Over the past month I have begun to see, on a pedestal above me in barren white light, the essence of goodness and wholeness. . .
and I see that I have no part in it.
I have seen . . . that my innate irresponsibility, selfishness and immaturity have been magnified by the people that know me the best, my father and brothers, as they have grown up, and left these things behind.
I see . . . that my face is boiling with infection, rife with cold sores and canker sores, and when I look in the mirror, my body seems to have shriveled to paper, beneath my own clothes. Even my basic structure, my back-bone seems to be slowly, progressively buckling beneath my own weight. I have failed at being healthy. Not enough time, money, knowledge or motivation.
I still see . . . that after years of lonely battle, I cannot seem to escape my broken sexuality, and these deep-seated issues stand at my side like dark, silent captors, in cobwebs, ancient top hats, tapping metal-capped canes.
I look back and see . . . that very rarely have I felt entirely comfortable with people, even the people I call my friends. I have failed at sharing in the world-wide community I was built to live in, the human race.
And heaviest of all, I now see . . . that for the last 4 months I worked so, so hard to build love and lift a girl to happiness, but after the quaking of my own tectonic faults, the scaffolding ripped itself apart and bounced her off of my hard, judgmental floor. And I hear the painful cries from a severely fractured heart fading as she crawls away over my wreckage. I am so, so sorry.
My soul has crashed down a sharp, stony mountain and I sit desperate and bleeding at the bottom. The things that I hoped that I was have been ripped away from me and I sit naked. And humbled.
I think I’m finally learning that I can really do no good on my own efforts.
And that basing my worth on a few talents is unstable.
Now I must sit and wait and hope I will hear at least a whisper from the voice that made me . . .
To tell me who I really am.
Raw Spoon
