Sweet Reality

How did I get here? Why am I always in the wrong lane when I get to the traffic light? How is it that I so often end up on the wrong side of the door when it closes?

I cry, I cry and I cry – over my sins … my pitiful weaknesses … my nothingness … over myself.

Sure, pain is consciousness; it’s awareness. But, to me, it only feels like pain. Nobody really told me that, being human, it was my job to suffer and hurt. Or that growing up continued after adulthood and that most people never make it that far. I got the impression that life was supposed to be a big party. Perhaps it can be for those who want it bad enough. But I’ve never been very good at make-believe.

Now that I’ve climbed the mountain of my own personal darkness, don’t dare tell me to come back down, saying it’s not true, that I’m too hard on myself. These sins, these smelly things I cringe at because they’re all mine are the very things that kill the innocents.

Don’t you see, I will never know me nor you until I know – no, immerse myself in – the Suffering God. For I have never been, nor will be, convinced otherwise. My fairy-tale endings have faded, and the beginning of sweet reality has come forever.