Spears pierce my
mind, and my soul bleeds.
We are told we can
do anything if we set our minds to it. Believe in yourself and you
can accomplish the impossible.
But the walls of my
prison are rock-solid. They cannot be broken no matter how much I
pound and push - and they are closing in.
Some people are born
with strength. They press on through life, fall, but get up again and
keep going. I have no such power. My arms shrivel, my heart grows
weak.
Confidence is
dangerous for me. A little more, and I hurt myself.
My heart calls –
my mind does not respond. My brain beckons – my body does not heed.
I face the future with determination – but can barely take one
step.
Daggers pierce my
mind, my soul bleeds.
We are taught to
stand up for what we believe. Our beliefs are a part of us. But I am
knocked down before I can even rise, again and again. And every
time a bloated ego marches triumphant from the site of my defeat.
Perhaps it was only
defense. Perhaps they were aware of my own fangs, and that was why
they sawed them off. I can't blame them. Perhaps this was for the best.
But knowing this
doesn't ease the pain, and the scars throb until they numb.
I never wanted to
see them writhe. I never wanted to drive them into the dirt. I just
wanted them to see.
Perhaps I was
confused. But my feelings were real. It's the tragedy of any argument that one must always walk away the loser – though both
sides may be right about some things while wrong about others.
But the greatest
tragedy of all is that some hearts may never be reconciled.
They reach for one another, but a black void lies between – a rift
in reality, a crack in the continuum, forever open, never to be sewed
back together.
I want to believe it
can be bridged. I want to believe that if I can let my talents sing,
swelling in a great symphony at the top of the world for all the
universe to hear, that one day you would feel the joy I felt, humming
along with the tune that so moved me. And maybe I could understand you better.
But it may be
my fate only to find myself one day languishing on my face, with the time and the strength only to
etch the words “I wish” in the dirt before I succumb to my final sleep. Such is the way the cards could fall.
Thorns pierce my
mind, my soul bleeds.
I cry out to God. He
doesn't listen. “Why have you forsaken me?”
Was it because my
sins were too bad? Perhaps I just can't be forgiven, perhaps I have crucified
Christ one too many times.
Do I have to believe that just yet? Perhaps "it is no longer I who do it, but sin dwelling in me."
“Your God will not answer, because he does not exist,” you say. But I will not comply with your pessimism, your
sick excuse for hedonism and self-worship. I know where my hope lies, and as long
as I live I'll trust in that hope.
I don't know what's
to be my end. Perhaps my dreams are too incompatible with the ways of
Jesus. Perhaps my views are too idealistic to stand up to the scrutiny of true Biblical faith.
But I will keep waiting, praying, listening, looking – and
maybe some day my dead soul will rediscover life, and the spears, daggers and
thorns will stop.
And I will fly once again.
