where to go from here.
don't want to burn out. don't want to cut out. don't want to be hurtful. but don't want to be fake. where do I go from here?

another question: why do I find myself in this place so often?
I'm absolutely certain the answer has something to do with Jesus, and I'm almost certain that I already know what it is, and I'm kinda certain that I can't fix it.

not so sure
when it happened.
my disgusting habits, these insincere words that slip out so naturally that I'm convinced they must have some truth to them, the inveterate complacency I show with regard to my faith, my mind, my feelings.

how do I feel?
defeated.

but fine. I feel fine.
I already know how this is going to play out. I don't like it. But I'm okay with it.

I want to get it out there.

I suck. I really do. Sometimes, I say things that are so twisted that I want to vomit, because even regurgitated scrambled eggs taste better than the filth that comes out of my mouth.
Sometimes, I hurt people so brazenly and refuse to show the slightest remorse afterwards, that they begin to doubt themselves and wonder what they did wrong to make me act this way. Usually, it's nothing they did. It's just that I get bored and restless or get distracted by something shiny.
Sometimes... many times, my heart is so saturated by lust and malice and hatred, that I'm tempted to stab myself just to confirm my suspicion that my blood has turned cold and black.

I am messy. I am a mess.

Back when I used to share my room with my sister, we'd always end up annoyed whenever we would clean the room together. I hated feeling rushed or having someone scrutinize my work or measure my efficiency.  At one point, I started making deals with her that if she left me inside the room for 2 hours by myself with the door locked, I would clean the room on my own.

I never spent the full two hours cleaning, I would clean for 10 minutes and then become immersed in an old babysitter's club book that I hadn't read in years. I'd clean for a bit more and play with my gameboy. I'd invent games or jingles to go along with my cleaning. I liked doing it in my own way, on my own time.

I'm sitting here in my dorm room in berkeley trying to clean myself out. It's not working. And for the first time in a long time, I don't want to do things my way. I want to do it His way.

But I don't think I remember how.

It was easier to listen when I was younger. To be obedient and to fully trust that someone else knew better. But all these pulls and tugs in my head keep tempting me to return to my cynicism, to give in to my human logic, to fall back on a mindset that is warped and full of holes.

"This makes sense."
"This worked before."
"This isn't really a problem."
"It should be easy."
"There's no point."

Sometimes, I feel like chugging a gallon of clorox would be more effective in making me clean than what God wants to do in me. The days when prayer feels empty and my faith feels empty and my life feels empty and the world is hot and vibrant and promising of fullfillment - those days, I want to smash the sharp pieces of my brokeness into the enormous pile set before me... and plunge my stained hands into it, enjoying how gloriously tangible every piece of filth feels against my palms. Substantial. Real. Undeniable.

Conceptual. God will cleanse me with His love. It hasn't become my reality yet.

If not for understanding, I pray for acceptance. I want to be a child and trust my father. I want his blood to redeem me. I want to be clean.



I should go take a shower.