Key Time
Doubtress
Breathe, Me
April 21st, 2019

I am beginning to taste the death I keep choosing for myself, Lord. And it’s suffocating me.

I am inclined to blame You; “Since You keep refusing to grant me my sinful wishes.” Wishes
befitting gods – or your biblical kings, my lord – that somehow feel outrageously sinful to us
now but seemingly permissible by You then. I impossibly desire to be one of Your Kings
from the bible – the ones upon whom You looked on favorably – but without necessarily
being required to act like either a king or any one of them; I want to be my own King but I
desire You to treat me like one of Your own.  

Inch by inch, when the devil wins me over I loathe myself many times deeper while
simultaneously wishing my exaggerated self-hate counts towards my penance.

I am terrified of Your Fantastic Grandeur and Immeasurably Mysterious Ways, my Lord; I
know it sounds like I don’t believe in those words but since You are God I know You know
I could not believe in them more if I tried. And so I keep finding myself turning my neck in
the night
reaching for you, feeling for you while deliberately not looking where I know I can
find You. I search in Your Name but I seek to not find You. Thus Your name does not
estrange my lips every few hours or so, eight hours at the most, while I concurrently make
sure I’m a complete stranger to Your Words. Like a fictional genie, I keep calling on a
caricature of You that I specifically designed to meet my shiftless desires. For I know if I
prayed to the biblical You and You decided to end my existence without even a sliver of a
pause, I would undoubtedly and profoundly agree, uncelebrated only if You executed me
without the benefit of Your bittersweet Judgment.

As a result, I keep silently desiring “to be embraced” by You in the most two-dimensional
way imaginable, acutely aware of how ignorant I am being of how You have currently
chosen, and continue to choose, to embrace
me within my non-fictional life.

And because I cannot find within me to have faith in myself (i.e. You
see me eternally and I
cannot see in myself but my inevitable death), I am contemptuous
of the way I suspect You
want me to live my life. Paradoxically, I’m
also full of self-contempt because I'm
wholeheartedly certain that my way of life is way worse and treacherous – even more
treacherous than I can theoretically fathom it.

So I oscillate between Your present and my fabricated future, d
isdainfully desiring both while
witnessing that I’m living (in) neither and eulogizing what I shamefully reflect on as my
inconsequential past – shameful because I could be worthy of recognizing its consequence
but I don’t because, deep down, I know I’m choosing not to.


I know neither these "pious" words of mine nor the fact that, in the end, I conclusively do
not want You to grant any of my flippant wishes, given that they reek of self-indulgent
blindness & intentionally unspecific malaise, can never, in any inconceivably plausible way,
exonerate me.  


But I am nevertheless writing this to You now because I’m finding that my reluctant
rejection of – I want to say Your powerful ways but ultimately, I must confront, must be –
You is restricting my airway. I’m c
hoking on my diseased ideals, my Lord.

And I’m insincerely not sure if this is a plea to help me find You against my own wishes or
to allow me breath within my disease.

Either way, please never leave my side until I leave mine to be on Yours.