so many brilliant wrecks
i know you're listening. great. now just hear me out. no, that's not it at all. you are completely blind to everything going on in your own life right now - i have it all figured out. listen.
:|
God, you're like . . . God. i'm fucked, you're perfect. your will is coming about whether i like it or not, so i sure as hell better get used to it. and bonus:: someday things won't be so shitty.
you've promised to provide for me and be understanding when i screw up, which is great because i'm going to screw up pretty damned often. i guess i'd better treat everyone i know likewise, huh? i don't know why you would tempt me but i suppose it's been done before indirectly. i'll take you at your word and hope for the best. cover me.
why don't more christians' prayers look like this [with the exemption of the explicatives]? i suppose the basic format may still remain intact in some, buried beneath the extensive, flowery lingo popular in their respective circles. for the most part, prayer has become an exercise in pussyfooting around the topic at hand and instead praying for "an outpouring of grace" and "a great healing" "in the blood of Jesus." the most painful conversations i've ever had involve such speech, desperately trying to contain my screams of intellectual anguish as the entire secular world is sweepingly sucked into this rose-colored, cultish vortex.
there's so much more to life than grace, healing, and freedom. trials, learning, and growth predominate mine at the moment. if i'm to be accused of not making progress, such accusations should be leveled with more serious backing than a lack of purely conceptual buzzwords.
i've bottomed out again.
to a degree that's entirely true. then again, i'm also only six weeks away from having my own place and working full time until i feel compelled to return to school. in all honesty, i feel more empowered now than i have for the past three years, since the first scholastic calamity up north. why, then, are my parents, who have observed me since kindergarten, up in arms?
i've bottomed out again.
that's their charge, anyways. nevermind the ultimatum spurring the upcoming move that came the very week fall semester began. nevermind the heinous schedules from work and the increasing stress that brought about. nevermind a week of bronchitis followed by the anniversary of my dad's death. fuck it all. you, sir, are substantially fucked up.
i never said i didn't agree, i just protested that i wasn't depressed, wasn't isolating myself, wasn't trying to ignore the fact that my classwork prior to four weeks ago wasn't going to amount to a hill of beans, and wasn't horribly despondent about all the matter. we've all been here before - i, for one, have never been in charge of my own life to the extent that moving into a place without an obnoxious RA breathing down my neck will afford me. nog champa and the occassional smoke at the desk, i await you.
that isn't to say that they aren't honestly concerned about my well being. quite the opposite, their concern drove them both to this confrontation [if it can be called that], inspiring emotional outpourings and a fervent prayer for . . . all that. they want me to get help, they want me to again consider drugs, and they truly want the best for me. they just refuse to believe that maybe the best for me at this time is what is happening right now. i'm lost to them in this regard.
when i said none of your words were lost on me, i meant it.
