This is for me. This is my expression. And this is what I am, and what I have.
Dark nights without rest. Lonely evenings without fulfillment or success. Late empty mornings.
Yet forever is what I seek? No. For I seek none. Loneliness is but an empty friendship, seemingly all that I have. A mind full of broken thoughts. A body unfed and not rested. A soul desperate. And a spirit of forfeit.
Thoughts of things sought are not. And all these things should be. In broken and callused position I sit, without passion nor obedience to good. For my only weakness has taken my passion - loneliness - desperation - have all become my most desperate enemy with which I fight with forfeit alone.
Confusion leads a dark and murky path; for forfeit it has sought alone. Confusion is but a weapon used against me in battle and I have fallen to its frightfully sharp edge. Wounded beyond all recognition, all to seek is recognition. Affirmation has turned against me, that all that may affirm is my defeat.
Why does my heart fight for air? Is there a hope in hopelessness. Clarity for the confused? Peace for the war stricken? Healing for the wounded? Mending for the brokenhearted?
What in this silence could possibly cure thee incurable. What does His voice possess. What necessity does it capture. Is not that something that can not be known. What do I have that may call out the cure of necessity - what cry could resound loud enough, and whom am I? What is for a question with an impossible answer, an incurability called humanity. How is it that answers could be found for a single question, once asked, only once; with no presidence, no history, no previous representation. Or for a question that can not be asked, not because it has not but it has not been discovered. Not by anyone but by one. For who is the great author and can but a character know its author. Can but a man know his creator. For we seek what is of God not what God is or even who He is. For we may not know the creator for we are the create-e. He is made of none, neither created nor begotten and we are in fact made of dirt, the filth of thee earth, the base of earth - the corrupt haven of humanity. For what may we know of holiness when we are born into sin when we have not even take our first breath. For what are we but dust and ashes, remnants of the extinguished flame. Whom am I? Then how may we accept gifts such as blameless and pure for we do not know of whom they come. Nor how they come. We may not know the greatness of these gifts we accept as remnants of a fire - how may we accept the fire for it is before us.
How may silence resolve? Or an opened ear? Or even the act of seeking? The heart is but a muscle and the soul? We cannot comprehend with what a soul is made - or what it truly is? And if it is what we claim the heart is? Then what of the heart and soul. And what of the spirit for how can we receive the spirit of the unmade God - first and last, beginning to the end - Alpha and Omega. How may we receive such a thing as that, in our bodies made from the dirt of thee earth in something we cannot understand and of something we cannot know.
The question that makes all these questions ache is how may our hearts and souls know and groan for a Father, for a Savior and a King - when our hearts and souls do not understand nor could they fathom?
Why do simple questions make us sick to the stomach? Why do we revisit these ideas day in and out, because they are unfathomable and we are made to believe they are simple - because we are humanistic realists. We need things to be down at our level, the level dirt, dust and ashes. How may we consider even the moderate when the simple is unsearchable?
