It all proves difficult to conclude. I rearview past chapters of my life, and I'm convinced that my spirit well is drying up. Once, I had travelled through tides of creativity and conviction, vision and purpose, on what I thought was a progressive journey. Yet every stage is a simple remnant of the last, and now, at the age of nearly twenty-three, I find myself almost completely regressed. Or worse, maybe I've just been standing still. I cannot decide which is more terrifying.
Uncertainty is alway reliable. Ironic and cliche, yes, yet true. I cannot tell you my perspectives on God, because my conclusions concerning Him are hard to come by. And I certainly do no know what I believe about myself. What inkling I may have of the truth of my own existence is merely this damned inability to produce life. This fruitlessness; this drab, colorless dress, too large and awkward for my body, with crooked stitching and a wrinkled collar. Loveless, selfish, broken, obstinate, ignorant, etc. Dissatisfied and dissatisfying. And so, I leave myself with a suffocating unwillingness to dismiss the imperfections I display. There is no release. There is no relief.
I know this: I need to breathe in icy cold. I need to drain this puss from my thoughts, this muck and blood and poison, and fill my soul with fresh, cool summer rain.
Please, let it rain.
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