Empty drawer.

There used to be a drawer. In that drawer, were your things. Not your belongings, but your things. Objects that represented you - that epitomized  you. You did not know that I kept these objects. They were for me. I cannot remember when I decided to place them in the bottom drawer of that childhood white dresser in my room - whether it was when I was still yours, or when I was not. Therefore I cannot remember the original intent of those objects, but they could magically become you when you were gone - that I can remember. I could open that drawer, and believe you were there.

There was:
the corsage with all the dried rainbow flowers you gave me for junior senior banquet,
photographs from that same day,
the letter you used to first ask me out,
a stick of deodorant that smelled like you,
and a certificate you once gave me that I never had the chance to use.

These things became you when I needed you. These things allowed my mind to remember - convinced me that it all did happen, even when it all felt like a dream. I cried into this drawer, I laughed into this drawer, I screamed into this drawer, I prayed into this drawer.

The drawer is now empty. Well, it is full of less-significant things. But it is empty of you. I do not remember when I chose to empty the drawer (it must have been years ago), but I do remember my intention. I had decided that you had been gone long enough, and there was no need for you to be in my drawer anymore.

Today I opened the drawer. And I cried out when I remembered that you are no longer there.

That was my Spirit.

I am notorious for my dreams.
I suppose they are partially my fault -
the fact that my dreams are,
well,
scantily clad.

Humans satisfy flesh.
I do follow God.
But I also know,
for the time being,
I am human.

Our subconscious,
in terms of Freud,
is quite primal.
Quite crude.
Quite... grimy.

So I do not blame myself,
entirely, for my dreams.
The substance of my dreams, rather.
But I know it is my nature speaking.
And I know I don't suppress it.

But when I dreamed of
love last night,
when my dream
consisted of my tender
spirit -

not my fleshly spirit,
not the animal that seeks
reproduction
and
satisfaction -

no, when I dreamed of love
last night, I was surprised.
When I dreamed that I laid
my head on his shoulder,
I know it was not primal.

When I could feel his breathing,
the small feeling of breathing,
when I could feel his heat on my
cheek, through the pillow that rested
on his shoulder...

...that was my spirit.
That was not my animal.
That was my heart speaking
not my primal nature.
That was my spirit.

Purpose.

I used to believe that sex my purpose. My body had just developed and "blossomed" (such a beautiful word for such an ugly phase) into this fleshy hourglass that everyone was supposed to admire.  I never saw mine as beautiful.  There was always something wrong. I turned my body into this tool for men to dig their teeth into.  I found every outlet for men to feast on me, besides physical sex, itself. Soon, the men took advantage of me - my body became an object for them.  I believed this to be my calling.  They hurt me - physically, emotionally, mentally.  I came home bruised and with a loss of innocence every passing day.  But I was fulfilling my purpose; I was moving towards sex.


And then I fell in love.  I fell in love with a man who showed me that I was worth more than sex. That I was more than a body to him, and more than an object for sex. That I had a higher purpose. The boring ideas of marriage, career, and kids filled my mind.  Once I fell in love, those ideas were no longer boring.  Once I fell in love, I longed for those things.

And, when my heart was broken, I did not lose those desires.  When the man I loved decided to end things the very day I intended to tell him I loved him, I had formed a greater, higher, purpose than I had ever envisioned, prior to that brokenness.  My higher purpose turned from a longing for a man use me for sex to a longing for telling a man that I loved him - and him telling me he loved me back.

UGM 5.23.13: Things I heard.

UGM - 5.23.13

"When I first entered UGM, J. told me that I would find Jesus in the gutter here... when you see a homeless man having a seizure on the street - how could you not believe in God when you see that? You need God when you see things like that.  L. having an eight minute long seizure on the street; I saw Jesus in the gutter tonight."

                                                                                                           - B.

Significant glitch.

After a nauseatingly substantial time, one would think the nauseatingly short "excursion" (if you will) would no longer be significant.  That those moments would be diminished by the substantial growth that took place in those years.  That the fact life changes so rapidly within those years of transition would cause one's mind to erase those ideas and for them to become so insignificant that one could laugh at them.

Not so.

Why are the moments I spend with him utterly joy-filled, yet the moments I leave his presence filled with uncontrollable sobbing? (Sobbing, not those pitiful tears that stream down one's face gracefully.  I mean the kind of crying that makes you look so ugly that you pity yourself.) Why do I scream in frustration at the night sky and then draw a bath for me to soak my sorrows in? Why is there still a lump in my throat whenever I see his frame; smell his fragrance?   Why does it hurt
so
much?

Is this a test from God or the devil himself? Or is this a human flaw, a glitch in my mental wiring?

Or is this life. Or is this love?