This is the purpose for which gratitude has been designed. Mayhaps it's more what it sounds like. It's held in the palm of your closed fist held behind your back. Every once in a blue moon, you're given the chance to express a series of moments. That thin thread keeping your life in narrative is the one that you should clasp to your bosom each night. Kiss it, nurse it, tell it all your secrets at ungodly hours of the night. I want to be there when those quaking moments of quiet rock your galaxy. It's strange how the intimate shaking of two lives can make the most beautiful exposure. Where's the one holding all of my negative space? I'm stuck in the black that comes before the white, always telling the gray twilight that I've got no place for it's complications. Nevertheless it throws it's arms around me and tells me I'm welcome. I can't stand the tremble of it's whimsy. If I linger too long in the midst of it's circular reasoning I'll find myself just as confused as those I seek to guide. Oh future! Oh grand mystery! Why do you taunt me so?
Dear Lord, I'm not worthy to stand on edge of this gulf. I know I've made it with my own hands. Shine through the mist, bridge this fissure. Draw me near to you. I'm not deserving to make the pilgrimage.
In the midst of suicidal thoughts and long-overdue revelations, the inoperable latency of one's own sense of wonder is the true signal of our past's own swan songs. The surreal sentiment holding us each tethered to this life can only accomplish so much any given Sunday. One could find it within themselves to say that they belong caught in the midst of this great travesty. Truly, these moments will never die. In the never ending calamity of our hearts, inside the the clashing of both our souls, we will find where we belong.
"I get so distracted by some people's reactions that I don't see my own faults for what they are. At times it's so self destructive, with no intent or motive, but behind this emotion, there lies a sensible heart..."
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