Hello boringness

A bad feeling. That the As are the end of something. Something like my future.

It feels like failure and impending doom. Has this not happened before to you O weary traveler? When you reach the gate and find that it is closed, that the hinges have rusted and trapped you beyond that portcullis to safety and comfort? I do not like this feeling, yet it inveigles its way into my chest and grips with an asphyxiation. Shouldn’t it then be now time to set off this effete path, to find a way unto an efflorescence instead? Sometimes even I cannot find the answers to mine own heart, and I leave myself out in the cold, out by those selfsame portcullises. And I feel my folly so distinctly myself! Why the brash rashness! Why the sane idiocy, in all deliberateness! Why choose to bury yourself and indulge in the everyday pleasures of sleep and food and sin… why then, why.

I came back to God two weeks ago, after a long exile by sin. I felt the full force of him in my heart, and I cried in my bed as I prayed, lying there, prayed as I poured out my confessions into his enveloping presence, spoke out aloud the words of my prayer and pleaded for his forgiveness, that I may once again return to His flock. The feeling then… the feeling of utter subservience, utter guilt, finally utter joy at His infinite grace and power. Never again will I want to turn from You Lord. Everyday I fight a battle with sin and the evils of my heart, with the faith of my Lord planted firmly in me.

The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want
He makes me lie down in greener pastures

What then do I have of want now? I think it is the desire to excel that pushes me on, and the desire to excel that mires me. I cannot stand to be better, to run in this marathon of competitive grades. It is so different from real sports, so vastly more selfish, poisonous, filtered and reamed in its note and texts and mindless paraphernalia. Competition nonetheless – contrivance nevertheless. The is pain both ways, and in both things, the pain of failure, the heart-rending, wrenching fall of not measuring up, but also, surprisingly so, the pain of glory and success. That being the best is only the veneer over a cesspool of private anguish and suffering and, more often than not, a stinking, rotting interior, derivative of pride and ambition. Now that, is what I cannot bear to stand for.

Ditto for prom.

I conclude on this note: wherefore art thou polity. The individual cannot even get oneself out of the mess it gets oneself in. the sins of one are the sins of many, and doubtless society becomes wrangled up by the cows of the people themselves. Who gets out of this mess better, if any get out at all? Maybe the best-dressed for success will be picked for prom king and queen.

Thusly I am not one of them. I live my own life.