Forgive me. For I do not know if you are there. If you are here. If you have diminished into oblivion, or if your presence rivals all that has ever come to pass.
I am in pain. I am broken. Do you feel me? Do you feel what I am? Do you feel who I am?
I ache haughtily, aware of my own absurdities, but I don’t care.
I often feel alone, and am oddly only consoled when told this very same fact, by so many I know and hold dear. When the beast of isolation declares its ubiquity.
How could you leave me like this? Have you forsaken me?
Am I lost? Am I found? Or am I in the landscape between the two, as if seeking what was, while stepping into what is?
Why does the beauty around me dovetail so exquisitely with the terror that conceals itself underneath the surface?
Why does love hurt so? Why does it break my soul into pieces of faded hope? Can they be put back together with vigor, a sense of vitality? Or are they doomed to spend a lifetime in perpetual despondence?
I long for the angels to see me, to caress my inner essence, but are they even there?
Can they connect me with my soul; desecrated, anguished, yet desperate to breathe new life?
I long to love you, to know you, to find you.
Dear God, I seek to be penetrated with your love, and with my own. Do you words—so tender and valiant—echo in eternity for a reason?
Am I to find solace in the wisdom of your beckonings, or disquiet in your purpoted anger? Are you just like me? Would I even want that to be so?
I tear myself asunder. I break, feeling the impermance of my being, and shudder in despair.
And yet. I open myself to your love, your compassion, your allegiance to all that is most lovely and tender.
Like the faint face of a beautiful child caught in the winds when driving by.
I do not know. I am a vehicle of conjecture. This allows me to have the gift of faith. A gift I both adore and curse.
My fears surround me. They have become injurious to my foundation. They keep me from becoming my best self, though I often do not receive respite from you. Should I even want to? Do I find solace within or without?
I long to be felt, to be held, to be seen.
How could the cosmos engender such beauty and tribulation in one fell swoop? Is the joke on us?
Why does the mist of the ocean make me weep?
How can children suffer so, while apathy pierces my compassion?
And my weaknesses. Are they strengths? My right side feels at once incurable and hopefully resilient.
As if the weakness means something, the specifics of which have been kept from me.
When my mind is seemingly broken, supplanted by confusion and destitution, I do not know where to turn.
You are not there, or are you? Those who are cannot bring me comfort, nor should they have to.
I long to love in such a way that even the gods would stand in awe.
I seek out reconciliation, with the greater realm, with those in my orbit, and with myself.
Take me somewhere, release me of these ailments.
Do not tell me to be thankful for them, that robs me of the truth.
Do not tell me to ignore them, that inhibits the potential within, to incite transformation in the face of debilitating adversity.
Do not tell me to merely think about them differenty, that is an insidious lie.
Do not gift them to me, they cannot be gifted. They are as leeches, breaking the weaving of my humanity.
That breaking leads to the greatest curse of all, which is loneliness.
Loneliness is an affront to all that is just, for it pillages our relationships.
With everyone and everything, including ourselves.
It envelops me in despair.
It causes me to tremble in horror, for without others there is no me.
There is only ego, a fractured shell. But a shell that exists on steroids, ravaging every soul it has the despicable pleasure of encountering.
Its presence is universal, and that is its greatest power.
It convinces you that it is not anything at all, that it is indeed not separate from you, but you, personified.
So tell me, dear God, does loneliness serve a purpose? Is it an ever-present form of redemptive suffering? Would that not be cruel?
Does the past, the eons of erstwhile time, inform my experience of this life?
Why can I find such solitude amidst such turmoil?
I think on those I have loved most beautifully. I recall the memories of those I have lost, and wail. I attempt to find peace in knowing they are never coming back. I am surprised to find that this is—and will be—a lifelong journey.
I think of her. Her touch was silently, confidently gentle, in no need of but of single word.
When I found her, there was such a serenity at play. Her touch, her hair, her eyes, glorious without measure.
Am I to believe that seeing you would transcend that beyond what I can even possibly comprehend?
How do I feel you without even knowing if you exist?
What is it about my consciousness—somehow in harmony with my heart—that gives me a sense of unyielding grace?
It is a colossal love. An offering of unimaginable beauty. A cleansing of tragedy
It is the same with you
You represent oceans of transcendence, white shores, aching innocence
An invisible tenderness, as if the unveiling of your presence, while desired, would almost be impossible to witness
Thus you lurk in the shadows of righteous splendor
It is a sign that the intimacy I seek really exists
Outside of my consciousness
My arrogance becomes obsolescent
I kneel before you in confident vulnerability
For I have nothing left to conceal
My inner disrepair is my consolation
Perhaps, then, I have found my way to freedom
I prostrate myself in supplication
And I have but one request
Honor my pain
Embrace my petulance
And bring me home