I don't know what the hell is going on. I can sense fear growing in me. I want to sit still and hope I am unseen, unharmed. I want to remain in Cockaigne.
The desire to be with him is stronger when it's not possible, and that doesn't seem to roll off the tongue unselfishly. Part of me asks for God's will in an attempt to trick him into giving me my will. Praying becomes penance in order to receive what I really want, which is to continue knowing this boy--to continue being enjoyed by him. I try to couple God's omniscience with my feeble attempts at divine manipulation.
I know enough about you now, God, to know you love me. You love me. You desire the very best for my life. So I give you these thoughts to close your fingers around and to show to me again when it's time to feel or time to toss them behind you. Where does the vulnerability boundary lie? Is it okay to leave myself open to hurt? Is pain really the demon that he's been made out to be?
I want to conquer my fear of grieving, my fear of pain. A dear friend assured me, "If it didn't cause pain, it wouldn't have been worth anything." It was worth something. It was worth a lot, and I refuse to pretend differently to save my ego, even if the hope I cling to proves to be air.
"That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil--this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him." --Ecclesiastes 3:13-14