I don’t know how to capture these empty thoughts. These words all feel mediocre, like my blood has been strained, now diluted.
Will I ever be potent? Or always just a cartoon galaxy? Will these words return to the level they once held in my soul, or will I ever be chasing that hidden place of wonder I fear I’ve lost?
The possibilities rage, clouding this holographic mind. Will my words and stills one day find the magazine’s page? Who then would I be? Master of pen or lens? Poet or journalist? Must I be one or the other? My head screams resistance to society’s forms, while my droopy-eyed heart sighs assent.
I am His. That is all.
Still my bones ache to say words I can’t yet share. Innermost oceans beg sympathy for feelings yet unuttered. Perhaps tomorrow. Today I rest in His precious embrace, as He washes my tears with His own.
One day, perhaps, I’ll comprehend my own soul (and to those sorrowing over this same inability, remember that David neither could ascertain many of the melodies his harp sang), or perhaps some day I’ll grasp this unknown future, but tonight I’ll simply rest in His quiet breathing calling me to Limberlost once more.