I haven’t seen the sea for a long time, but I try to make up for it by walking by the pond or watching the fish in my mom’s fish tank. I’ve named them all after artists or authors: Andy, Monet, Leo, Edgar, Vincent, Lewis…they’re sick, though; a flesh-eating fungus. It must hurt them, because they aren’t moving as much as they used to. I think Lewis is contemplating suicide. He swims by the filter, barely resisting its sucking grip; won’t even come away to eat fish flakes with the others.It makes me sad when fish and bugs are sick or hurt. They suffer as much as any other creature, I think, regardless of their significance. They suffer just the same, but there’s not much anyone can do about it besides put them out of their misery. Most of the time people don’t even care.I’ve read different things about whether or not fish and bugs can feel pain. From what I’ve read, I think they can. And even if there is no absolute scientific evidence, the best one can say is that we don’t know for sure. But, based on the fact that all the rest of God’s creatures are capable of feeling pain, it seems cruel to assume that fish and insects are not and thus squash them more freely. Even depriving them of the sympathy one would feel for a wounded mammal seems more callous than I would like to be.But I’m more than I’d like to be in a lot of ways. More selfish, more lazy, more prideful, more....me. So what difference would it make if one more flaw was added to the mix?I don’t know; I suppose there are some things that are good about me. But they don’t seem to be as relevant as the flaws, sometimes. I remember them, see them in myself or absent in other people; watch others excel as I stay the same.I used to have more talents to my name. I used to be better. Before I got sick I had the focus and energy to make myself into the person I wanted to be. I used to run six miles every day; I was fit. I used to practice singing every evening; I had potential. I used to play my guitar often; my fingers didn’t get sore so fast then. I used to ride Spirit over jumps every time I rode him; we could ride anywhere. I used to lose myself in complex literature; my brain functioned better in a healthy body. I was less inhibited; seven months of near-isolation during diagnosis built a maze in my mind that still confuses me four years later. I used to be a great friend; I had the strength and energy to be there for people to lean on. Now I can’t be there consistently. I’ve become unreliable, a part-time friend, and so people rely on others and it kills me not to be the one anymore.Often I want to announce to the world, “I used to be someone! I used to be exciting and fun and full of life! It isn’t my fault I stay at home now. It isn’t my fault my grades have slipped some. It isn’t my fault these dark circles under my eyes won’t go away; still show through my makeup. It isn’t my fault that I’m not the person I used to be. I used to be someone; don’t forget who I was. Remember me like that, please; not this crippled racer, struggling to keep up with everyone else."I know it will work into God’s plan; I know He works everything for His good. And because of that I wouldn’t change it. But I may still mourn every now and then, and I don’t think that’s wrong, is it? Even Christ sweated blood as He mourned His fate. So might I do the same for mine, on a smaller scale? Might everyone?And I don’t think it’s “punishment”. Maybe it’s not even about lessons, though I have learned a lot. I think it is bigger than that; bigger than me. Part of the grand Plan no one can see yet. That can make it both easier and harder to accept at the same time. Easier, because I know it is not purposeless. Harder, because I can’t see the purpose. All I see is a rough outline in my own little world. All I see is a height above me, one from which I’ve fallen.I suppose I can’t blame all regression on my illness. I can say that it weakens my resolve and makes progress slow; makes it hard to make myself do the things I’m still capable of. But, I should be able to rise above and, progress is not only slow; it’s nonexistent. It’s negative. As if I never was the person I used to be. Like she never existed. Maybe it would be better if she never had; then I wouldn’t have so much to let go of.I’ve let go of lots of things; everyone has. Even if they don’t mean to. Time just does that; pulls things from their grasp as their grip loosens, cause it matters less and less. A dream shatters and slowly you pick up all the pieces; sweep the tiny fragments up and throw them all away. As you move on with life, occasionally you might step on a piece you missed and get rid of it. Eventually they’re all gone. Right?I thought so, but I’ve been dreaming lately—dreams from nearly six years ago—about old wishes coming true. And dreaming makes me wish again, a little. Just a little. Does it mean anything? How much stock can one put in dreams, anyway? Sometimes they’re revealing a deep part of subconscious psyche. Sometimes they’re indications from God. Sometimes they’re just random. How can I tell the difference? How can I make them stop? I’m already in my head too much when I’m awake; I don’t want to hang out in there when I’m sleeping, too. Not that I sleep much, but when I do it just confuses me