journal 2
(speak only in whisper)
what do i mean to do, in this, to what end have i set out? my hand at my own throat, threatening, uncertain why i’ve placed it there, remembering only hazily, as if through a fog, the clarity with which i first began to hear “naf dreg” murmured in my ear, knowing now only that i must complete this, see it through.
and if i have trouble retaining the urgency i should feel at this real threat, it is only because i do not believe myself, somehow certain that i will not truly launch such assault, that i am, however unlikely, still safe behind this veneer of identity.
perhaps it is that word which unanalyzed restrains me from the terrible depth below: identity. for as sure as i write this i do not identify with that child anymore. i do not find him in myself. but only at first glance. gazing only a bit longer, deeper into, i find that he is everywhere, in the subtle sense of righteousness i still bear in my chest, the clear-minded certainty of my own inherent value, the shameful knowing that there *is* forgiveness from someone, somewhere, were i willing to reach out to it.
and it is perhaps this certainty that i most need destroy, unmake, prove groundless. to offend the Ghost that it may never more come to me, to drive away the deific hand outstretched, to scratch and wound it, opening sores, making mockery of such sacrifice. what potence do i have to offend a god? perhaps none, i do not know. but i know i have within me the potence to so woefully strike at that in me that would offer itself up to a god that i will never again be holy, pure, or sacred. to stab and kill the good son, until there is nothing left in me that any god would want, and forever remove myself from such Grace.
for until such wounding and murder, there will always remain some part of me reserved, held back and waiting, to see if i will fall or fail, and if so beg forgiveness, knowing i have with me a card unplayed, a favor left ungranted, a net waiting for me should i stumble.
i want no net. and should i misstep and hurtle through the blackness down, i would that i should end crushed and bruised and destroyed, than gathered up in some godhand and placed, somnambulist forever, beneath his wing.
“naf dreg” and i will slay the good son.
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