Even though my mind is confused and broken, let it be redeemed and restored. Show me what you are living and working in. Let me see the rest of the universe.

~ ~ ~

The conspiratorial glance, the lowering of the voice, a soft proffering of an Amen to a crowded room. A “God be with you,” waiting for more of a response than a thin, tight-lipped smile, an attempt at maintaining the phosphorescent existence between the world as we know it and the world we’d like it to become.

“Are you religious?” It’s a broad question, my favorite way to test the waters, to know if I can fully be myself around someone or if I must watch my step, careful not to break what’s already fragile. Sometimes a shrug, sometimes a smile, sometimes,

“yeah yeah, I’m a Christian.”

It’s the new fish in the sand, the secret sign of a conspiratorial faith in a world where spiritual engagement is unlikely if not discouraged.

He lowers his voice and his body language tightens as he glances over us, still unrelenting in his proclamation of faith. “Especially when you give your life over to God. God is good, all the time,” he murmurs, waiting, waiting…

“And all the time, God is good.” He exhales as I look down, embarrassed by the practiced nonchalance of those around me. 

~ ~ ~

Death to the privileged life I grip in hands poised to kill. With every overindulgence, I steal food from the mouths of the starved, loosening the reigns of Cerberus. Someday, what grasp I have on his leash will slip from my fingertips, and the hound will roam free. Their death becomes my choice, my burden to bear, but I acknowledge nothing heavier than these wretched hands, dipping luscious strawberries into chocolate-gold.

It costs $46,000 a year to keep my heart beating. Now add another $24,000 a year for food, clothing, rent, transportation and other “necessities.” How much is a human life worth? Mine’s at least $70,000 a year, bare minimum. In Africa, the average annual salary is about $9,096, often supporting more than one person.

For that much money, Tarrant Area Food Bank can provide 350,000 meals to people in need. For context, TAFB could give a meal to 63.3% of the homeless population in America for the cost it takes to keep me alive each year.

Now tell me I’m not part of the problem.

Fire tipped its hand to me in mid-October, a victory after drought and anticipation, a long-anticipated conquest rendered meaningless by dawning winter light. Yet in the moments between the Texas summer and winter, the red and orange of a stagnant flame seeps through, staining leaves with its urgency and need. For a week perhaps, it will be seen and heard and felt. For a week, it will make its voice known, before it too drifts away with the summer, a remnant crushed underfoot.

Aelia contemplates such poetry as she trudges home from class, caught in the magic of a world alight with possibilities. If only one could harness the presence of autumn and leave it feeling genuine, the world would be a beautiful place forever, she thinks.

The thought lasts a minute longer before disappearing, leaving her with not even thoughts to distract from the aching loneliness in her chest. Shrugging it away, she begins to section herself apart, subconsciously bringing her characters to life.

“David, you can’t talk to me like that,” she chides. 

~ ~ ~

Hers is a regal defiance. Where others rally together armies, she stands alone, a non-exuberant presence. She whispers where others shout, demands no attention but commands it.

She stands on the rooftop of a small town she’s known for years and wonders about the future. She’s had her gaze fixed on the horizon as long as she can remember, tracking the dawns and sunsets and the myriad of skies in between, but the colors concern her less than their potential—the possibility in a new day.

Her cloak whips about her in the rising morning wind, and one could almost ignore the telephone lines and monotonous fences at the almost medieval sight. Perhaps one of Tolkien’s elves stood on the roof or a queen burdened by the need to save her people. The fierce determination in her eyes alone leaves room to wonder at an otherworldly presence.

Then from shadow behind her steps a friend. She doesn’t take her gaze from the horizon, but she acknowledges his presence, edging to the side so he may take a place beside her. He closes a notebook as he strides to her, before tucking a pen into the pocket of his dress shirt.

He studies the view. “Longing for an adventure?” he asks.

She tips her head, a touch of longing betrayed by the upturn of her lips. Yet they both sense she doesn’t know quite what she’s looking for, only what she wants nothing to do with.

“More than that. I’m longing for a good life.”

“Those are rare and hard to come by,” her friend replies. They linger in silence a moment before he sits, cross-legged on the shingles. Retrieving his pen, he flips the notebook open again to a middle point and taps it gently. “If you were asked to give up everything for the sake of your duty, would you?”

