Pain too much with us

“The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity- but a broken spirit, who can bear?”
Isolation is too much with me- though in the midst of people, my heart is hidden, frozen in some distant well of grief and long forgotten. It is a slow bleed, an exhaustively tortuous death. Lips sutured to silence have lost their song. I will get over it- this, the assumption. Invisible is the chokehold that squeezes back health and life-giving tears. With the preacher I echo “vanity, all is vanity and dust in the wind”. Too much time to think, to care about the opinions of others, to try to be all that everyone else wants me to be. Do I know what I want to be? Perhaps- less disappointed with my own feeble attempts to be acceptable to God. I have died- and await some shadow of resurrection, but am found too unworthy. My family must go to heaven without me, for I don’t have the right password. Rejected- the old familiar litany- stamped indelibly onto my genes. But wait a minute- were’nt you despised and rejected too? Or is it that all of Israel exists in order to be despised and rejected- eternally lacrymosal? Surely there is an end to all of this somewhere- isn’t weeping supposed to endure for a night, with joy following in the morning? This caring is too hard- a tougher skin would have been kinder. Kinder for whom? Alright, I see it now. If you are going to continue to brand me with the irons of hell, couldn’t you let it be for the good of someone else? Couldn’t you give my pain meaning and purpose? This suffering for suffering’s sake is ridiculous.

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