[Godslilrosebud]

Wow. I'm amazed.

Welcome to CGR. *smile*

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Mattlock, thanks, I like your avatar.

Rosebud, appreciate the welcome. It's good to be here.

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Can you feel youth leave you? Does it feel like dying?

I wish, oh how I wish, we hadn't spat at God's face when He gave us Eden.

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The last laugh is never uttered without a previous laugh from another. Ha.

I was watching some Bjork music videos the other day. That poor girl needs a little slavery to temper her freedom. A little dependence to mix with that hallucinogenic puff of independence.

Is freedom what we really want? What is freedom? To be separate. To be allowed without restriction. To dive deep into those galaxies upon galaxies of the deepest oceans. And to probably never return to where we started. At least not as the same person. We are not concrete, friends. We do change. Every day. And the trek we call freedom cannot leave us untouched. And one as free of boundaries as we claim to desire would change us. We would lose ourselves.

Then, if freedom is not good, what is good? Slavery? The complete suffocation of ourselves. The absolute integration with all. To lose individuality. To die with every breath. To become what is demanded of another. We would melt down into the elements, only a whimper of a soul. We would become machines, levers and pulleys, with broken backs and empty eyes. We would lose ourselves.

If we give ourselves to individuality, we lose. If we submit ourselves to all assimilation, we lose. So...

What if freedom were slavery? What if slavery were freedom? What if death was life and the first was last? Christianity! The beautiful, embraced paradox! I do not mock You, Lord, You use fools to confound the wise.

The individual and the collective are both tyrants. Therefore we can neither trust ourselves with ourselves, nor with another's commands.

Where could we go? Who could we trust? We would stand in the middle of a peninsula a foot wide and centuries high. Either side a death, either by insanity or suffocation. I will play the Buddhist/Hindu and commend the middle way.

Allowing ourselves into the trust of the One who made all that is original. All that is unstained and breathing. We would adopt a creed to find ourselves in anOther. A beautiful pursuit of our freedom in the worship of anOther. And, yes, thank your Mr. Crowder, it is a beautiful collision. And I don't completely understand it. I probably won't before I die. I hope so, though.

A girl said an incredible word the other day, that I had all but forgotten the power inherit thereof: become. She said it something like this, "And with that major, you can still become what you'd want." Become. Becoming.

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A good friend told me that to abandon the momentos was best. To toss aside the tokens. To throw away the pictures, and all the material things that have such non-material meanings, little novels tucked insid each ticket stub. He said he did it the first day afterwards. He got rid of everything. He must be so strong. Must be.

Because every day is like a dream to me (you once told her the same thing). Everything is a reflection of a reflection of a reflection's shadow, and I am commanded to take it as real, to believe that these are the rules that you play the game by. This is how you win.

But I'm tired of trying to win. The game is cruel, cruel. It rips up people and your love for them. It tells you that your day will come. But your day won't come. Well, it might. That's why it's cruel. You are blindfolded and gagged, and someone taps out gentle messages in morse code on your wrist. You carve whatever meaning you can find in the nearest surface. I scrambled back to feel for them that day. To remember that a voice had told me something. The carvings were still there. Your carvings were still there! What interpretations I could muster from the mumbled whispers! Why do You mumble!?!

So the pictures sit in the corner of a drawer, constantly weeping. Every smile is another throe of sorrow that racked her frail frame. You told her so much! You believed in those plains, those green, green plains, with the breeze that reminds of how dreams have grandparents that are real. You told her you would both go there, hand in hand, Adam and Eve for a new generation. But all is fallen, friend. All is lost and betrayed. You both sit, weeping, realizing your nakedness. But no Voice calls. There is only separation. And the beginnings of what some call death.

I know what I know. And I am told to continue. To follow that invisible One. Into whatever hell. Trust? Dare you ask? Think not of trust, brother. There is only obedience.

But I bleed and I weep. Obedience was what killed us. It led us to the threshing floor. But a seed must die, right? And, really, what was I obeying? I was obeying what I knew! What I believed. But I digress...

Solomon was the son of an adulteress. Can you fault him for that?

jack

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I think I'm becoming a monk. At least on the inside. Not in that I'm becoming introverted and withdrawn. But just that Christ is taking everything from me. I do not say this to suggest that I "fault" Him for it or whatever. What I mean is that I'm not entirely opposed to the process. But it is happening. Everything is being taken.

