Fire raged in the center of the Vortex as Ash approached, lingering on the edges of the maelstrom. It blew upwards like a great well of fire, and around it stood twelve judges, watching, waiting, lingering to see what she would do. They sat at their posts and didn’t move, not even Horsey, whom Ash would have thought would be more trembly than that.

“Where’s Fidelity?” Ash finally asked.

They watched her, twisting their eyebrows together as if she had asked something unreasonable, as if she had spoken gibberish instead of fact, merely Latin instead of a name. “Who?” Kuyibka asked.

“Yes, her.”

Loki laughed from his seat, a low dry chuckle that sent chills through Ash’s bones. She knew him well—had once had an intimate familiarity with him, but even now the sight of him again once more stirred her heart into trembling fear. Had they once been like family? Friends? Enemies? Mentors? She couldn’t remember, and the variations the story had taken seemed to mesh and collide here in the darkness of her mind/the brightness of the Vortex. She couldn’t entirely decide where she was seated and where her heart was at.

“For someone who likes to play with fire, you tend to avoid it,” Loki said.

Confused, Ash turned back to the fire, leaning into it, staring down. Through the flames, there opened a gap in the well, a long dark abyss traveling downward.

And clinging to the ledges of the abyss was the Who. Crying out, Ash lunged forward, attempting to grab her hands, her clothes, anything to pull her up by. “Don’t just stand there!” she screamed to the characters. “Do something!”

They shook their heads and didn’t move. “She’s been like that for days. We can’t reach her.” Still though, they didn’t try to warn her off or tell her It was a lost cause for her to try. Maybe they knew that even if they had, she wouldn’t have listened.

So Ash lunged forward, leaning deeper and deeper, and then just barely managed to snatch hold of the Who’s jacket. She looked up then, and the two met eyes, and Ash was startled by the unfamiliarity in them. It was as if she was looking into the eyes of a stranger, one so hopelessly lost and uncertain, caught in the abyss of sorrow and suffering and coming face to face with an unexpected hand.

“Fidelity!” she shouted. “Give me your hand and I’ll pull you out of there.”

The woman stared at her again, as if plunged into deeper confusion. “Please, give me your hand,” Ash pleaded, reaching deeper into the well. The fire and flames had previously parted as if to make way for her presence, but now the girl’s gaze narrowed, and the flames began to rise higher and creep towards her again.

Confused, Ash lunged for her hand and grabbed it, this time taking it from the ledge and pulling backwards with all her might.

“HELP ME!” she cried again, begging the characters to join her, but none of them did.

Anastasia tilted her head to the side and said softly but not too softly for her to still hear the cold spite that lingered, “Where were you when we needed your help?”

“She’s going to fall!”

“Why won’t you let her?” Loki asked.

“Because I don’t want her to die! She’s in danger. She needs help!”

“What if what’s better for her is at the bottom of the pit?” Loki asked, a gentle eyebrow tilted upwards.

“You don’t know that,” Ash insisted. “The better world might be the one up here. Heck, it probably is the one up here. Give me a hand for crying out loud; she’s already infected you all.”

Fidelity began to twist in her grasp then, and Ash had to redirect her attention to pulling her out, and she strained, heaving with all her might and strength, but nothing worked. Now, she held half the weight of another person and her own, and she began to slip into the well after her friend.

“I’m not going to let you go,” she told Fidelity, and at that, the girl’s eyes narrowed, and the flames immediately roared higher.

Crying out in pain, Ash began to slip, doing everything she could to hold on. Fidelity began to twist and writhe, attempting to yank herself from Ash’s grasp.

“STOP, STOP, what are you doing!” she cried out, but it didn’t change a thing.

Then from below, she could hear her words repeated back to her in a much more sinister tone of voice, “I’m never going to let you go.”

And in seeing the man holding on to her friend’s leg, Ash shivered in fear. She couldn’t let her go. She couldn’t.

But if she didn’t…. If she didn’t let her go, what greater harm would be done? Would she have to spend her entire life bouncing back and forth between person and person? Lost in the world that had been created for her to live in?

The characters watched, judging her from their podiums, and once more she pleaded for help, once more she tried to pull up her friend, but the weight was too much, and with Fidelity squirming as she was to get free, Ash just. Couldn’t. hold. Her. Anymore.

And the Who yanked herself free and fell into the abyss of the well below. And Ash stood still at the topic, shocked. Confused. Hurt. Crying. Wondering.

