Bemoaning church gets me nowhere. Like, I’m influencing someone. Some-presume, low down upper for life. As if... As if... got to some place to say? When increasingly, had it with the barrage of tell-tell-tell, that in self-gratifying teacher mode, the internet spews forth. Mr Know It All, as the song goes.
Is this? What?. . .
Welcome to my holy moan. 'Set-apart' because I don't read, hear or see otherwise. All too contained and measured. "Let's be calm and considerate eh".
(Oh to insert a swear word)
Assessment: Ain't much moaning about 'this' kinda moanin' – out there. Seems all a bit too much . . .
Why feel the need to make sarky mention and not-pretend I’m writing anyone?
There’s you, after all. Or is it; in the forest, the tree cracks as it falls… etc.
Need to write as/when. B’gger the crowd size and coherence. The place of prophecy is critical in the affairs of men. There’s a disgusting drought and . . .
Becomes: unfruitful. Chambers today on My Joy … Your Joy and the carefully-careless message, ramming through nagging fears. Ongoing groaning about tomorrow's world and me. Has my lack of financial preparation to extreme degrees, made – what difference? And is it right to have been so wasteful and stupid yet now take heart? Where . . .
Depleted after dancing around the streets like a loon. Running now, on what? On empty. Not filled, better said. The pain in being aware of this world, without a re-fill. That funny word 'discombobulate' speaks to this. Psychological tremors, shake me up in my mind. Not succeeding when, know can, and must.
OH what a . . .
Once in writing to a prospective romantic partner, was told wrote to her, as though communicating to others. An audience. Not a compliment. And this from someone who wrote semi-professionally. Anonymously looked her up again and noted her disclosure; 'Love writing- Will I or won't I ever finish the book?'
Now I . . .
Perhaps I'll write tomorrow even or later today, or a few days. Perhaps I'd be better off with this kind of routine? Intermittent.
Have something to say and judging. And pangs about yesterday's post and "who am I to...". World seems bleak as I lay here feeling my shame. The burden of...
Gonna . . .