nathanael.ink

I miss the sensation of being in love, more than I miss any of the ones I tried to bestow love upon… this seems to me a very serious problem. A fault indefinitely. But what am I to do? HellifIknow… the incessant knocking of Purpose refuses my every attempt to answer or snuff it out. There has got to be something we’re just not seeing. I am always within a stones throw of someone who would insist they have found something. Some infusion of meaning they take under the skin. Some IV of Purpose splintering through the veins of medicated America. Demanding I am the one who has got it wrong. If only I would sit still a minute; just enough to let them at my blood. But what if they are wrong? All wrong? Each grabbing hold of the first Purpose they could get their body to buy? Can ones body reject it, like an organ, for reasons we don’t know?
It is not so much that things barricade my way, as though I had marked a place upon a map but am facing intolerable adversity. Rather, would that I had a map, I have no place marked to which I am going. I perceive somethings as opposition, but as to what it is opposing? hellifiknow… I may be able to handle an old fashion tussle here and there were I on a perilous journey some place. Instead, far from it, I am laying naked before an armed homeless man psychotically begging me for loose change or blank checks. Purpose more frequently seems to be that man. Having nothing himself, and confused as to why I have nothing to offer him. While Wisdom is shouting in the streets her brother Purpose scavenges trash cans in alley ways. He is not illusive because he is illustrious, instead, he is so starved and cowardice no one can approach him without first trapping him in presuppositional corners of Oughts and Must-bes. Neither of which I am willing to do!
There cannot be a pill. There cannot be magic in this. Only the artisan hath the _ to speak on behalf of his art. Only he can say what it is he fashioned it for. In this way I am convinced whatever sort of monster I may be, still is not the sort which ultimately possess the right to name itself. While the freedom is mine to do so, it is most right to beseech my Maker regarding my meaning… I ought to admit to Him I cannot rightfully claim Purpose for myself, for the task seems either wrought with pretense or impossibly hopeless to begin with. Beg Him for this companion… beg Him for a name.