nathanael.ink

an uproar. or, a myth. something like a thunderous cloud letting out Penelope’s long hair. I am, ‘at a loss’

..as it were. I ought to be a frowning art of a painted face which hangs lopsided on a thin, and loose tack in an apartment wall. I ought to be the mess in every young girls drawer or closet floor. It would be common for the exchange of matter to take hold of flesh like mine and release it to be the step toward another breath for a creature more suited.. a creature more fit. a creature in charge of at least itself.

but nay, a cornucopias’ meal amongst enemy tongues. tis here I sleep, here I lay, a simply pitiful and repugnant, spoiled mess of Heaven’s love for my heavy sinning lungs. And not a smile will I receive, believing I first must see a reason to believe a thing unseen; which I must admit I oft believe tis not a hard thing for me… yet peace, or pleasure in things without refuge or retreat? How dare I think to conquer (even self) against a world which He divined against me- was it not He, who has aloud it all to be? Who has approved their overtaking me before my first breath in our most common oxygen.

Now I do not doubt a wisdom beyond mine, and I’d be daft to attempt at considering logic AGAINST that of Greater Capacity. no I but try my hand as reasoning along side, but even there, I feel my parallel line begin to veer over toward, against and through the line I imagine He lays(though never utmostly sure) and I wonder why, it has been approved that I should stumble such a way.

I must accept peace, I know as of recent, and I believe, but, where is peace when I am in need? and where it a strength which will fill me in the proper time, to pull be toward the way of righteousness. But in this all.. who else but He, does my heart cry out to so fervently? Who else has stirred in me a love which refuses to be stifled in the midst of my transgressions.. and ought I boast? in my transgression? in my shortcomings? in the thorn in my side, which I have begged to be taken?

and how it is such a thing could be taken at all? how can a repeated sting be stolen right up out of a wound? It is not my own hand which will pull the thorn from my skin? is it not my own initiative which must plow and sow and be wise with the time between sun and moon and rain and snow?

it is just me, or is the ball in my court? and am I on a team alone? I know I know, I must be on His team but I must admit, “I tried to do it all for You, it didn’t do anything for me”  and while I acknowledge the obvious, still, I am prone to believe there ought to be incentive to my solitude? to my serventhood? does not the slave driver call with an audible voice to the slave, to tell of what is to be done? so how then am I different? compensate me with my believe that You are all knowing, to make slavery not miserable, and let us continue with the usual attributes of slavery. speak and let me here, let my life be dedicated to You, and there never be question of it again. surely You have paid for me already, with Your own young blood.. so steal up my rights, if I could give them up, I would to You.

Lord, You are loved. and let that be enough to quench the spirit within me which will not rest until Your very hand covers my eyes while you pass over. .. was it not You who began this in me? .who then will finish this?