Thursday, February 28

Death is the road to awe.

I’m about to go away for the weekend, which will horrify my cat but hopefully be good for my allergies. The area of the country I’ll be travelling in is one of my favourites, and I look forward to the time to pray and think.

Something inside me is not quite right--if I were talking about it in physical terms I would say that my depth perception is failing, or that my heart is beating off-pattern. I’m not motivated to do the things I love--I know it is this time of year, as well; Lent is a season of mourning.

There is a lot of pride in me that I wish God would tear out; once I prayed that he would rip it all out by the roots and so be it if my sanity or intelligence or physical ability went with it. I think he has taken me seriously. I’m happy, in the sense of having been blessed, not emotionally giddy, that he has done this thing even though it has cost me dearly. I don’t regret it, but the continual awareness of just how isolating skin and bones and cartilage and gore can be is exquisitely painful. I find it difficult to communicate with people that I love.

The worst thing about this is that nobody really wants to write back and forth, which is the way I best communicate. In a debate, I have the choice to either let my anger or my vulnerability rule me. Allowing anger to fuel me makes arguments more heated, more articulate, less logical, and provides me with an opportunity for rage. I am the first person to admit I don’t want anger ruling me. Vulnerability, on the other hand, simply leads to tears. This confounds my poor family and annoys them (they don’t seem to have any problem with this type of thing), and I can’t blame them. I hate crying and all the accompanying ills.

This entry is too long, now, and too introspective to be interesting. I have seen a fantastic movie, The Fountain and I’ll post the trailer here if I end up still thinking about it after the weekend, or impulsively buying the soundtrack.

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