The Fence

I talk to my grandmother as if she is still alive. It almost seems as if I pray to her. Its easily confused. I pray-talk to her the same way I used to pray-talk to God as a child. My confessions brought me comfort without judgment, and my pleas were put at ease with the feeling that someone actually listened and relieved whatever burden I carried.

I have lost an enormous amount of focus. I find myself searching for these answers that lead me into more questions. At the end of the day, I remain the same with the irritably ringing inquiry, "Could it be, that everything you thought you knew was wrong?" A pure fallacy, if fallacies can be pure. Untouched I suppose... I found myself envying Don Quixote because his illusions seemed so real. To be honest, I was entertained by most of his illusions, but at the same time - jealous of his conviction. I wanted to be enraptured by something, at some point almost anything. I believe that's why I spent so much time sitting next to a tree or lost in the mountains, hoping that it would offer me a moment of transcendence. Art hasn't faired so well. I hit a wall thinking, "Maybe any sort of conveyance of man will not do?" To tell you the truth, I miss God. I miss our relationship, and I find myself destroying any possibility of allowing myself to be entirely devoted.

Hesitation has never lasted so long. I find myself doing it for as long as I can hold until I am forced to reckon with it's presence. 

I'll admit, I'm always scared so I vacillate back and forth hoping that when the time arrives I run in whichever direction my heart takes me and hope that my instincts function for every reason they are supposed to.