Thoughts from a Plebian

I feel a certain amount of unrest. Recent events bring light the bitter gall of my ambitions, and my perceptions. It's brought to me, and I am sore. I don't want anymore. Yet I know it's gonna be okay. Patience, that which is so hard to obtain and keep, slips away at the slightest provocation. Reflections of my selfish nature, my shaky foundations, my shallow and tacked-together floor on which I stand. I hate it. I can see that it is not my surroundings that bring the churning guts and sickly taste, and I despair at times of finding cleansing. Or I meditate on that which is hard for me to see and obtain, and that in itself is poison--the thought of what I do not yet have. I have to cling to the hope--it's there, He has said so--the hope I have in hand is sure, but not over-riding. It doesn't rear up and proclaim itself, as the despair and desolation does. That hope, it's quiet. It's not as heart-wrenching and immediate--it's a knowledge--and that in itself is difficult. My eyes are not accustomed to focusing on that hope; my sight is almost affixed to the poison, and my ears almost tuned to the key of that acridity which whistles its melody most cheerfully.

I must fix my eyes upon that which has been set before me--but oh, how hard! What I perceive is filth, and ways immovable and circular. What He perceives--what? I am not who I am perceived to be. I can't be. I strive against it. Yet it slaps me in the face; my efforts to change seem useless, my pursuit of understanding, fruitless. Desolation claws at me. I look in the wrong places, I am aware. But that which is unseen is farther away than that which is seen--or less easily accessible. How I wish I could hear the voice I know that I need to hear from! I want Him to voice His thoughts--His opinion--His affirmation--His view of me, from the inside out! I read His letters to me--but sometimes I wish I could see Him face to face and hear from His lips all that He says in His word.

And so I continue on in my perception of despondency and desolation--though I know it will pass. That hope which is so quiet and meek is still warm and alive in my hands.


higher sight, He sees
a temple, golden and shining.
a vantage, lower and despondent,
not able to wipe the mud away.