seemingly perfect.

Seemingly Perfect.
I find myself increasingly drawn to those with "stories". Pain. Hardship. Suffering. Tragedy. I find myself aching for someone to share my stories with. I continue to surround myself with people who have known Jesus since they were three years old and have seemingly never strayed since. Although I am well aware the Lord has done a mighty work in their lives..I long to meet the.....ex druggies, ex alcoholics, non virgins, ex cutters, ex psych ward patients... whom have been redeemed by Christ..... Nowhere are they to be found. I realize they do exist...somewhere. But in the meantime, here I am, broken and alone... I realize how my past has inevitably led me to where I am today and how Christ has completely healed me and delivered me from my past desires/urges/addictions. However, it is slightly disconcerting when I feel as though I live in a sheltered world... Christians that exude the aura that they lead virtually perfect lives. I know this is not the reality...but how come so often it feels like it is?

i feel like the world is a piece of fiction...a library of fabricated paperback novels.

your words echo deep within my heart penetrating the cavernous weak walls. the frail trace of support beams holding up my tattered heart is vanishing.

i beg you to rid all traces of your deep rooted artificicality...

entry from my journal april 2, 2007
....I remember thinking that I was somehow more brave than the rest of them. In my twisted state of mind, I was stronger, more tenacious because I could do what so many found repulsing. I wander aimlessly in a foreign land in which I do not speak their language, I do not know their land, I am virtually foreign and unknown even to myself....

blue like jazz.

I've been re-reading Blue Like Jazz and it's reminding me how messy spirituality is. I love it. I love it that it's tough, and gritty, and transparent, and I love it that I don't have to know all the answers, much less pretend to. It takes a lot of weight off of these shoulders of mine. Man, I want my feet and hands to be dirty. I want to get in there and do the dirty work and not be afraid to get some scrapes and bruises. How wonderful it is to have doubts and to actually question things and to challenge others and be challenged. How then, will we ever grow if this does not happen? I cannot be stagnant. I cannot be idle.

euphoria is mine.

these cold, dark places they always seem to find me. caught in a web of maddening isolation, disillusioned by the life they continue to offer. these cravings buried deep within cease to leave my downtrodden soul. trapped. trapped in the desolateness of my being.

i am a child, pulling on mama's skirt.

i am an adult. put on the skirt. get ready for work. put that glorious fake smile on. no one has to know... the silence annihilates us all.

you...you there...you captivate me by your ability to resist the deafening silence. your intense, approach to this thing called life which i so desperately desire. jealously enters. forgive me, Father.

where are you, friend? you knew me when no one else would. you are familiar with every line on my face. you listened to my faults and stories without disregard. those repelling things which would no doubt provide a cringe throughout the body to the rest of humanity....

Father, calm my heart. speak those gentle, loving words that rocks back to sleep what has been so rudely awakened.

euphoria is mine...
someday.

a deep fear within me.

afraid to be known.
afraid to be unknown.
picking up the fragmented pieces
of my soul......
extract the parts that that are itching to withdraw and disconnect
for fear of disapproval
and
unworthiness.

darkness.

the darkness has mildly subsided, but the doubt persists even so. the lingering fear of inadequacy plagues my every move. i am crippled with the inner turmoil that depletes me in every possible fashion. the inescapable doom arrests my soul and takes me captive, diminishing what little energy i possess.

i expect too much from people. simple as that. end of story.