I think satan's greatest deception has been the implementation of cliches and overused terms. So many people believe in Christianity, but not God. Some people believe in God, but haven't yet discovered Christianity. But the two are tied, and God is God. Do not limit Him.

Well, there's no point in me really telling you. He won't be limited. I say it for your sake. You can't limit Him. Don't try.

My greatest failure has been my distance from truth. Because there is truth. And wherever it is, I've been strolling in the opposite direction.

Oh God, I'm tired of feeling the call tear me apart and rip me into sections of sidewalk. I'm tired of having the eyes of a homeless man and the heart of a hermit. So much of this world is tied into me, Father! Engrained into my heart and stubborn in its grip. Will I survive the separation? Is there such a thing as a safe surgery? Is there such a thing as safety?

I want you.

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I often wonder if I was meant to only romance in novels and dreams and half-relationships. If my real affair is with some distant, invisible ideal that could never actually take on flesh and walk with me here on earth. My soul is a child of Enoch (and how it has his eyes), while my heart is one of Solomon's bastards. The sacred and profane Aphrodite wrapped in one perverse civil war of wits and yearnings. A regular mess, easily classified as such.

But my desire to find a girl that I can wholly love and wholly give my heart to leads me away from relational celibacy. Because she does catch my eye. And surprises me daily. I mean, I conceeded some things. But these concessions soon became unecessary as I came to realize that she bears traits that would make an old man smile again. And most days I feel like an old man...

You scream out your filthy curse,
You hurt, you hurt
You carefully eye that black stone
Longing for a glimpse of that distant shore
But you are worn,
And full of age
That filled you
Even before your birth

But brandish your blade, darling
And face that eternity
That fills dearest Aphrodite
Bare your face
And show the throngs
That their precious opinions were wrong, wrong

You, yeah you, have a legend to forge
An epic to make
An innocence to save

You do not stand solitary
An army as wide as time
Stands to help you find

A strength you did not know could be created
or existed
for that matter.

That swallowing void,
Entices with its music-filled eyes,
And reminds, oh reminds,
Of the uncertainty bound to life.

Like a lover chained to a photograph.

Because we are, each one of us, mortal gods
Implanted within, with a divinity so deep
We long to embrace what we could never keep.

So, escape.
And choose to completely deny
The pleasure of exalting a lie.

Born with guns in our hands,
Doubtfully prophecied to be eventual plowshares,
We will wage a war, though our eyes may stare away.

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Is it really sacrifice to desire to separate from all of it? To desire so deeply to just clone myself, dress him in the right clothes, remind him of his own mannerisms, teach him to love the ones that matter, and then walk away? To never be missed, but to live the 1200 lives I've planned for myself. This can't be sacrifice. This is childishness.

Withdrawal is not wrong. Complete withdrawal is wrong. Christ withdrew. But David Koresh REALLY withdrew, and took a few down with him. The thin line between self-clarification and insanity. There comes a point when one must stop learning about oneself, and look to others.

So, again, I ask (are you listening angels? still in awe of me, the shining peak of divinity's creation?) why this hopeless self-interest. And the endless disgust thereof. The sickening narcissism (described with such poignance, as I delve into another blog entry...haha) becomes worse when mulled over. So I drop it. And laugh it off like a missed speck of spaghtetti sauce on my chin. And march on.

But there's a reason the Greeks and Romans and Babylonians and Hindus made their own gods. They wanted to marry humanity and divinity, but on their own terms, through the only eyes they had. They loved the darkness too much to really seek the light. But, oh God, could they even see to know what the light was? Can I?

Isaiah hit the nail on the head, gents. An unclean man among unclean people. This is the only response to Christ, to perfection, to God. Why is this? There is so much wisdom here. I beg for the grace to see it.

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When does the glory arrive? At what point is Prometheus released from his daily desecration?

How many days will I spill myself over, and find that I have been pouring into an empty cistern.

When does the glory arrive?

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I am a suicide that didn't die. I live the life that he would have, had he not died. Every day is day one.

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If this one breaks, I don't know if I'll recover. She's the greatest, deepest thing that's ever assaulted my heart. Idolatry is my temptation. Shiva might be my patron. Wandering is my curse.

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I lust after the gleam of heaven. I want to feel the burn of His eyes tear me to shreds and watch the final (though beginning) climax to surface and make it all make sense. It would be great for it all to make sense.