Wings
2026-08-26
No big thesis for today—well, at least not yet.
I've been feeling better over this last week or so, but the thing that always worries me about feeling better is getting into trouble—you know, thinking that I don't have bipolar anymore and that I can start taking more things on like it won't be a problem in the future. But at the same time, the beat keeps marching on, regardless of what I have to say about it. Even when I find myself coming to a screeching halt, the rest of the world can't accommodate that; whatever, fuck them, I guess. While writing here is some way of pleading my case to (You), or trying to make myself feel productive, or some other silly rationalization I come up with for the day, I still find myself struggling to make sense of my position as a whole. As much as I want to move forward, I only seem to either stay flat where I am or take steps backward. It's not like I have anywhere I urgently need to get to anyway—just the next day, really. Maybe I'll get there today. Maybe I won't. Who really knows?
What if it all really was for nothing? Would God be so cruel as to remind me of that dust I came from yet again? Probably not, but I find it hard to find the resolve to say my prayers. In the same way I beat myself up for not writing on a given day, the same is true for prayers. For as much grace as He gives me, He also constantly reminds me of how tall the order actually is—and how I can't seem to meet it. It must be a way to give me humility, even if it is a humiliating process. I can't be so haughty as to convince myself that I am anywhere near the level of individual I think I am. For as big as my soul can feel, it's still a small grain in the wheat field. At least there's a harvest coming at some point, if that's the case.
This confessional work is as tiring as it can be cathartic, even if there's a risk I take in making myself so known. I'm not afraid of that, though. If I had it my way, we'd all act in public the same way we do when no one else is watching. "Good luck with that," one might say. Thanks! I'd rather there be ugly truth than pornographic nihilism anyway. All the doom and gloom gets so exhausting and boring, especially because there's such a clear motive for it. Fuck the demoralization campaign; my home is where, well, at least something is. I'll fight for it the best way I can, even if I don't have a whole lot in the way of ammunition. Finding shit to complain about is such busy work, and I might as well spend my time finding things to be grateful for, even if there's a cost being paid for it. More than that, I need to tell God that I'm sorry more often. Though the apologies might be feigned in my heart of hearts, perhaps some repetition will dig at it, albeit slowly.
The rewards don't matter. Sometimes I think about the deal Christ offers—that everlasting life one, right? That sounds horrible if you ask me. Even in the midst of suffering, even if there's some illustrious paradise of milk and honey waiting for me or whatever, all of it sounds like a crock of shit. That might just be my sickness talking, but he makes a pretty fair case. Sure, life is bad, good, something in between; but why do I have to find myself so overwhelmed on such a regular basis? Even if I take my stupid pills every morning, even if I've been blessed with a materially comfortable life—it still finds its way to eat at my soul and vacuum out all of the stuff that makes my lungs worthy to draw breath. To be cosmically shut off sounds like a real bargain, even if I know that's a lie and that I'm stuck with sentience forever. True rest doesn't even sound like it would help, quite frankly. But what do I know? I'm just some little guy who darts around my house and my town all day, like some little bird who doesn't even have to worry about taking refuge in a barn.
Perhaps I'll fly away, perhaps I'll cut the wings off eventually. My dad was telling me a story about a woman in our family, my great grandmother or something like that. She was an old-school 19th century woman, a Kansas homesteader who tried her way like the rest of us. At some point in her life, she had some issue with her arteries, a clogging or some other thing neither my dad nor I are medically qualified to explain. But due to this ailment, she had to get all of her limbs amputated—just became a head and a torso who still chewed dipping tobacco. My dad only remembers her from when he was a small boy, but made sure to give the detail of a constant stream of brown spit flowing down from her lips to her chin.
Hey, if she could do it, I can too.
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