...and action

Acting like an adult is very different from being one. Acting is a paradox in itself; to live in another shell, free of oneself yet, simultaneously, to be hidden and silenced, tucked away like an insecurity. Like a bit of yeast, the suffocation works through it all and I'm left with an undesirable silence. Just silence. The baby yearns to be seen and touched, but you can't even hear it.

Perhaps this freedom should receive a nominee. An inception in waking hours, maliciously wrapping its webs tighter and tighter 'round, while the poison gives a sense of a cold relief when it's really, killing so softly.


When the baby fidgets or dares to make a peep, the venom doubles and there's really no choice but to play dead or revert back to the obedient fetus, voiceless but breathing. Eating, drinking, listening, soaking up everything with no filter. 


I am my own darkness. The malefactor of my own demise and suffocation. 


*


Or, perhaps every human being is constantly on set for his or her role as an adult. The possibility itself is comforting or easier to cope with at the least.       

19 More

It's always at the point of renewal and reminders of who I really am, that I remember my desire, my love of writing.  Shelved behind the other more "important" things to check-off in my day to day, I'm always a bit embarrassed to be coming back here. Still, words and the expression of words from heart to brain to paper has never ceased to mercifully allow me freedom, peace, and joy.

I've found some alone time, for the first time it seems, since my marriage. A weekend to myself. T'was a weekend of empathy for Doctor Watson as he cried over Sherlock, a marveling and despising of Moffat & Gatiss for the cliff-hanging end, while I munched on spinach leaves, my favorite, feeling great, and danced to Ricky Martin and Cierra or browsed through Saturday morning cartoons, when I needed a break from planning lessons and wrapping up the rest of this long, arduous semester.

*

One of my best friends is happily married today. I scavenged through every fb photo for more of the wedding and each photo brought me back to my own wedding. The day that the rest of my life began. It really was a beautiful day. But, as I have had trouble recalling in the past months, there will be another wedding, very soon.

19 more days, and I will be back to the place where all of it really started. The place of my first love. The place where He called me out of the tangles of religion and self-righteous pedestals and submerged me into the depths of his calm, ferocious love. A place I could breathe. Deeply breathe.

One of those days

It was one of those days.

My frustrations with myself and with the world always seem to explode in tumultuous tears and sobs forcibly held back. And then after all that pent up energy is painfully let out like the air screaming through the tiny sliver of balloon, I stumble my way into my secret place, the corner with the dim lights and the silent keys. Here, at last, I am free.

I struggle to find the root of my problems. I seek the truth I say, but maybe I only seek comfort. I seek justice and the Kingdom of God, but maybe I only seek self-pleasure and the kingdom of Hannah-is awesome-and-amazing.

I want.
What do I truly want out of this life?

Though many morning and nights I've wanted else, Jesus today, at this moment, I want You. Again. and Again. and Again. and Again.