There are moments when the truth can sting you.
We make agreements with ourselves, embracing reality or so we think; by denying its impact on us.
We are the ones who are supposed to show love.
Because He died, because we are forgiven we must forgive, like some sort of reverse karma.
And really it makes sense. I’m not criticizing the structure that I’ve accepted. I’m just saying sometimes it’s (really) hard.
It’s hard because glares can make you feel shaky, and snide remarks can knock the thought out of you.
A person constantly assuming the worst of you eventually brings out the worst in you.
And when this is drawn out you start to loath not just them, but yourself.
Aren’t I better?
I should be better.
The lack of grace I have experienced has drawn me to hopelessness.
There’s no hope for this, there’s no hope for you.
And I’m not allowed to give up on people, we are not allowed to give up on people.
So instead I separate myself, because from afar I can pray, but up close I am consumed with insecurities.
And my prayers and good wishes have been more genuine that way.
Whether you believe in a sort of God, or the universes’ currents- I think all can agree that words have more meaning to God and the universe when there’s some genuine feeling behind them.
And when I pray I love. I do.
At one time I told people how much they meant to me, my young 17 year old self used to fall into tears when I would try and express the thankfulness I had for those who had brought me in when I had no one, when I was most afraid.
But in the last years these confessions have been met with criticism, If you care so much why don’t you show it? So in a large way I’ve stopped this practice.
And I’ve started to doubt my own care because of their words.
And maybe I don’t care.
After all.. You have better insight into who I am than I do.