Some nights you just feel so incredibly weary. You feel it in your bones. You feel your entire life stretching, stretching, stretching before you; it's short, but also interminably, abominally long. Perverse, even. It is as though you are constantly living in the hazily alluring yet eternally unobtainable past, and every single moment that is not filled with pain exists for the sole purpose of becoming history, becoming a past memory that taunts you. Every song exists to be interwoven with something, someone, some place that has long gone away from you. Every smell exists to be associated with something you cannot have, you cannot hold, you cannot capture and imbibe and make exquisitely your own.

You want to be keenly awake, alert, alive, but not wracked by guilt and remorse and anguish every other waking moment.

Sometimes you ask yourself this question: do you care about them? or do you care only about their pain?

There is nothing more astonishing than a human face.... you feel your obligation to a child when you have seen it and held it. Any human face is a claim on you, because you can't help but understand the singularity of it, the courage and loneliness of it.

Gilead, Marilynne Robinson

You want to stop worrying - you know it accomplishes nothing.

You want to let go, to have faith, to hand it all over to His loving and capable hands. But it is hard.

You start off this blog post wanting to be coherent, to communicate, to make sense. But it is hard, it is late, it has been one too many drinks.