Your pain is not your own
it belongs to me.
Though I am not the cause
I have bathed in your misery
and drank it down until it made me sick
Maybe someday I will know what it means to be happy. These days there are many times that I think I am. Then I find myself alone in this empty house. The chill of loneliness leaves goosebumps on my skin.
God knows I need something, and I have always sought it without fail and without success. Sex, drugs, companionship, affirmation, purpose, meaning. Sometimes I wonder what is the point? When each new day brings back old memories why do I bother at all. There is nothing for me, so why wake up at all.
Pain is all that binds me to the people around me. I see it in the eyes of the strangers as they pass. Pouring out of their being for the wolves to lap until their bellies swell. I wish so much to comfort these hurting beings, and yet I cannot find a place of comfort for myself. Perhaps comfort is a lie. But lies help me to sleep at night, even if my bed is the grave. The truth will bury me. Deceit gives me the will to keep on trying. The lies I tell to others. The lies I tell myself, and struggle ceaselessly to believe.
Who am I really. Am I the reflection in the mirror, whose appearance revolts me? Am I the me who has done his best, or am I all of the worst that I have to offer. Am I the misery that runs out of every pore like a bubbling spring, filled with the promise of cool refreshment to parch the weary traveler’s thirst, all the while filled with the poison of vipers that drown as they churn in my depths?
I want to believe that we are all one. That the obstacles and complications that come our way are but different parts of the same thing. I know that there are so many in this world that have it worse than me. So why do I feel this way?
I am am an alien, a stranger in this land. No border had to be crossed in order for me to find myself in a land filled with callous beings who speak no language I can comprehend. It is lonely and it is difficult to be me.
And I am a coward, at all times, hiding behind pretense and fixated on an illusion of myself, that me which I project to the world. A bold face covers so much turmoil.
When I cut the ties with the comfort of faith, there was no choice to be made. It was all that could be done. It was that, or die in self-deception.
I used to cling to the hope of things eternal. Once upon a time, I believed in a benevolent God. He was my father and my friend. No matter how much life tore me down, or how much I tore down my life, I had the knowledge, sure as the rising sun, that all would be forgiven. And it was a pack of lies.
Forgiveness is not to be had, not from some mystic savior who walks in my shoes, and not from myself. Why then, do I feel the need to constantly apologize for being what I am?
Maybe it is the disconnection that I feel. I am at an age when most people are settled into their lives and have accepted their lot in life, no matter how far it may be from the dreams they aspired to when they were young. This is not for me though. I am not special, nor brave. I really crave the comfort of settling into the mundane, becoming apathetic, forgetting what I wished for. But I am unable.
So I continue to search. And to question, and to challenge the precepts and suppositions that have been handed down as if they were some sort of guide to life.
Most people rely on a belief in God, whether it is personal, or part of a larger system. It is easier to have faith than to doubt. God makes sense.
And yet, I know that I have always chosen the hard path. I am responsible for complicating life, and for asking questions which some consider heresy.
There is no choice to be made in this. It is my path. No matter what you think you believe life is the only religion that you are truly a part of. God does not reside in some book or ancient prophesy, he does not live in your heart. He is not He.
God is an idea, the perfection which we crave, the comfort and the salvation which we, as mortal beings have duped ourselves into believing is necessary.
God does not exist. But God is not dead. God is in us all. God is us all and we are all part and particles of an eternal something that defies our frugal attempts to define and to possess it.
Spirit is Holy.