There’s an inkling of the divine woven throughout this space, here.

A cool draft finds its way up my forearm and I instinctively pull the blanket closer around me. Steam accumulates and ascends above the mug sitting atop the table. The room remains still. My fingers across the keyboard become the only activity within sight. I’m safe in this moment; controlled and steady.

Emotions stir within me and my body fidgets in response. Recurring sentiments and nostalgia builds and fluctuates as I lose the obedience of my mind.

Contrition. Turmoil. Curiosities. Boundaries. Desperation. Healing. Release. This cycle repeats itself as I watch from my position on the floor.

I visualize them, the moments and their effects, the antecedents and their power. They each tell their own fractured stories; they selfishly crave to be heard and seen.

Waves of closure wash in around me; I see it, but I refuse to move. I don’t deserve it. I let the water bound and entice me, but I won’t let my skin taste the clarity. The confusion is too welcoming, too familiar, too deep.

There’s a tenderness in my eyes as an absent, adrift emotion envelops me.  I sense it and I keep it for my own sake, to remember, to hold.

A weak, spent portion of my being sits in this state until I acquire enough substance to reach out. My hand aches to feel the water. My eyes screw shut and my body remains pensive, fixed.

Only my arm moves. The water is consuming. At first there is nothing. The bitterness and remorse remains. The questions persist and continue to permeate. But the pain dulls. The confusion begins to actively breathe. The desolation is no longer a void. There’s purpose behind what was once an empty pit.

The chasm closes.


And then, forgiveness.



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