I’ve always known myself to be a force of bottled up desire.
Or even pent up emotions hidden away even from my family. When I deal with my own things, I tend to deal with it on my own. Emotional and spiritually, usually. I like to quitely deal with my disasters of the heart, rather than throwing myself around, in a fit of discomfort of bad situations. But that doesn’t mean there’s something terribly wrong with me or even a twisted person to meet. I believe I’m different, and know I’m different, as will I always be. Just like everybody else is intricately unique in their own way, dealing with trying life situations and the messy beautiful ongoings of living. And how everybody is a complete disaster on their levels of admittance, and continually need to press into something that will give peace and correction to the pain.
I “accidentally” wrote this on March 21st. Really planning on writing something for my blog, but rather coming out with something that my personal journal is rife with. A lot of allegorical, descriptive, statements, and a little morose at times.
So, just drivel and goop.
But beauty can be found in the most peculiar places. As well as its honesty.
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How could I make myself see something more than this idea? As I shelter my mindset to this protection of grace.
If each day brings its shimmering promise of hope, can it be focused on a demise of the future?
I once thought myself as a person who imagined the potential of everyday adventure.
But that’s a lie.
As I clearly see the cliff on the corner of my eye.
I know I’m that close to the ending of another season, or a different story.
No one showed me quite the adventure of desire.
Never taking the word of others or their pages of knowledge.
Only the thought of going out and committing adventure to my blood.
To the very feeling of my hands and ruthless taking that wells within my heart.
That I would have stories to myself, and have experience as my faith.
A double sided coin to say the least.
As disaster and calamity scrape by this vessel, I tarry on.
Letting go of the impossibilities and the reassurance of a comfortable life.
Knowing full well the outcome of everyday not promised or given.
I’ve wept, bled, cursed, and screamed my existence.
To an end of seasons, and my discolored heart of a body.
But I’m joyful.
Not for blessings, or for the friends along the way.
But faith is a gift becoming lost.
Holding, yet still, to my imagination of beauty and understanding of love.
The rust of fear and doubt plague my gears, claiming more than just my mind.
I have seen the journey’s end, as well as more heartache, and more heart numbing seas spanning ahead.
What else direction would be given if not for this one?
Believing lofty things will hold me above, as I spread my arms up and out. Grasping for that always timely hand of graceful understanding.
Where else would we see it if not for these waters?
Stagnant in the valley of comfortable faith?
Heaped up in the mines of theologies?
No, never there.
Presumably bright and hot, with the weltering understanding of purpose, and the proclamation of radical action.
Within hearts near of utter disaster and death.
Raspy voices in the dessert dying to be shown these oceans.
Regardless of understandings but pressed so deeply into need.
We have to be true disasters.
Awaking every moment. To see love have its dance once more.
So bring yet another tide.
Another storm.
I will keep living in this ill lighted ship, with masts full of hope.
Eyes yet still ahead, with the knowing of those high cliffs on either side.
I am still blessed to take these breaths, to live on regardless.
Whether it be cliff, or high water.
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Emari
January 13, 2011
I think you have a lovely mind.
Some days I forget that.