A Prayer of Self-Sadness
Oh my Maker:
Did You mean to design me so messy, I wonder. I wonder this so many times in so many moments, in almost all of my ever-prolonged, longing-for…something, days. It’s a weirdo week every five minutes or so, when I’m too vibed-out, overly sing-songy, feathered-hair Spiritual. She’s a bit too-crystals-colour the breeze of a soul for The Religious kindness of life. There’s a depth in sadness. It will empty me out. There — there is a stolen richness when people think their no-socks, no-collar hipster “pastor” non-denom ink means Religion is pointless. When the Religious pretend that it’s only a factoid of the lowercase r word for “relationship” as if Religion isn’t the blood-pumping factory of life. Religion is the meditation the Church crosses it’s legs on. Oh, silly little watered down bell-sounds, yeah, you’re still a freakin’ Religion even when you meet in a warehouse. Will she never fit in-it though? What about the covered-up corruption; the blind walk on the bricks of tradition? She will love through that, but it will hurt; she’ll carry the wounds of people that think she is mean instead of what she is.
I am strong. I am good at boundaries. I am the golden standard of communication. I make ethical look like a hot air balloon floating into a rainbow, flying high- purely on the all the lessons that took exams on the skin of my back. They — perhaps, it’s others that forgot to love — me, but I don’t forget them. Through their own lack of time seeing the pain of the world, I didn’t hid from the dark places nor pretend that there really aren’t demons that go bump, thump thump in the night. Maybe, there are those that ignored the judgement smelt in the nostrils, but all-in-all that self-hate they carry doesn’t always stay in the bulges of their slacks. I decided to fight back without raising my fist to solve the problems a long time ago.
Was this girl an accident? I’m wondering this all the time; if it’s possible to love others so well; so much that she can- what if she can’t be loved for long or as much or enough- as she loves? Will she run-out of love? Nah, she won’t run-out because that would have happened by now, but she will be sad. It’s going to get dark. Seeing as there are so many deep things that fill me up, give me a bigger cup. All that is significant and a vulnerable place to other people, I want to give it, but oh Lord, how will I ever refill my way before drying all the way out? Can no one return to this space for a moment for her or stay for me? Like how I can’t exist in or out of an exclusive or inclusive Religious box, is there no holy tabernacle for me?
Then, there’s, what about my brain; did you mean to make it with a lot and lots of extra thought and questions marks? It’s a tiring-kind of place to go; to-be so interactive, exclusive to thoughts, layers onto another thought. Sure! Whatever! That voice there! It says: cannot be right or- all there is- or I have to know more, more, more! Is this who You created me to be? Is this me?