Pure love is absolute freedom. It gives the object of its affection unbridled power to come and go as it pleases. Even if that means that the object of its affection chooses to walk away from that source of pure love.
Let me tell you what love is not. It is not stifling and controlling and domineering. It does not mask itself under pretenses of worry or care while it slowly squeezes the life from you under the weight of possessive control. It does not lash out at you when you have failed to carry out its expectations. It does not determine your life for you while your self-will dies a slow and torturous death.
That is obsession.
It only took me a thousand deaths to finally realize the difference.
If you’ve never truly hated someone with the deepest of bitter resentment and the hottest fire of burning rage–then do you truly know what it is to love someone?
If ever the black crashing waves of the purest loathing have never pummeled you, sucking you under in the fierce current of their bottomless depths, then tell me–how do you ascend into that sweet paradise of sublime beauty in equal measure?
To love deeply is to risk letting the pits of hell take you into their unrelenting embrace.
To crash unexpectedly into that fiery inferno, arms and legs akimbo as you pinwheel helplessly through the air.
To feel a thousand deaths as you watch your dreams sputter and die, winking out one by one.
But the glaring tragedy here is not having to survive such unbearable loss, no–the real tragedy here is to never have felt that kind of consuming love at all.
Invisible in a world full of molds,
We search desperately for someone who will see us–
Beneath the masks, beneath the facades, beneath the uncertain smile.
Will today be the day that someone will finally take notice of me?
Hear my words, look into my soul,
Acknowledge the small flame of my existence?
Will you be the one to stop by for a moment,
And warm your hands briefly by my fire?
To let me know that for a moment in time,
I was not alone in a world full of molds.
Did you ever have, as a small child, moments of such pure joy, that it felt like you could smell the sunlight, taste the freedom of the grass and the trees, and feel the song of birds gliding across your skin? And it felt like you were filled with so much lightness, and this knowledge that there lies something great and beautiful in store for you and all you have to do is reach out and just dive into it?
Almost like diving into a shaft of sunlight and exploding into a million particles of gold.
I remember how happy my childhood was, especially in that green house in Silver Lake. There were those moments that I felt like I was full to bursting with that feeling of pure, unfettered, joy. I have come to believe that was the presence of God, to be honest. As a child, I just didn’t know it was God. It’s very specific, too.
I have been awake and laying in bed for several hours, sifting through all the layers of adulthood that have been cast on me with every year that I have grown, and realizing that I never even had to carry a single one of these burdens. As I’ve been wrestling with God and all these realizations, and casting them all off of me, I was instantaneously brought back to that very specific place and time in the green house as a small child of 4 or 5, and that full-to-bursting presence of pure, unfettered joy I used to experience.
I realized that’s what Jesus meant when He said we are to become like small children. It doesn’t mean to become immature. I also realized that even as a small child, in hindsight, that feeling that I would bask in so often was actually a very mature and whole feeling. I’m doing everything in my power to bring that back.
When you realize you’re a heathen, that should give you hope. That means there is a way for salvation, for miracles.
We were taught to feel shame and guilt when we realized we were heathens. We were taught to bury our wickedness deep down inside and do our best to work our way back to the Father.
But Jesus didn’t die for the ones who were striving to be perfect, He died for the ones who knew they were heathens and were a lost cause any other way. The fact that God works huge miracles in witchcraft nations like Africa should scream to us the error of our ways, but instead we pat ourselves on the back and pacify one another that at least we have known God all our lives, and we are decent and civilized.
How we lie to ourselves.
The working of miracles amidst such sin and wickedness should provoke us to jealousy; instead we focus on preaching the same subjects harder.
We collect scars like trophies,
Running our fingers down each shiny surface
As the dust of years dissipates with each stroke
And pain, like the grandest of glittering diamonds draped around our neck
Each memory a sharp-edged facet cutting deep within its cold embrace
While the finest cloak of purple–so carefully draped around our body
Is knit of wounds and bruises too slow to heal in time
And yet so regally we stand
Gazing silently upon the carnage wrought throughout the years
As echoing within we hear a whispering refrain
Who set me to rule
over this desert land?