Senses and Shadows

The most challenging days are those that seem to perpetually exist within shadows.

Surely there is sunlight. I should be able to see it, and I can almost taste the blue sky…

Almost.

Sounds seem muted on days like today. In fact, all of the senses seem to be a little bit dull, except for the sense of touch. That sense seems to be very much alive. Not that it is experiencing anything. In fact, it seems worse that this sense is alive because it is in longing. It is in mourning. The whole body aches because it misses the feeling of feeling.

So, do those shadows exist? or is it the fog hanging so close before my eyes? Am I really feeling pain? or is it merely the phantom ache of wanting?

I find myself wanting to retreat further, counterproductively wrapping a cocoon around myself, hoping to emerge differently. But if I didn’t come out different last time, why keep expecting it to happen today? The pain in my shoulders feels like the strain of too much work, but it is heavier than even that. It is the pain of weariness. It is a strain crafted through much labor in solitude.

“Come to me…”

Your voice is real, but on the other side of nothing. I hear your voice and trust the sincerity, but do not know how to accept. Not today. Today I am tired. Too tired to reach out a hand to accept the help.

My prayer today is in desolation. I hardly know how to look up, but trust that rest will be found and comfort will be discovered because I can dream enough to remember that it is real. Tonight my slumber will be heavy and in writing out this morose chronicle a sliver of hope has been recalled. It has been memorized, committed to memory. Although it exists in a far off corner it is mine, it has been mine. It has been owned through much trial and over many dusty roads. A weary hope, but genuine. Suffering, to endurance, to character, to hope. Oh God, keep me in the character of prostrate soul, in hope. Hope will take another step when I feel that I cannot. Your power for my weakness.