Pain has a density and it is piercingly exigent. But when I am in the center of it, I know I am alive in a reality I wish to change, not trapped in a dream that, though delightful, is false.
My cross shows no sign of rot. If only I could use the wood to build a temple.
Joseph continues to pursue me. He will take what I can give, and expects me to do the same. I am ill at ease with the limitations. I do not want to be his mistress. I do not want to be burdened by secrets.
The problem with a wistful heart is that, when it grows tired, it will rest on anything or anyone at all. So, I have suffered many abuses, like we all must. And like we all must, I attempt to travel far from lands known to be replete with terrorists, and guns, and bombs, and things like that.
I have a paper boat. It falls apart when in water, or winds, or cold stares. I have long legs with atrophied muscles.
Who is the monster who keeps me in the dark, with the promise of light?