instead of being restful.And home is no more restful than a strange bed, I’ve found. Nor a strange bed more so than home. Dreams find me still; little films of hopes and dreads, past and present, playing out on the backs of my eyelids.So even in my sleep I’m reminded of how horrible I am at meeting new people. At finding ease in a crowd. Red campus or yellow, I still feel separate from it all. Watching but in a separate dimension. Thoughts go through my head…things I would say if I was who I had been. If I was still the girl who used to participate and even be the life of the party sometimes; or at least part of it. Giggles the Otter. Not anymore. Why can’t I be her again? I miss it. The words come to me, the words she would say, but I don’t say them. I know what she would do; I can see her doing those things as if her ghost was before me—my private phantom. But I can’t follow her. I should be able to. To order my tongue to speak, my lips to smile, my legs to take me where the life and action is. But somehow I can’t. I know I’ll never make my own life in the world if I don’t do these things, but I can’t.Maybe because my situation is not yet desperate. Maybe when I’ve hit the rock-bottom of loneliness-- when I am no longer content to be the hermit I am now—maybe then I’ll be able to push myself into the light where the others are. Where I used to be. My eyes have adjusted to these shadows, though, and the sunlight will inevitably hurt them.I know that, and even though I know it I still don’t want to shut my eyes. There is so much to see and I want to see it all, even the ugliness that is there, because in order for it to be judged ugly it must dwell amidst beauty.Just like now, though it’s late and tonight I feel like I might get real sleep for once, I don’t want to turn out the light. I don’t want to close my eyes. It’s been this way for the past few nights. By halting my pen or closing my book and lying down for the night, I feel as if I am ending some story prematurely. The close of the day no longer seems to fit where it comes. It seems too early; there’s too much left but I have to follow just hours behind the sun, though the moon illuminates the most inspiring things. I must sleep through them. Or dream in code. Or toss and turn in frustration—too weary to soak up the inspiration of the night, but too wakeful to indulge in its peaceful purpose of sleep.The other night, as sleep evaded me, I read some of Psalm. Lots of them are divided into two parts, you know. The first part is the cry to God; the crisis, the confusion. The second is the joy when God has provided some relief. A beginning of mourning, an ending of praise. Sometimes the line is blurred. There is praise in the suffering; a different kind of praise. A strange, but beautiful kind. As if the pain of the psalmist is in itself a demonstration of faith. Some are about war with others. Some about battling with one’s own humanity. If I were a psalmist, I think mine would be mostly about the latter. I know I’m never there for You, though You’re always there for me. I reached out and plucked the apple. The knowledge is too much for me; let my innocence return. I want to put You first. All these other lovers keep getting in the way; I’m weak and I can’t fight them. Why can’t I let go of things I never should have grasped? Even now they tempt me. Why is everything I do for such selfish reasons? I just want to love You. Such a simplistic request, and still I can’t hide my left hand from my right...Can’t? Or won’t? Can’t, because humans can do nothing good apart from God, or won’t, because of my selfish humanity? What is the balance between waiting on God and not doing my part?I’m tired of concepts; I need a course of action. If climbing Mt. Everest in shorts would change my heart, I’d to it. That seems easier to me than the intangible steering of thoughts and emotions that I have no idea how to control.I’d have a better idea if I could keep my focus long enough to figure anything out, really. There were things I wanted to write, just a second ago, but I stopped to hug my dog and now I’ve forgotten them. They seemed important, too. I thought them out, studying my reflection in the mirror as I waited for the water to warm up. I knew what I was going to say; could almost feel my fingers type. But I can’t remember now.Something about seeking knowledge, and how I’ve been trying to do that lately but it hasn’t satisfied the…something. The wise seek knowledge, Proverbs says, and I’ve been trying. I did well for awhile, too. But it’s like everything else: being “better” requires constant, consistent effort and I just can’t keep it up for long.I start up again eventually, at everything I try to do—eat really healthy, read complex books, read every news article I see, improve my concentration, improve my character—but when I do I’ve lost ground and have so much to recover. Always one step forward, two steps back and I don’t know what to do.The screen is glaring into my eyes but I’ve so much left to say and I wish someone would just answer all my questions.Primarily, am I the only one with so much confusion? I know I’m not; I suppose that’s not really what I’m trying to say. What I mean is, I don’t want to be tieless forever, and I don’t think I’ll