(no subject)
Dear Lord,
Feeling pretty alone in this world lately. I try to talk with you about seven times a day on average, but the only responses I get in reply are quotations strait from the Book and theological replies, which makes me wonder if you're listening, and if you are, how can you get through the thickness of my head? This dense matter obscures everything. God, I feel so heavy. I sit by your gardens sometimes, but the stones all make me think of things cold and hard, my chest and my throat. I talk with your people sometimes, but my laugh feels like sand. I blush with unease. Sometimes I feel safe in bed at night, wrapped in solitude. I sleep in a mockery of the womb, a late, late child with her fist still curled to her mouth. Sometimes your joy blasts through my head and seizes my body with the thankfulness that comes with the intensity of emoting, of sadness. More often it’s as dull as the laundry I step all over, strewn across these dusty floors.
You know, sometimes I think freedom is overrated, because I’m still just hearing quotations, and still just wondering where we left off.
Love always, I'm determined,
Skye.