“Of course!” She’s appalled at the idea she might do anything other than her duty.

“And people?”

She steals a glance downward, but he’s unseeing, deep in thought. “Meaning?”

“If you had to give up a friend to do the right thing, would you?”

“It’d depend on the scenario. That’s a big thing to ask. And unlike you. Where are these thoughts coming from?”

He sighs, a melancholic sound that fits perfectly within the urban space. As he speaks, she settles to her knees and sits beside him, gaze still on the roofs around her.

“You won’t be able to carry me with you forever. I’m holding you back,” he says.

She replies swiftly and simply. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know the things I stop myself from saying.”

“That’s mutual.” 

 ~ ~ ~

Love pains me. It destroys me. It hurts. It kills. How desperate is an empty heart? How longing are the memories? Even painful ones bring me back and reveal a side of my hunger I haven’t felt in awhile. Listening to his playlist reminds me of his presence. Reminds me how much I cared for him, reminds me how he tucked me in and kissed my forehead and how he stayed and was present and cared and was there and made me gifts and asked how I was and treated me as his person, even if his possessives were weird, and just

~ ~ ~

People say we don’t choose who we love, but we cultivate our families like we cultivate our gardens. We pick every flower for what it has to offer us, though whether we prefer the tangible value of peas or the beauty of lilies is up to us.

The lightness and humor of daffodils creates an atmosphere that laughs with us, and it is such a joy to surround ourselves with good natured people. We find ourselves able to see joy in mysterious places, to find hope and happiness around every corner. It seems the whole world is a sunshiney place, and we stick to our joy no matter what the weather looks like.

Others prefer roses, the musky scent of timeworn romance. It’s the kind that could pull you from every environment you thought you’d been part of and see you to the other side, lost and drifting aimlessly. These are the ones who fill you with such bliss and summon the deepest of emotions to you. They’re intoxicating with their very scent, repeatedly knocking you off your feet. They come in so many colors, and it seems a world without the somber, earth-shaking beauty of roses would not be worth living in.

Some prefer carnations—the knock off rose. And to plant them alone is to surround yourselves with people afraid to go deep, flowers masquerading as friends.

Others seep into the difficult places, like lilies bringing peace.

I’m attempting to hold onto so much stuff because I know I will not be young forever, because I know that at some point the world will carry itself away from me, and I will have no choice but to trudge on melancholically, making my way through the mists that arise from the darkest and in the darkest of places, and someday maybe I’ll write a book, but I’ll be too busy working and brainstorming and killing myself as I travel around the world to work effectively… and maybe I’ll find myself in strange hotel rooms cranking it out at night with nothing else to distract me….

~ ~ ~

One last attempt to harness the creativity of an imagination rendered empty had created the situation Mar now found herself in: a hopeless escape of lunacy and desperation, further empowered by her endeavor to conquer this desolate piece of wilderness.  

~ ~ ~

The night looms so darkly around me, and I’m so hungry, starving, unable to remember when the last time I ate was, at least until I think back and realize it was only this morning that I had a huge meal, only this afternoon I ate lunch, and this perennial sense of starvation has more to do with my own weariness and lack of self-preservation than it does with whether I ate or not. This carnal hunger that neither satiates nor provokes stirs me, and emboldened by my hunger, I understand the necessity of pursuing the Lord. If this is how disciplined I am when it’s something my body physically needs, why am I so much more willing to neglect what I spiritually need?

And my eyes are strained. They hurt and hurt and hurt ad hurt, and I’m just so done with the world and with life, and the stress is getting to me, and it always feels like I’m running out of time. My writings have become more like to-do lists and my readings are textbooks. My journals are maniacal scribblings of the notes I’ve allowed myself to take—a gradual corruption of the power of my pen. I’m trapped and burdened under the weight of the expectations people have for me, knowing that at the moment I have no such expectations for myself. 

~ ~ ~ 

But I’ve heard “count it all joy” more than my lips can utter the phrase, and still it means nothing to me. I’ve sung the name of the Lord to the Heavens for countless songs in choir and at church and even in my own room, robotically moving my lips and creating the song. I’ve listened to the way the wind moves and attributed it to the Lord, seen the intricacy in a leaf and said, “It must be an intelligent Creator.”