so i hardly think it fair that my mother is… allowed… yes, allowed, for lack of a better word, to come home at all hours of the night…drunk… yes, drunk, or rather, inebriated off of her ass. pardon my french. and even if she claims that she’s only slightly buzzed, the sight of a female role model (at least, that’s what she’s supposed to be, but i long ago abandoned the notion that anything she had to offer me was of any valid significance, so i guess its all just a load of crap) not in her right mind really puts me at unease.
My stepmother is an alcoholic. My birth mother, words cannot describe. (After all, what words could there possibly be to depict a stupid bitch, that walks out on her family days after her second son is born, in a positive light? Yeah, I didn’t think it possible either. And I’m always, without question, irrevocably right when it comes to my writing. After all, I am the writer). My father… to put it simply, is getting old. My Father is perfect, but in His perfection, He sometimes see fit to allow me to be “disciplined”, “refined”, and many other adjectives that leave a bitter taste in the mouth and all have to do with myself stumbling blindly along this ordeal that we like to call life, all the while attempting to be a light unto the world. with a smile on my face and Grace in my heart.
Sadly, her name isn’t Grace, it’s ——. I’m a human, with my human wants, human needs, and (can you guess the next word?) human struggles. Oh of course I know that “in Christ I have the strength to do all things”, but in this moment of weakness, the sins that are my kryptonite have stripped me of my superpowers and left me… simply human. And I feel my light flickering, sputtering, like an old streetlamp in the middle of an abandoned city, amidst the rubble that was once the world.
Too often, the light that is my life seems to reflect that lamp… instead of providing brilliant illumination into the misery that’s in this world, that is this world, my light is feeble, inconsistent, almost as it’s afraid of piercing the darkness that envelops it. Because it cannot see past it’s own feeble half-glow, it doesn’t know that all that exists in the space outside the dying light is just that-space-and instead, it begins to imagine into existence specters, bullies of the night that begin to torment and torture this little light of mine into diminishing, vanishing under a basket.
like always, i lack the fortitude to turn the beginnings of a rant into anything more than a short complaint. and im too superfluous and verbose to actually ever get my point across. but hey, maybe that’s a good thing. because even on the most public of all forums, only i can read the thoughts that spill out of my mind :)
but for the sake of dedicating a book to yurionics, i shall persevere. blooop…schwing..
if you havent caught on, its a soliloquy on Matthew 5:13-14. Look it up.
Im not conflicted; i just have too much schtuff that gets in the way of the things that really matter in my life.