“Is she going to be okay?” she asked.

She looked around the circle and noticed that some of the characters had disappeared with the fall, including Horsey.

“I guess you’ll need to leave that up to us to decide,” Loki murmured, bridging the gap between them and peering into the fire. “Since you couldn’t help her either, you are free to leave when you’d like.”

Choking back a sob as the heat scalded her face, Ash stepped backward, fleeing the fire in fear and shame.

 Daddy's Girl

She moved out at 17 but stayed on her daddy’s credit card because he refused to let her starve. Her cousins loved her more, she shouted. “They said I could live with them. They’ll fight for me like you’ve never fucking done.”

“All I’ve ever done is fight for you, you piece of shit. Everything I’ve ever done has been for you and your sister,” he’d growl.

They’d had police and CPS investigators from the religious scream-outs in the back of the garage, her yells shattering the hollow peace of the white-collar neighborhood and his quiet, biting response so muffled it sounded like she was yelling to herself.

Proficient in every category of makeup product, she’d cover up the self-inflicted cutting, scratches, and bite marks when the police arrived, flashing her perfect smile at the officers. She’d flirt with the men while her dad loomed in the background. They’d ask if she was okay—wink once if you need help—and she’d laugh wildly aloud and say, “No, no, no, I’m just a daddy’s girl, you know how it is.”

They didn’t know what to do with her charisma—no one did—so they stood in silence that should have been awkward if she wasn’t smiling so damn nicely and perfectly charismatic, then left the two to their fights.

When the neighbors called again ten minutes later, complaining and concerned, the officers shook their heads and shrugged. “Nothing we can do, ma’am. They’re fine. Just noisy. Ask ‘em to be quieter next time.” So they would, but nothing changed, and the fights continued.

In those years leading up to 17, they had good moments too. He’d take her shopping, and she’d sweeten him up. He’d buy her dresses and heels and anything she wanted, gifts to make up for the last fight. She learned to drop hints then start an argument, and inevitably, she’d get a new pair of airpods or even diamonds.

They’d visit museums together too, strolling through the arts district like the aristocratic new wealth they pretended to be. They preferred modern art museums because the colors and duct taped bananas and empty white walls with the single red metal square left more to the imagination. When attendants stopped by to give more information about the artist or piece, the two of them nodded in avid attention. The minute they stepped far enough way, they’d devolve into giggles and mock the work relentlessly.

“A modern Pinocchio, his nose melts down the length of his face, a chance to represent the deepest meaning of deceit in the modern world,” her dad would say.

She’d pucker her lips and prop a manicured finger against her chin, adding, “What a majestic craft to think of such a thing—I wonder if he drew inspiration from the Sphinx.” The two regarded the statue in light-hearted mockery and pantomimed the expression.

Seasoning

To dilute a sea, use salt.  

To preserve a meat, use salt. 
To restore a taste, use salt.
To heal a heart, use salt.
To inflame a wound, use salt.
To destroy a field, use salt.
To fight a war, use salt.
To befriend a man, use salt.
To protect a path, use salt.
To light a world, use salt. 
To spark a sneeze, use pepper.

Isaiah 35:

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God.

Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, “Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.”

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy. For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down, the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

And a highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it. It shall belong to those who walk on the way; even if they are fools, they shall not go astray. No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

~ ~ ~

Trumpets echo over the desert, proclaiming the name of the Lord of Hosts for the dirt and the sand. Not a drop of water in sight, yet at the sound, the ground explodes with green life, dormant seeds coming alive at the name of their Creator. The grasses grew around the outline of a white road, and by the time the trumpet players arrived, they walked into a full jungle—swept with hundreds of streams and brooks. Rejoicing, they knelt by the waters and drank as if the welling springs—sand mere moments before—were themselves an instrument of pleasure.

Arising once more, they lifted their trumpets and bowed to the radiant figure walking around and beside them, lifting a hand to salute their King as He passed. Then, lifting their instruments again, they played. Singers marched beside them, yet their song had become a medley of shouts and laughter and off-key screeches and beautifully strung sopranos. The cacophony of noise echoed about the hills and caterwauled through the jungles, so that even the animals joined in, adding their song to what counted for a melody among the King’s children.

The parade continued. Those were once lame now leapt like a deer, and those who had been mute sang beautifully. Reeds and rushes came up around them on every edge of the road, and the gathered children ran in and around them, laughing as they rolled in their softness. Together, they delighted in the shade from the sweeping trees.

