This I know.

For every breath that has uttered my anger and distrust. My despair, my heartache and my apathy, YHWH has answered with lungs full of himself.

And I cringe and pull away. I keep his words on my bed but I do not look at them. I dare them closer, by my pillow when I wake and they are open to Luke 18, but I will not let my eyes follow the words. And in the morning I grow angry and push the leather bound thin pages to the floor and I leave them there.

And I think about talking to him. I think of what I would say and I etch out my arguments and my apologies, my tears and my stories. I edge closer and closer to uttering them to the Spirit, and I refuse. I call someone I know will not answer or I sit here and I write. I write these words that I'm writing now and I roll my eyes at myself.

As if I could make him less near by deciding he isn't. He is, and it's unavoidable and I'll be honest, infuriating. If the depths of hell and the East and the West cannot pull his lung fulls of himself from my suffocating body, why dare I tell him he cannot be where I am.

He is, and it's unavoidable and I'll be honest, beautiful.
This I know.

I laugh and they are deep laughs full of mirth I did not know lived. My sentences have better endings today, and I am home on Thach.