Came onto this blog with the intention of posting something deeply confessional, carthatic and healing, but apparently, that magical Hollywood moment of healing through writing just isn’t working for me. It feels like spiritual constipation, that’s what it feels like.
(My apologies to James Ang, if he’s reading, who happens to be, as he likes to remind us always, a visual person. Lol.)
I don’t really know what to say at this point in time anymore. I’ve posted so many times about you, in rage, in anger, in sorrow, in brokenness, in bitter resentment, in faith, in hope, and I think at the end of the day the joke is on me because for all my words and poetry and lyricism what can I do? What have I done? I face the evidence of your irresponsibility and failure and I can’t help but weep at the tears you sow and the blood you reap.
And where are we now, after all has been said, every book has been read, every prayer read and every deed has been done? We’re further off from home than when you started, and I despair of one day ever seeing the man I knew(or thought I knew again).
It fucking sucks to hold a secret that you can’t breathe a word about, not because you’re forbidden to, but because the weight of your own tongue and the heaviness of your own heart keep you in bondage.
Love is drowning in a deep well, all the secrets and no one to tell. And our love for you is blind, but your pride and your anger keeps you blind. And I wonder how long before the fingers slip and the threads rip.
