What’s next for me here when I’ve done what I came for? What can come of us when I’ve given all of my love to the wrong one? What better can I do when I’ve made the worst mistake there is to make? Who left is there to become if I have existed in the highest fulfillment of myself? What more is there to tell you if I carry my scars and bleed them out on the floor? Who am I to find if I have killed off the person I was? What is there to protest when I haven’t been given a voice? And what voice is there to find when I won’t be heard? Who are you to love when I haven’t figured out how to love myself? How am I to survive when nothing proves enough for me? When everything is obsolete.
I think I am stuck and perhaps that is the catch, the thought becomes entrapment. So here I am, immovable. I don’t see – hear – or feel God, and I don’t, at this moment, believe the glory is to him. Maybe later, and perhaps that’s the blasphemy, belief in the action and not the existence. In the absence of myself, I realize the extremity in being accessible. I have made myself available to unavailable people. I curse them in all their non-action and yet have become painfully aware of my unattainability. Meaning praise God for their efforts to be available and curse my childish way of being nonexistent. The first time I traveled outside of the country, it was to escape from being too accessible. Perhaps in all my efforts I only became absent to myself. It’s crippling, denial, because it fervently strips your abilities to see – hear – or feel God. I think I am trying, but maybe that’s the illusion, that there is anything that needs to be fixed.
Miss Parisia B.