Each looked as if they had journeyed far—weathered by various conditions and now-healed maladies—yet not one person suffered. Even the aged laughed and shouted like the children, giggling together with the freedom of their youth. Some even skipped, turning and dancing about as if they could not restrain themselves a moment longer—as if something within them had finally been set free.

Ahead in the neighboring jungle, a lion roared in response to the trumpets, a terrible sound, yet the parade did not halt, nor even pause in fear. It carried on triumphantly, and when the lion appeared around the bend of the white road, not even the children cried out, for there was no fear to be found.

Instead, they chanted as one, “Be strong; fear not! Behold your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.”

The lion roared again, settling back onto its haunches to stalk the road, and seeing one of the little ones was lagging behind the others, he snarled and leapt towards it. Yet, as if an invisible boundary protected the road, the lion fell short against the road’s edges. It cried in pain, nursing a wounded paw.

It limped away, and the Protected renewed their shouts of praise and thanksgiving, rejoicing in the one who had rescued and redeemed them, setting them on the path of righteousness. When other attackers lingered, attempting to snipe them off the road, none reigned victorious, and still the parade marched on.

When it had traveled far, the road wound from desolate deserts to a city filled with desolate hearts. Hundreds of people crowded about the road, reaching out with awe, wondering at the green growth sprouting from the sands beneath them, the singing, the laughter, the freedom.

Yet when they tried to join the others on the road, they found themselves stopped the same way the lion had been. Most turned away in dismay. Others resented the parade. Some longed for the road and the safety it provided.

However, only one remained to ask. He followed the parade as far as he could, finally managing to get the attention of the group near the back. “Pray tell me, why do you sing so?” he asked.

The woman who turned must have been ancient, yet her face shone like the stars. She bounded towards him, eager in her delight. “My son, we have been ransomed! We head home to Zion victorious, walking the Way of Holiness!”

“You were slaves?”

“To the evil within us,” she asserted. The young man puzzled over the idea.

“Who saved you?” he asked.

“Our Father, our Redeemer, Our Rescuer, the One who knit us together in our mothers’ wombs. The One who has known us and perfected us. The One who writes our story!” Her praise continued, and a strange thing began to happen. As she lifted up the name of her Savior, her voice joined the song that echoed about her, and the ebullience swept also through the young man.

The lion roared again, and the man flinched. “I want to go with you.” He tried to step onto the road, but he could not. “How can I join you?”

The woman grinned, and though she lacked her front teeth, he had never felt more alive than in the face of it. “The unclean shall not pass on this highway. It belongs only to those who walk on the Way, and none shall go astray upon it. The Redeemed will walk here and the Ransomed of the Lord. And my son, you must be made clean.”

The young man looked up and around, soon noting a spring that had just sprung up, still bubbling. As the trumpeters knelt to drink, he ran forwards. “I want to be clean!” he shouted, diving into the water. He scrubbed at his skin, ran his hands through his hair, throwing back the water, until the droplets cascading into his eyes were replaced by a set kinder than any he had seen.

The face he peered into glowed, and he knew he had found the King.

“My son, will you let me save you?”

The man nodded.

“Will you let me transform you through my love?”

He nodded again, scarcely able to look at the One before him.

“Will you follow me?” And with those words, he saw the magnitude of the decision. It would take everything from him. He would need every bit of strength he could muster for the journey ahead, and it wouldn’t be enough. But when he faltered, the King would carry him forward again.

He said yes, barely more than mouthing the words, then again, a triumphant shout that echoed as loudly as any of the others.

Then the King smiled and swept him into a hug. It hadn’t been what he’d imagined being clean would feel like, but it transformed him. Hundreds of layers fell away, leaving him feeling as if he had just been born—as if he had been dead and was now alive. When he pulled away from the King, he too had become radiant.

He leaped forward to step upon the road, but the King lifted a hand to stop him. Confused and dismayed, the young man looked up into that kindly face and asked, “But I don’t understand? Don’t I get to walk the Way of Holiness too?”

And the King smiled and said, “Yes, you will. But it is not yet your time. Go now and tell the others in your home of who I am and listen for the Spirit to come to you. And then, when it is your time, I will come to find you, and we will march on this road together—you and I—as we journey home.”

With a final clasp about the back, the King smiled and strode onward, the singers and dancers falling into place around Him. The young man watched for a long moment, yearning with something he could not discern, before turning and racing back to his home to tell everyone of the love and joy he had witnessed.

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.”