I cried out; no one listened. Maybe I would get better luck if I were more like you, reciting piteous streams of self-indulgent tear-streaked poems at a concert hall crammed to the curtains with chumps. Instead, I rake my breast and tear my shirt in the deep woods where only God and no one can hear.
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This is simultaneously wonderful and awful.
ReplyDeleteIt reminds me of the Pharisee and the tax collector and of Jesus.
The thing is, though, you have someone to listen to you. I hope you know this, and I'm sorry I'm not the person you wanted to listen (I don't think I ever am, actually).
Also, I think there needs to be solitude in anguish. I don't know how to explain it.
Janelle, I don't write things about myself unless I'm depressed, and even then it's not guaranteed.
ReplyDeleteI know that, but it seemed like a good opportunity to remind you.
DeleteGod always listens. It's one of the great things about Him. Sometimes it feels like He's not answering, but perhaps He's just composing His response.
ReplyDeleteI'm thinking that I'm not close enough to be talked to, but I'm still offering my ear. Both you and Janelle are part of my Fellowship, after all.
For some reason I had a mental image of you as a rock star. I don't know why.
Then again, this might just be well written. It is that. But authors usually know something about the emotion they write of. The degree of the emotion--well, that can be exaggerated. I know I identified a little with this piece.
DeleteThus the long answers.
It's more like Kubla Khan: a prolific author afraid of losing his inspiration. An author with an audience afraid of screaming in the woods.
ReplyDeleteWell, that changes things.
ReplyDeleteOh wait. No it doesn't.
Fair enough. But no matter how much I appreciate my audience, I would blog to no one. Just less often.
ReplyDeleteI know. So do I.
ReplyDelete