There is a rage and there is a weariness inside of me.
The rage is reckless and impatient. The rage wants to tear its way out of my fingers and onto this screen without thought for propriety or tact. The rage would destroy relationships and burn bridges, laughing as the flames danced before it.
I rage because my soul is weary.
The weariness is empty, a nothing that consumes all with which it comes into contact. The weariness is dark, light retreating from it in fear. The weariness is oppressively silent, the lack of sound like a weight on one’s chest. The weariness would walk away from relationships and shun bridges, sighing with hopelessness as they faded into the distance.
I am weary because my soul rages.
What does one do to heal a weary, raging soul? Can the feedback loop of hot, angry tears be broken? What elixir will awaken a tired spirit and what balm will calm a fretting mind?
Perhaps, these words. Perhaps, if I write honestly and prayerfully, the release will heal me, each word soothing the raw edges of my being back into a state of peace and, dare I say, joy. Perhaps, I will be emptied of the weariness and rage.