I cried a bit. Which is silly really, because it wasn't real at all. Then again, neither were the tears.
Papa, time to get up, he yelled, tugging at the covers. Huh? I plucked my tongue from the roof of my mouth and swallowed twice. That sh** taste didn't leave; it wasn't even lessened. Papa! Here I got a kiss for you, he planted one on the back my unshaved head. Gettup breakfast is ready, he shouted. Uh huh, yes, I replied burying my face deeper into the pillow.
After jumping on me, pulling blankets off me and tickling my toes a bit, I got up.
I pulled on old clothes. Blinked copiously. Wiped drool from my lower lip.
I wasn't sure why I was sad, not just tired but sad. I don't often wake up sad. I wiped my eyes. No tears, just crusties, sand, some goobers in the cracks. I was downstairs in the bathroom when I remembered. I was crying, weeping, sobbing, when was that? I remember my body shaking, my lips like little leaves in the wind. I remember Michael's hand on my shoulder as I fo0und the end of myself and sobbed. I sobbed so hard even he looked surprised. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and then walked away.
And then I remembered. In the fog of him walking away, was a little boy yelling, Papa, Wake UP!
So I can't remember the last time I cried in a dream, but although my pillow was dry this morning, I had that feeling, the release of having a good cry. Which is a bit foolish, because none of it was real.
23 March 2010
Journal Entry
3-22-10
7:51pm
By the time I reach the far cover of this journal I will have changed. (By the time I reached the end of that sentence I had changed.) Some changes will have been for the better; I will have learned more about myself, strengths and weaknesses, my body, my soul, women, my King, I will have aged another year, I will have become more skilled at various tasks and arts, and so on. I pray that far fewer will have been for the worse, though i know that mistakes will have been made, some for the first time, others the many-thousandth, and still others the last. I will have hurt loved ones and neglected strangers. I will have built barriers where bridges would have proven a better fit. I will have let down a great many, and will have been let down by the same. So much could be said, and with such unwavering certainty, of the effects this world will have had on me and I, in return, on it, for it is a matter of fact that I am inconsistent.
You, on the other hand, are anything but. You simply and terribly Are. Though my eyes will have been taunted, tinted, tainted by many a flashing thing, when they meet Yours they will find them freshly familiar, ancient in the most groundbreaking of ways. I am a choppy sea, and You a raging glass, a mirror in a hurricane. I am at the mercy of the hills and valleys alike, You are the Holy Redistribution, the plains of staggering heights and gaping depths.
I put all hope for a better tomorrow, a stable and worthwhile today, and a redeemed and utilized yesterday in Your broad hands, oh God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, hope of John, life of Paul, muse of Lewis and Weiss, mystery of generations. My awkward frame rests and rejoices on Your edgeless plateau of gracious and generous peace. For You Are.
May it be so.
7:51pm
By the time I reach the far cover of this journal I will have changed. (By the time I reached the end of that sentence I had changed.) Some changes will have been for the better; I will have learned more about myself, strengths and weaknesses, my body, my soul, women, my King, I will have aged another year, I will have become more skilled at various tasks and arts, and so on. I pray that far fewer will have been for the worse, though i know that mistakes will have been made, some for the first time, others the many-thousandth, and still others the last. I will have hurt loved ones and neglected strangers. I will have built barriers where bridges would have proven a better fit. I will have let down a great many, and will have been let down by the same. So much could be said, and with such unwavering certainty, of the effects this world will have had on me and I, in return, on it, for it is a matter of fact that I am inconsistent.
You, on the other hand, are anything but. You simply and terribly Are. Though my eyes will have been taunted, tinted, tainted by many a flashing thing, when they meet Yours they will find them freshly familiar, ancient in the most groundbreaking of ways. I am a choppy sea, and You a raging glass, a mirror in a hurricane. I am at the mercy of the hills and valleys alike, You are the Holy Redistribution, the plains of staggering heights and gaping depths.
I put all hope for a better tomorrow, a stable and worthwhile today, and a redeemed and utilized yesterday in Your broad hands, oh God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, hope of John, life of Paul, muse of Lewis and Weiss, mystery of generations. My awkward frame rests and rejoices on Your edgeless plateau of gracious and generous peace. For You Are.
May it be so.
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