broken pieces

Do you know that feeling, the one where it's late and as you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you realise you are probably falling apart a little? And it's the worst when it's the kind of falling apart and you're not exactly sure why. Falling apart is easier when you know where to pick up the pieces.

It's hard to fall apart when you don't even know where to start picking up the broken pieces of your own bleeding heart.

And I find it funny, how usually when you're feeling a little broken, the words you write fall together as you fall apart. Somehow, or at least in my case, the words I write flow more freely and easily when I'm feeling like I'm going to pieces. The contrast and irony in that captivates me. It's a bit weird, and frightening, even, how the words you write are almost always more beautiful when you're at your lowest.

I guess that it's times like these where I kinda just let go and call out to Him; "Jesus, I can't do this anymore, help. Pick my broken pieces up and put them back together. Please. I need you, even more than the air I breathe. I need you, and I need you now."

'Cause being a Jesus-chick is easy when all is going well and you just washed your hair and you feel good about yourself,  you feel confident and together and comfortable and satisfied. Saying He is your Saviour is easy then.

But what about when you're down and out, on the floor, falling apart and bleeding inside? It's then. It matters then.

Trusting Him with your broken heart. Still believing He'll be there to catch you when you fall. Talking to Him about what's going on inside, giving it all to Him. Letting go...letting go and letting God.


//

feeling nostalgic at 12am

Remember when you told me, "but I don't talk the way I write" ? You sounded worried. Like it's a bad thing. To not always sound poetic and ordered and sure.

Well, guess what, hun. It's okay.

I don't talk the way I write, either.

 My words don't always soothe, they don't always comfort, or uplift, or encourage. Sometimes, they break down and they're too loud and too quiet and sometimes they're ugly and blunt.  They trip me up and trap me up and sometimes all the right words leave me and all the wrong words haunt me.

My voice sounds like unsophistication most of the time.

I struggle to put these things that l feel into words, in my head or spoken out loud. They twist and turn inside, but refuse to come out. My insides are a mess of too much and too little. Too deep or too shallow. And lots of in betweens. I can't stop this whirlwind of emotions blowing up the dust in my heart. Scattering feelings I've packed up tightly and hidden long ago. Bringing forth thoughts I haven't thought in a while.

I long for the days where my insides were neat and clean and understandable and uncomplicated. Where I could still make sense of all that I am. The days when feeling things were optional, and sadness an unfamiliar and strange sensation. Where 'messy hearts' were only 'messy rooms' and broken dreams were whole.

And fear, no. Only fearless.

I guess I just really miss those kinda days.