"Come to me, ye who are weary." in Good Morning Providence.

My writing is circular.
Over the last decade in counting, my patterns have remained static:
Griping about the single life, living with parents at a relatively advanced age without having decided upon a definitive career path before and after college, and bemoaning the relative monotony and inherent displeasure in minimal, dead-end jobs at which I’ve been employed within this small frame of time. These themes, however have persisted without significant alteration, in a way in which I feel my general goals might be satisfied…For the most part, I acknowledge my complicity in the majority of these troubles, and It’s a crippling matter of personal frustration to consummate any manner of passion, with whatever flicker might appear glow in this abyss. I possess prowess in a number of activities, which engenders a small sense of awe in those who are unable to illustrate, play guitar, speak Japanese, or perform in front of a crowd. The frustration in this scenario, however, is that these abilities remain rather inert and unexplored, thanks to so much misplaced guilt and doubt, to which I’m wont to concede.
II Timothy 1:7- For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.
If that’s the case, God is either absent, or simply ignored. Being governed by timidity, self-control is overtaken by desperation and lizard-brained responses, and only malicious hatred can emerge in the shadows of so many tyrants watching me from every arc of this bowl. Though I pray, occasionally fast, and work for the homeless, ever attending to the needs of others, I’m still subject to the same indecision and addiction to anxiety and dread inherited from my childhood. It’s not as if I work expecting some manner of tangible payoff, but I never thought that the desire for clarity and better governance of my sphere would be an implausible request.
I share a home with the father who was both verbally and physically abrasive towards my brother and me, and the mother who continues to endure his expressions of insecurity and festering desire for control. Why I continue to stay in this home is a matter rooted in a sense of masochism or cowardice; both could be true. While it’s an expression of self-deprecation, it’s difficult to dub them as anything but.

Last updated October 10, 2014