the sixth sense of self-entitlement

the past three mornings, i have woken up with a sore heart. i've taken my shower, i've put on my makeup, picked out some clothes, and i've tried to care about any of it. i've sat down at my computer, i've eaten a piece of fruit instead of getting starbucks, i've ended up slamming the computer shut, and i've tried not to care so much about any of those things. and somehow, for the past three mornings, i have gotten safely out of this apartment - i have successfully passed through the emotional gauntlet that are "mornings alone", and i have put forth just enough effort into my appearance that i will not be noticed, neither positively nor negatively. i have taken one last look around, i have walked down the stairs, set the alarm, and taken a deep breath.

and the minute the door opens, i've been embraced with hope.

i don't know if it's the sunshine, or the temperature, or the quality of the air itself, or the key that the birds are singing in... or if it's just finally passing into the Light, moving out of the mental traps that lay within these 4 walls and the direction of my thoughts if left untried... the hurt, the anger, the sense of entitlement, the grieving, the mourning, the lack of hope and joy that i am tempted to feel... these things do not disappear the minute they hit the outside air, but such heavy thoughts are surely a bit more difficult to entertain once they are brought into the light... into the sunshine, the cold, the rest of the world around me assuring me that it's all going to be alright.

- - -

" 'Read your complaint,' said the judge.

I looked at the roll in my hand and saw at once that it was not the book I had written. It couldn't be; it was far too small. And too old - a little, shabby, crumpled thing, nothing like the great book that I had worked on all day, day after day. I thought I would fling it down and trample on it. I'd tell them someone had stolen my complaint and slipped this thing into my hand instead. Yet I found myself unrolling it. It was written all over inside, but the hand was not like mine. It was all a vile scribble... But already I heard myself reading it...

There was silence in the assembly. At last the judge spoke.

'Are you answered?' he said.

'Yes,' said I.

That was four days ago. They found me lying on the grass, and I had no speech for many hours...

I ended my book with the words 'no answer'... there had been no answer from the gods, and my case I laid before them. But I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face, questions die away. What other answer would suffice? Only words, words; to be led out to battle against other words. Long did I hate you, long did I fear you...

But now..."

~ Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis