Thoughts that fill my journals, closets and the skeletons that keep them company...in no particular order

...times when I said God's name like a frustrating epiphany, when being exhausted really was my fault and times when I told myself with all my might that fault was not the point and, "Hell, even a quarter has wings and sleeps on it's stomach." The times I had to take a look at my own reflection in splintered wood were some of the hardest, because I saw myself for what I, maybe, really was... a misunderstanding, a blur, a splintered mess. But I had to own that. I had to own that. You can spend all day blaming blaming blaming and just wanting to feel better- but apathy will kill you every-single-time. I think apathy is probably the only thing gauranteed to squelch a person.
You can't figure some things out in a week. It's been so long since I have just sat down to write myself awake or asleep or alive that it does not seem like I will ever find my one true sentence again, Mr. Hemmingway... or was it Emerson that said that?
Maybe it all has to change anyway, because I am no longer writing just to keep myself company. Why am I writing?
I read in a journal from 2001 "New York will do the trick." It made me laugh to think I ever wrapped that city in to a word that fits a circus. I should have compared it to a Red Roman empire or Christmas, even...Oz.
After I lived there I decided I had old eyes and had never been young.
I still think that.
That's how I know grace is real; because, it cannot exist without failures. Grace does not exist without days where you put your foot down for all of the wrong things and hands up for all of the right ones...
Afterall, I know my skeletons just won't always fit in my luggage. I have a place to put them. And I do. And God knows all the tricks up my sleeve and he doesn't hate me for it.
And that is grace, and that is real, and that is my one-true-sentence.