I am a paradox
version of myself – mournful and brokenhearted, anticipating and
owning the heaven of perfect love. Slumbering and overcome by sleep
and dreaming of something real. There is a danger, a great danger
here – a subtle infiltration and, and, and a complete distortion of
the facts. But nowhere regenerated. Nowhere. So I move. And move away.
Move away to nowhere. Somewhere I can be heard. But beware. Beware. I do not trust the willfully blind to lead me, to keep me to secure. I am falling back – no more forces. I am falling back - no more focus. The future is uncertain, but some men and angels predestined. Like the pythonic spirit of prophecy, a slave able to predict the future and to make great prophet for my masters. The rest shall keep as they are. Helpless to believe. Helpless but to be. Like the rest of us. I open my mouth, but there’s nothing there. I’ve fallen asleep.
The whole thing makes me ill. It hurts. I know it hurts. Severely beaten and imprisoned, yet singing psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs. It hurts to have a spirit, a soul in this world of physical pain. A disillusioned failure in the middle of a psalm. To have feelings in a world of frailty.
I may not know what it is that you are facing, but I've had plenty of low days of my own. One thing (maybe the only thing) I know is that tomorrow will be another day. For good or for ill, tomorrow is another chance.
The future uncertain within the storm, singing in the dark deeper than fear. Defenses fall, fail future attack. But believe even more. Strength in mystery and the mystery of the faith. I am a future version of myself or soon will be. If not now, then.
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