Have you ever found your mind cast adrift as the broken pieces of you descend into the horizon? Lost, our vision distorted by the cosmic powers reflecting on the pool of the Earth. Alone, drifting, questioning the purpose of our existence. There we ponder God's essence of time and where we stack up to one another only to find we are nothing. Dust. Alone.
Identities.
The things we long for the most we are most often unprepared for when they arrive. Our longing is nothing more than a dream. We picture the perfect wife or husband, only to find an imperfect human does not fit our narrative. Relationships crumble into the abyss, becoming nothing more than a memory of what once stood on dry land. We look back, but there is no restoration. We are only touring Atlantis.
Hope is not found in perfection. What need would there be? Slowly the ashes drift by as we recognize there passing. The pier is gone. We are on our own. Cast out into the horizon; we ponder if going forward was merely an illusion. Perhaps going forward is nothing more than going backward. If the earth is round, we will end up in the same spot. Unless Kyrie Irving is right. Then we shall fall into space, gravity determining our ultimate fate — a horrible end from a wretched beginning.
Alone we obsess to overcome our anxiety. But deep down we know our anxiety is nothing more than our perceptions of reality. Slowly we morph false destinies into certainties, and we ponder if our doppelganger in another universe reaps the benefit. Slowly we are drifting, but where are we going?
Slowly the sand wraps around our feet. The small explosion on the sea floor as we arrive, a reminder that even the lowest can alter the present. Perhaps this is where we are meant to exist. Perhaps this is our forever.
We yearn for the next current to sweep us into the future, but we continuously swim toward the past. Foolishly we discern that to go forward we need to return to who we were. Broken. Sinful. Alone.
Life isn't Call of Duty. We don't respawn and find a new path. We either forge on, or we die. We covet what others possess, yet are unwilling to do the work. We seek a get out of jail free card, yet reject the eternal redemption. A dog that returns to his vomit is like a fool that returns to his folly, so what do you call a dog that rolls in his excretion?
If tomorrow is soon to come, why is today so long? But I am already in bed. Time is running out. Watches fail to count the minutes and are merely reminders of mistakes. Time is not moving forward. It is running out.
The people we have wronged cannot see us at the bottom. And we cannot fully see ourselves. But even Jonah was not foolish enough to sink this low. And I don't think the pit of darkness hides us from God.
What happens when the past becomes the present, and the present is our future? Where is the hope in that? We will forever be stuck in a cycle of perpetual mistakes. Slowly we morph into the worst version of ourselves. Our grandparents are old. Children are too young to understand. But what is our excuse? When we were children, is this where we wanted to be? When we entered the world of eternity, is this how we saw our life of maturation?
The floor is cold and rough. Not even a broken mirror exists here. I cannot see my reflection. I feel my face but question my existence. Now is not the time to look back. Nor the time to look forward. Those directions will provide light for themselves. But there is only way out now — only one way to fight the current. The only way is to humble ourselves to restoration. To shatter who we once were and find our new identity. To go up.
A New Hope: Finished.
Identities: Next.