Just a Morsel of the Real

I feel myself slipping into a funk, my mind is heavy with thoughts, reminiscing, reliving and second-guessing. I read part of a journal from 1992, it wasn't much different from one of my recent posts. It wasn't as pensive and whiny, rather it was raw and primordial but the same old person shone through. This isn't a phase I am going through, I've just come up again briefly for air before I am plunged beneath the waves again, delightfully drowning in delusion. Up the clarity that comes with that air both revives and tortures because at once I sense the real hope of escape but also the futility of my efforts--I am conscious but powerless, a throbbing heart trapped within the flesh of a corpse.

I am caught in one huge cycle of hope, disappointment, rage and exhaustion and it would seem that Christianity is just a part of that cycle. I cannot fill the void, the lonely emptiness I feel. I am weighed down by it. Every way out turns out to be another way back into the depression, but each time it is much deeper and more despairing because I know that there is one less route of escape than I originally thought.

I just want to figure out how it is that I got here. I wish that I could remember how long time was so that I could have some sense of the effort and energy it took me to get to the present. That journey is all but lost among the mangled parts of a once elegance sculpture. Maybe that is the definition of brokenness; however, it could also be an accurate, albeit stark, description of existence--not a sickness, as such, though it appears that way to some, but rather an immutable condition.

I want to be drawn out of this. My life sickens me, no, it is my perception of my life that sickens me. I long for something greater to hold onto but I must live authentically even if that means wallowing in the filth of domesticity. If it is not real, then I want not part of it. It is true that I have been searching for meaning and perhaps relying on means that were not meant that need. But is Christianity just another veneer that will be unable to support the full weight of meaning? I have toyed with the notion of mystery in faith but even the most faithful have some sense of the object of their faith and though it may not be defined as certainty it must be palpable--perhaps just an aftertaste without the meal. I know that I cannot accomplish this myself; even the greatest person of faith cannot go on completed starved, they must taste a just morsel of the real.