Through Rest and Strife

A final word rings in the ear. Silence - and a speeding heart rhythmically dances with its partner, rapid breaths. "What can I say to that?" My words must commit apoptosis. They are cancerous mutants that will surely spoil the next morning if I give birth to them now.

So I wont.

My mind remembers ancient words. And more ancient words come following the first set. They tell me what I need to know but not what I want to hear. Ahh, discipline is required here. Its not even patience. Its a blood match inside my skull. One of us is going to win, the other is going to die. Die for today anyhow. Tomorrow one of us must be killed again.

Every time I die I learn to appreciate the victory. This feeling comes later, always delayed. Faithfully it proves to be what was best, the right choices, yet knowing them before hand doesn't make it less difficult to carry out; to follow through with the hit. I am the hitman, and this body is the hit.

Die to thy self, pick up your cross, come follow me. "Isn't that what he said?" Yes indeed, he said this. Also, the greater man is able to subdue himself and does it than even a man who single handedly takes cities. That's a paraphrase, but did you hear that!? Did you feel it?

Ancient wisdom. 

Spiritually discerned. 

Yes. 

Sometimes I am seething with disappointment. Fury has no place in this, for it is not justifiable. Why would I humiliate myself with excess emotion uncalled for? The very thing I despise. So it rests in the garden of disappointment. *whispers are heard* "bitterness".

Cast the stick into my waters, Lord. I wish to drink of fresh water. Sweetness in thy sight. So I save this soliloquy, shut my laptop, and close my eyes, thanking God for my beautiful wife.

Author's Note

Go easy on me.