Two Tortured

We are all so vulnerable.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately.

Life is so fragile and so precious.

It's a scary thought really.

I'm not afraid of death, but I'm not ready to die.

Are you ready to die?

It's an overwhelming, humbling thing to plead with god.

To beg him with every ounce of your soul to change the course of an unseen future.

I try to limit those encounters with him.

Yet I still find myself in that position more often than I'd hope to.

I want to rejoice with god, not beg to have him take away another's agency.

Besides, that plea is a lost cause.

Maybe I'm not afraid of death but perhaps I'm afraid of loss.

I know that people never cease to exist,

but I can't stomach the thought of being without those I love.

I can't stomach the thought of someone I love feeling abandoned by god.

I can't stomach the thought of not accomplishing.

The thought of leaving a bridge burned or a page unturned.

The thought of disappointing, not loving with enough passion, not caring, not laughing often enough.

The thought of not having done all that I could do -

What is it that I'm supposed to be doing?

When does what I'm doing turn into what I've done?

When does what I've done become enough?

Is it ever enough?

Or must I continue to keep doing and doing, increasing and adding?

When will I know that it is time to stop?

Or is it ever time to stop?

How will I know if it was enough, if it is enough now?

Is it enough?

And again, what exactly is the it that I'm supposed to be doing?

Have you ever felt so helpless that you just wanted to cease to exist?

To never have been and never continue to be?

If you don't exist then nothing can be needed of you and there could be no way to go about fulfilling a need anyways.

If you don't exist then this heart-wrenching, throat-constricting terror can't exist either.

But you do exist.

And since you do, since you are here, what can you do?

I bring nothing, nothing of significance in this area of damage and pain.

I can't fix it, it can only be fixed by the heart that bears the damage.

And how can a broken heart mend itself when it feels other options are better, easier?

I'm afraid that it can't, and that's what has me pleading, begging, submitting.

That's what has me tortured, terrified, and nervous.

That's what has me reflecting, changing, and giving to god all that I am so that whatever the future brings,

Whatever comes of this, if it becomes what I'm begging it not to become,

God can pick up what's left of me and somehow construct me back into something of a similar figure that I held before.