ever “have it all together”. At least not for a very, very long time. But I don’t want to wait that long for some establishment. There are things I want in life, things that are within other people’s control; not mine. Will they give me those things when I ramble on and on like this? Or will I not deserve what they have to give until I figure things out? Am I being overly-emotional? Purple prose? Immature? Dramatic? Do I cross the line of acceptable melancholy indulgence? “A fool vents all his feelings, but a wise man holds them back.” (Proverbs 29:11) Am I being a fool, venting my feelings? I can’t tell. Maybe it doesn't matter. It's not like anyone actually reads these anyway. In fact, I don't know why I bother. Maybe it's just relieving to vent without having to be vulnerable face-to-face. Oops, there's that 'vent' word...Sometimes I think everyone has these kinds of raging mental storms. But maybe we aren’t supposed to talk about them. Maybe there’s a reason most journals—even edited ones—are kept secret. Maybe “stability” isn’t reached until one can roll all this up and swallow it, wash it down with a swig of reality and keep it from coming back up. Maybe I’ve said so many things that aren’t supposed to be said and so I won’t get what I’ve been hoping for. Won’t get it for a long long time. If ever.Do I have to be as close to perfection as humanly possible in order to receive fulfillment? Fulfillment. Maybe someone would tell me that my fulfillment should come from Christ. And it does, ultimately. He is my foundation. The durable canvass that upholds my life’s-work-in-progress; allows me to indulge in different colors and try techniques again and again and again because I know, no matter how much I smear the paint, He has reinforced this life-art I’m making.But I still have desires unfulfilled. And I think that’s ok; I think God gives us our desires, partly so that He can give them to us and we in turn will give more glory to Him, and partly to help us accomplish His will. I think He wants us to be happy, and that He won’t force us to go our entire earthly lives without that thing—or the concept of that thing—we want the very most. But I don’t know if I’m right. What do I know? Just because it makes sense to me doesn’t mean it’s so. My mind has a way of making connections that don’t exist in order to stop me when I’m on the verge of freaking out. A subconscious sanity-preservation mechanism; a security measure for complacency. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, before any of my earthly desires will be satisfied, I have to stop wanting them. Maybe I will never know how amazing it would feel to have a desire satisfied when the waves of wanting are most intense. Maybe, when I’ve ridden out the wracking storms of yearning, when I’ve ceased to really care whether or not I ever feel my heart swell with that kind of joyous disbelief…maybe my wishes won’t be granted until then. Maybe that’s the truth. And that terrifies me. But there are promises, right? There are scriptures about fountains of blessings and fulfillment. “May He grant you according to your heart’s desire, and fulfill all your purpose.” (Psalm 20:4). God even acknowledges that receiving desire is good for the soul: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.” (Proverbs 13:12). And He indicates that He will give us what we want: “I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for.” (Jeremiah 29:11). He says we’ll be so happy, we “shall go forth in the dances of those who rejoice.” (Jeremiah 31:4). I know, all of those verses could be referringto heaven, the ultimate fulfillment. But what about his one: “I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” (Psalm 27:13).In the land of the living. Of course, I have seen much of His goodness already, here in the land of the living. But my hope is deferred and so my heart is sick, and its life support is the belief that He will give me my heart’s desire in the land of the living. So maybe the acknowledgement of the fact that He exists--maybe that's not enough for us and He knows it. Maybe He made it that way, so that we could have other deisres and He could give them to us or we could learn from them. Maybe...His existence doesn't fulfill all of our desires, but through His existence all of our desires are fulfilled.When He created everything, He said everything was good. Except for one thing: “It is not good for man to be alone.” (Genesis 2:18). Man had God, but he needed something else, too. Isn’t that an example indicating that we are designed for earthly fulfillment as well as Devine? That the two should work together?Am I reaching? Am I twisting scripture—making false connections—as a guard against hopelessness? Could it be that this wish will eat away, forever ungranted, at my soul until the day I die and it won’t stop gnawing until I get to heaven? I don’t think that He would do that to me; to anyone. I think, either the current wish will be fulfilled, or my heart will change to wish something new and then that wish will be satisfied. Either way, I think He will grant the desires of my heart. But maybe I’m wrong. I’m afraid that I’m wrong. And why shouldn’t I be wrong? I’m no scholar of scripture. Maybe I’m way off. Like I said: what do I know?