and so it happens again, the turning of another chapter, or at least thats what they call it, the passage of time suggesting movement, suggesting change, but no, its all just the same to me. the same unrelenting cycle i can never break free of- a rise, a fall, this ceaseless pendulum of better, worse, better, worse- an endless oscillation that leaves one not with hope nor the promise of transformation but with the slow erosion of certainty, because theres nothing more certain than this return to what i thought id left behind. and i know this, God knows this, no one else does, and perhaps no one else needs to, because this is mine and mine alone to overcome. my own forgetting and remembering- and thats just the worst of it, not just the failing, but the forgetting, the slipping away of the very resolve that had once burned with conviction, only to fade into the grayness of resignation, and i am so tired of it

tired of forgetting

sick of giving in

i must overcome

bcs what is left if not the struggle itself, what else is there if not the attempt? however doomed, however futile, to pull this self free?

but even this, even this struggle, what is it if not the failure to love, not myself, no, i am not concerned with that, it is not myself that i wish to love per se, but God, and yet how can one say they love God if they do not live as though they do, if every moment, every action, every breath is weighed down by the knowledge that they are failing, not in the grand, dramatic way of the truly lost, but in the slow, banal, unbearable way of those who know what is right yet turn away from it all the same? its easy to say that i care, i would like to say that i am trying, but im not even sure about that either. is this really what it means to fight? or is this merely drifting, floating in that nameless, weightless space again, the place that i have always hated, and yet here i am again, though i swore i would never return?

theres a verse, a warning, a condemnation They forgot God, so He made them forget themselves and what greater terror is there than this, this unraveling, this quiet undoing of the self, not through catastrophe, not through some grand and violent reckoning, but through the slow erosion of purpose, the gradual fading of what was once clear, and so i ask, i plead, let me not be among them, let me not slip away unnoticed even to myself, let me not wake one day to find that ive become nothing, that i have lost even the will to ask for help, because it is only to You that i ask for help, it is only to You that i turn, for there is nowhere else to go.