Batter my heart, three-person'd God

Pause. Breathe in, exhale. Pause. Breathe in, exhale. Pause. Hang your head down, down upon my shoulder. Quiet now, search for the words to explain the inexplicable feelings that turn, turn through your insides. The words that won't come, the feelings that grow, change, twist with every word that you try to use to paint the emotions in bright and dark colors. The pain, the anguish that doesn't make sense that won't go away, that hides underneath your skin, between the ribs of your chest. There is a hunger that grows in your belly that is not for any human nourishment, but rather for some thing; that one thing that is unattainable. The divine myth that holds all your hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears, desires, lusts. The need to drop the weight that holds you down to the floor of the ocean. You struggle to breathe water even though your lungs were made for air; you struggle slice through the anchor with clumsy fingers that were made to untie not cut.

We were not made for this world, and this is not my home. In all my longing to find that place, the one place that I can call my own, my home I have realized that it does not exist. My sanctuary, my haven, gone - with a blink of an eyes, the flashing of a neuron or synapse in my brain I bear the weight of the truth. I suffocate under the crushing weight; I can hear my bones snapping one by one as they can no longer sustain the heaviness. Does God want to hear our last thoughts, our last dying wish that we were alive rather than dead? Does he weep as we struggle to keep our diseased bodies and withered souls alive for one more day, one more hour? Or does he rejoice with the angels for the ones who are imputed with Christ's righteousness and finally admitted into that one place that they have been searching for their entire lives?

I can see my reflection in the window, my face distorted by the rain sluicing down the pane. The quiet of my thoughts leaves an empty place inside of me and it hurts to look too deeply inside of myself. Perhaps I am afraid of being alone, or perhaps it is not the fear of being alone, it is the fear of knowing that I will always walk in solitude. Why is it that when people need arms to carry them it is me they come to? But more importantly, why is it that when I am in need of a pair of comforting arms there is no one to carry me. I know that my cries heard, I cry out to you and you do not answer. The rapture of life is alluring to me; it calls to me softly on the wind. It weeps out my name in the howling of the wind, it cries out to me in the rain. If I traded it all away, if I traded it all for love, if I traded it all for life would I be happy, would I dance in the rain instead of cry hoping that the tears of the sky will mask the tears of my unhappiness?