I Don't Want to Hurt Anymore

I'm wishing on stars and counting the planets and laying under the table and dreaming.
There is my folly. Aye, there's the rub.

I feel like I'm falling. I get a brush of weakness, a sag in my spine, and that's when it crumbles. That's when my hopes and ambitions tumble in salt from my eyes. I have to remind myself. I have to actively press the board to my back, straighten up and smile, as half-hearted as it may be. I have to remember that my greatest heartache, my greatest trial, will lead to the greatest outcome; the greatest version of me.

"Know thou...that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good." (D&C 122:7) "Thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment." (D&C 121:7)

Whatever is coming down the pike, how ever far off it is, is far superior than anything facing me at this moment, anything that's shaking my confidence and solace. Far, indefinitely more incredible than my current woes.

The folly, the rub, is looking too far ahead to that silver lining that I've constructed doesn't qualm the anxiety of the now, because that may very well not be His outcome for me. Life should be lived in the present, however undesirable the present may be. I can't look forward with optimism, because I don't know where forward is. I can only look to Him in faith, and wait for forward to be now.

Here is my test, here is my trial. Endure.

Wait.

Trust.

He will do right by me. He will not allow me to fail.

It's only difficult if I focus on how difficult it is.

Pull yourself together, for heaven's sake.



Don't you dwell in the future, for it's miles away.

stumbling block

It's like I can write one good thing every month. I've exerted all I have in me to be creative. I feel like by being given no limitations I am limited and caught in not knowing where to begin. I have guidelines that are serving as straight-jacket tendons that constrict the concourses of my mind until I'm sprawled about the bed begging from something to come out of me but the desire to submit to sleep.

My issue, I've now decided, is that what must be written must be performed. At the present pinnacle my words are not scribbles in a notebook or musings on the web. I am accountable for what I create.

And creativity is afraid of criticism. So it's running and screaming and kicking me and killing me and demanding I forsake these commitments and stay in bed a while longer, and scrub my hair a tad cleaner and focus on not demanding anything of myself.

My talent and best friend has become the fanged monster one must coax from the closet for the kill. It no longer walks by my side, but drags me back by my coattails demanding submission. It tells me I don't work that way, I can't write that way, I can't be that way, give up.

I want to push forward so badly. I want to do and be and enjoy and amaze. It breaks me up to realize the remainder of my being is against these petty dreams.

Be gone, believer. Dismiss the dreamer. Walk back down the path you have trod.
These thoughts are like cannons that kill all should come
Stop quick. Forget this old home.