I want.

As selfish a statement as I can formulate. As focused a purpose as I can work toward. As deep a consideration as I can imagine. As confusing a sentiment as I can feel.

I want. I want, I want, I want, I want, want, want, want!

"I want..." I say and then my mouth goes dry and my head clears of all information or ideas. I want...everything, nothing, bigness, littleness, dark, light, far, near, love, hate, joy, grief, hope, despair, courage, fear...I want it all. I want it all. I want to know. I want to know why and how and when and where, and oh Lord God of my fathers I want to know You. But I don't know anything really. I only know that I want to know.

It occurs to me that food isn't as delectible as it should be, that sleep isn't as restful as it should be, that time ticks torturously by, that the sun is unbearably intense, that the mountains opress me, entrapping, holding me in, that color isn't as vibrant as it should be, that the most elaborate fractal isn't as infinite as it should be. It occurs to me that sixteen wasn't sweet enough, that twenty won't satisfy me either, or thirty or fourty, or eighty. It occurs to me that the creaking of the rusty, dusty gears in my head are louder than my constructive thoughts. It occurs to me that when I open my eyes after napping in the sun, everything looks gray-blue instead of gold and green. It occurs to me that everything is wrong. It occcurs to me.

Do you ever wonder if Jesus will ever come back? I do. When I'm feeling especially selfish, or tired, or disgusted, or hopeless. Or when the grainy sand of this endless desert they call history seems to stretch further and dryer than I can bear. So I look up and I know that my creator watches and holds and breathes with me: in, out. I know that He sighs with me and creation. And it occurs to me that the time I spend here, that the tears I cry here, that the desire I hold in my being here, unfulfilled will be worth it if His glory is served. If His purpose is served.

"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

Not to worry--He'll come. And then I'll know. And then every "I want" will be His to fulfill.

Looking for Overworld

Its like we used to be high, so high up in Overworld. Its like we used to see the sun and the sky and the sea. Its like we used to talk to big, bright lions and have adventures.

Its like we've sunk down to the dark lands legions farther down than can be comprehended. Its like we don't even know what the sun looks like anymore or the sky or the sea. Its like we've settled for a second-rate substitute to satisfy our need for happiness, or love, or everything. Its like we're tied in a shiny chair listening to a soothing, sweet voice whisper succulent lies in our ears. Its like we look at a cat and think its a lion, like we look at a lamp and think its the sun, its like we hear a little sappy strumming on an acoustic and think its a symphony.

Its like we don't even listen when someone wakes up from a dream one day and says he's seen real lions, suns, and heard real symphonies, and insists that he wander in our Underworld for as long as it takes to find his dream one. Its like I had the same dream and I try so hard to remember and record it all before it slips away, carefully tucked into the archives of my dusty mind. Its like I try my best to believe that there really are lions and suns and I tear at the ropes every night in my shiny chair, but the lies come a-whispering, and the fire flares green as a snake, and I can't bear to stay awake anymore. Oh no, no, not anymore. But someone has to stomp on the fire for me, I can't, I can't. Oh please stomp on the fire for me. I have a dream, a dream as big as a lion, and it comes bounding in as gold as the dream sun and as bright. I have to believe it, and every night I will wander Underworld in my dreams and look for Overworld till I can see the sun and the sky and the sea and the lion.