Swirling thoughts—I cannot pin any of them down. I cannot pen any of them down. Clarity eludes me. I don't know what to say.
Perhaps it is the full moon. Perhaps it is my full stomach. My full mind. My full calendar. Everything is full except that which matters.
And so it goes that the stomach is full but the heart is empty. Hungry. I am always, always hungry. The one spot nothing fills. Nothing satisfies.
I cannot do this. This is not within my power to fix. The more I try to fill that which feels empty, the emptier that which cannot be filled by my own hand becomes. I am at my end. Again.
Thoughts, swirling. Words, swirling. Scraps of paper, swirling. Slices of pizza, swirling. Scoops of ice cream, swirling. Longings, legitimate and otherwise, swirling. Dreams, desires, and disappointments, swirling. Schedules and school work and Saturdays off, swirling, swirling, swirling.
It is out of my hands.
Sovereign Lord, I beg for the reassurance that it is all, indeed, in yours.
Perhaps it is the full moon. Perhaps it is my full stomach. My full mind. My full calendar. Everything is full except that which matters.
And so it goes that the stomach is full but the heart is empty. Hungry. I am always, always hungry. The one spot nothing fills. Nothing satisfies.
I cannot do this. This is not within my power to fix. The more I try to fill that which feels empty, the emptier that which cannot be filled by my own hand becomes. I am at my end. Again.
Thoughts, swirling. Words, swirling. Scraps of paper, swirling. Slices of pizza, swirling. Scoops of ice cream, swirling. Longings, legitimate and otherwise, swirling. Dreams, desires, and disappointments, swirling. Schedules and school work and Saturdays off, swirling, swirling, swirling.
It is out of my hands.
Sovereign Lord, I beg for the reassurance that it is all, indeed, in yours.
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