I’m writing in one coffee shop or another; the instances slip together like a worm through a hole. The worm is me and the hole is time and look at that; I’m just gliding on through, not paying much attention to the walls as I slither on by.
Some days I am tempted to give up and give in. No one reads what I write and nothing I’ve said has ever changed anyone’s life, so why not throw in the towel, give the people what they want, become a nude model and move to Italy?
If I were more courageous or less scared of God, I might.
I realized the other day that I am more scared of stepping on God’s toes than I am thinking thoughts according to reality; according to the world I see through these rusty eyes. Albeit, the lens through which I see the world is cloudy at best and completely skewed at worst, so how can I trust it?
However, it is through this lens that I also have come to know God, so who’s to say what’s really accurate?
Gee, postmodernity has really screwed us over.
Tonight, I pray for God to simply give me a big rock to stand on as my legs flail in the quicksand beneath me. Just let my toe come to rest on something sturdy. Let me know it’s You.
I don’t know what to expect, but I think I’ll know when I find it.
That capital-Y You.
The ground of my existence — scratch that; the ground of all existence and I’m fortunate enough to get two feet to pace it.
If I weren’t so stressed out by figuring out what to believe, I’d probably be a lot better at loving people.
Welp, that’s about it for tonight. I’m glad that You’re big enough to handle these petty little rants.
Night, ****** (my personal, private name for God),