It's cold.The pressure came in last night, and held me for about an hour. A poi flexing I my head. Took a Cymbalta and then I got in bathtub. I laid in the warm water and picked my feet up out of the water. My feet were high about my heart.
It wasn't long until the pain went away; was it because the meds or was it because of the water ritual?
I have a fellowship with the darkness I'm addicted to men Speak of the prince.
But this morning I heard a word. And a call towards Second Corinthians.
Do these small moments of hearing The Lord indicate that he's still interested, and that I should repent immediately--which is easier than it seems--or, is it the brisk, "Come on, Come on!", that a friend would give another who was beginning to pass out after a severe blow?
I think it is both.
"Sights and sounds bring me back down another year. I was here" I could continue to spout the lyrics of Tori Amos, but for a reader--and more so for my conscious--I can recall a year ago, about this time. I spent these cold November days writing about something that I could bring words to. Something so horrible, something so sinister, that I can't take it from my mind.
And now a year later, I still have not the words to bring out the truth of what happened, or the depth of humanity that was endured.
I think it would be hard for anyone to understand.
I went to see nameless; family today. I wanted to talk to them about this non verbal horror, but they declined my offer. They new better than I that it wasn't the time. I'm ok with that.