the hum of the fan, one that refuses to cool any part of the stifling room, is the only sound,
with the constant turn of the blades bearing a likeness to the steady rotation of
words and
sentences and
incomplete thoughts
thrashing about in my skull.
tossing and
turning and
back again.
lying sleepless and increasingly frustrated at the impossibilities I've constructed for myself,
in a fortress,
if you will,
of determined failure.
i've become distracted with false fantasies of adequate replacements.
i've reached for hands to hold to keep mine from interlacing alone.
i've cried out to the walls, to the ceiling, to the emptiness,
but i want to come home.
i miss Your merciful assurance lulling me to sleep.
but i've forgotten the way to You, and i'm terribly lost.
i am
selfish, ungrateful,
and altogether useless,
but i promise to try
if You'll guide me back in.
please.
tossing and
turning and
back again.