Staring at blank pages, watching them stare back at me, laughing, mocking.
They were right, you can’t do this. Who are you kidding?
They taunt me, the stark white empty spaces dismissing anything I try to add to their pristine perfection.
So I stare. My heart is breaking.
Under the surface of my imperfection, the perfect words hide. Behind my wall of self-doubt and cynicism. If I could just find them, pull them from their hiding, surely the pristine emptiness would allow me to fill it.
But the wall will not crumble,
And the perfect words stay hidden behind my imperfection.
So I stare. My heart is broken.

I have this favorite shirt that I wear all the time. It’s yellow (my favorite color), fits me perfectly (just lost some weight so yay), and has pretty detail on the front. The problem is, the pretty detail has begun to unravel. I haven’t snagged it on anything so the culprit can only be the washing machine. And while I admittedly wear it more than perhaps intended, they knew it was going to be washed when they made it, so why didn’t they make it stronger, more durable?

Yesterday while sitting at my desk wondering how I would make it through every day without my Christopher, I began to question God in the same manner. Why didn’t he make my heart more durable? Isn’t this what it was made for? To love? To express kindness and allow people to become close to you? So why I ask you does it come unraveled so easily? Admittedly I may use mine more than his average creation but still, he knew. He knew and he should have made my heart stronger, me stronger.

But he didn’t. So I feel unraveled and hope someone has a needle and thread. I’ll be needing it.