Wednesday, 30 October 2013

There's this story I'm writing.

There's this story I'm writing.

It hurts. 

It cuts deep. 

It dreams further. 

It complains muchly. 

It hopes longer. 

It always returns to the light. 

It sleeps shorter. 

It forgets and remembers. 

It loses sight of the light. 

It sits in the darkness. 

{and yet} It always calls the light its home. 

It sings a song of screeching and melodies. 

It strings lights up and all around. 

It sits alone and it rushes to the arms of those around. 

It feels consumed by death and still remains in life. 

It let's lust take over but always returns to letting God's Kingdom reign. 

It carries a monkey around. 

It wears goofy glasses and loses itself. 

It treasures family but sits in the arms of friends. 

It bleeds. It bleeds without want of an outcome. 

It yearns. It longs. It wants. It desires. 

It becomes. 

{and} It is becoming. 

There's this story I'm writing; I'm weaving. It's the story of a girl-turning-woman who is trying to find herself in the in-between spaces. It's the story of a girl growing older learning that there is only One place to find rest. 

It's my story. And I scrawl it day by day, minute by minute. I draw all breath from one place - even when I reduce those breaths to desperate gasps. It's my messy; beautiful garden. And I'm loving welcoming you in. 

Today is a beautiful day.