Days go by when I am strong, powerful, and filled with courage.
When I see the peaks of the mountains and have no fear of reaching them.
Days when I do not fear the path before me no matter the uncertainty.
Days when I lock my gaze with the dragons, goblins, and unspeakable monsters warring against my soul and know that soon their blood will stain my blade.
“I am mighty,” I say to them. “I am strong.”
But then I feel the heat of the fire. The slash of the goblin’s crooked blade. And the razor sharp claws piercing into my soul and tearing it apart.
I am reminded that I am human. That I am weak. That I am easily broken.
Flesh and blood. A fickle being, slowly rotting away and getting closer to returning to the dust where my ancestors were formed. Where the maggots and the under-earth creatures shall feast upon me.
My strength wavers. My love sways for myself and for others. My hope in a future I thought I could see suddenly vanishes.
My sword is heavy. My shield is splinted. My spear is broken.
“I am mortal,” I whisper weakly. “I am weak.”
But I do not wish to be. I wish to move beyond my brokenness, my weakness. I wish not to be fickle in my love, wavering in my convictions, questioning my moral compass or my belief in my abilities.
But I must be. Why? Because it drives me to the everlasting.
When I am weak. When I am broken, a drive and passion swell within me to seek after a light, a spirit, and cosmic power that stretches beyond the stars, the heavens, and the uncharted reaches of space.
In my weakness I run towards this light. This cosmic being. I lie upon the floor broken and weak and empty. I lift my eyes up, my weakened gaze towards it.
“I am human,” I confess. “I am human.”
I hate it. Being weak. Being broken. Being human. But I must not be.
Why? Because in that weakness, my weakness, in being human I seek out something inhuman. Something that never tires, that never sways, that never changes, and is never weak.
The unchanging. The all-powerful. The everlasting.
I am weak. I am human. I am easily broken.
And I am glad.
She was Guinevere Starchild…
The heart she cries. She screams and aches and tears against my chest. She begs. She pleads. She violently thrashes within me. She cries out for something different. Something real. Something to touch her, ignite her, and set her free. She will not be ignored. She...
And what do we do when we are afraid to try again? When the voices and feelings of doubt start to close in around us? We stare at the canvas, the page, the screen. Staring and afraid. Afraid that we might not be able to create as we once did. Afraid that we have...