We take roughly 32,000 breaths in one day- letting the energy of this world filter through our bodies, cleansing our heart with septic desires and an idea of lust that has no match for love. In a life that is overflowing with screened joy, we fall into a pattern of addiction, whether it be by consumption or material value, and still, are dumbfounded by the depression that can consume us. Reality wakes up and sees the dependency on this world as the cause and effect of an unknown identity, an unknown purpose.
It’s daunting, how easily we are gripped by fear; without even knowing it our minds are hung up by the lies of our dismayed hearts. Our feet walk one direction as our eyes look another. We desire and crave as silently as angst commands. It tends to lie naked and confident; longing to demolish any chance of ignorance left inside our bodies and holds us as stone-
I have seen a common theme behind the fear of pursuit; having had multiple conversations revolving around the idea of complacency all because failure grips us. But every bloom begins from a root and I believe many of us struggle with a broken one. We (I) am very much a reactionist. I look for approval in others- the smile after a joke, the concern from an idea, the confusion from an action. Craving and thriving off the reactions of those around me. It can be my motivation just as much as my crutch.
I look around this life, caught in the glimpses of loved ones; hanging on to excuses that allow love, passion, and thought to flow freely as if it was the norm. I blink, a new day has dawned, and we move forward with a new idea of normality, accepting new circumstances as a “blessing,” and continuing down the path that our flesh designs. For days and moments that are desired to be extraordinarily more heart pounding, I find are the most broken.
Overwhelmed by the weight we eagerly place on our shoulders every day, and consumed by life’s glimpses of love- I fall back into my seat and remember that’s not how it’s supposed to be. The breadth of my arms is not wide enough for the enemy’s antics, nor is my back strong enough to endure its’ rage. These hands of mine are too fragile for miracles, and my feet won’t last a night of the cold ground. We have this exhausting sense of power over the wrecked things of this world that we often fall in defeat because we are too prideful to ask for help.
Identity: the distinguishing character or personality of an individual. We long for this assurance in our lives, to know exactly who we are and grasp whatever purpose we individually receive as someone on this earth. Often, we fall short of this confidence. You meet someone that is struggling in grand decisions that ultimately “define” them as a certain type of person. Effectively that decision doesn’t come so easy anymore, it’s now tangled and attached with fear of what that identity will be and how the world will look at you. It’s a crippling moment. In an instant, we are convinced that we are locked in