Inordinately long ago...

I found this document when I was cleaning up the files on my computer. These files had been transferred and transferred and transferred from back in 1990-something until now. There still survived, along with these, a 'novel' I thought I was writing in junior high. Amongst these ancient ruins, I stumbled across this and realised there was no other place for it, but here.

It would have had its home here then, had honesty been acceptable. But, as it wasn't, it hid in the shadows until it's truths were no longer valuable. I air them now as a way to continue taking out the garbage.
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It had all begun so perfectly! I remember now the look he had on his face the first time my eyes met his. It was what one would call "love at first sight", but I called it a chance. A chance to what - love? to live again? I just wasn't sure, but I knew it was a chance.

And then the time passed.

The icy winds slowly hollowed out the tree of our youth, the deserted stream of chances slowly dried and left its tale in the cracked roots of hopelessness. The things I had first felt soon became the ghost that only haunted my memories...the dreams, the hopes, the life that had been so wrapped up in that first look, that meeting of two weary souls - that chance.

Now the years have melted like the snow in spring. The winds have changed, blowing dust over the already cracked roots of my youthful wishes. The seas that once glistened with trust and knowing are now but an outline, a dim tracing of that former life.

I admit to myself that I would have loved to keep hold of that original dream. But I must also admit that I have been fooled, tricked, blinded by that chance that I had for so long believed in. And with this admittance comes the stark, cold reality of my situation. Mind you, I do not so much pity myself, but am in this state of revalation - forced to come face-to-face with reality, with as much as one can come face-to-face with such an entity as reality.

The fact is that now I've had time to look it over and am in an entirely new place - I realize the sad and demoralizing truth of my situation. In actuality, the death locked now in the merciless desert of relationship has only doubled and worstened upon itself. The endless uncaring has drained even the remains of life from its bottomless void.

And yet, after what feels like lifetimes, there comes the close...
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And the close did come, many years ago now, and it's coming was not so terrible as I had imaginged.

And now, as I sit here at the end of other things - the end of an era in life, the end of one job and the beginning of other possibilities and other directions to go, I recall the feeling all too well. But, I think now I am less afraid of it. Or, at least, more willing to accept it.

And to see the blessing in the curses we incur as time naturally goes on.

If only.

Anne Lamott wrote:
The great writers keep writing about the cold dark place within, the water under a fozen lake or the seculded, camouflaged hole. The light they shine on this hole, this pit, helps us cut away or step around the brush and brambles; then we can dance around the rim of the abyss, holler into it, measure it, throw rocks in it, and still not fall in. It can no longer swallow us up. And we can get on with things.
[...]
We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the cstle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words - not just any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.

Blood:Water Mission put it this way:
The role of the artist is tantamount to our core purpose of building community through creative social action, because artists have a unique and vital role in addressing and humanizing the crises of our day. We have seen how artists can act as a voice for the voiceless serving as storytellers giving dignity and power to the untold stories of people and communities. Artists create movements, galvanize supporters, and grow life-long advocates.

And so, I am writing, have been writing, will go on writing. About the places that are terrifying to myself. About the places that are cold and frozen, that are stuck in the worst sense of the word.

Not because I think these words will certainly change the world. Not because I think I will obtain anything for it in the end, save for a ticket to the end of the line just like everyone else has, that I have already been handed anyway. Not because I think that I am climbing up a mountain or racing on a track or somehow getting anywhere other than where I am standing right beside everyone else. Not because I think that I will repay the debts that I have, in so few years, already accrued.

If only because I might glimpse something real and true and meaningful somewhere along my way and might say something of value. If only because I might somehow live a life that is worth the while. If only because I might uncover whatever it was that has been covered over so well. If only that someone might look in on the disaster and see something of themselves as well.

If only so that we will be able to say with clarity and conviction someday that the truth, that reality, that God is our home. And if only so that we will really feel it.