Whispers in the Ruins of Me
My bones lie bare on the ground.
The mind is a house with many rooms, some locked, some loud, some flooded with childhood light, others cluttered with ghosts.
My memories of the mental hospitals ring in my ear as each hour of the day.
How can I be free today when I know I have gone astray by thinking I was a chosen vessel to purge the evil out of this world?
The sea of people who have echoed throughout my life chanting, "You are here to change the world."
Yet I lay in bed as I saw the sand of time pass by.
How can I be a man of God when I am riddled with addictions and impure thoughts?
The puzzle seems unclear, and I can't solve my despair.
Like a vapor in thin air, is this life I lead with an unstable mind?
I press rewind in these words to capture those manic highs and dried-up lows.
Barnaby, the symbolization of the Holy Spirit.
Barnaby, the encourager, the righteous one.
Barnaby, the fragmented man torn between worlds.
Drink, smoke, work, hustle, and do what pleases you.
Pursue righteousness, honor Christ, and do not forsake your upbringing.
Mire in the mud and wear a robe.
Cover your words with peace and mindfulness.
Your words reflect your heart.
Choose wisdom; don't go in the way of folly.
Make a vow and consecrate yourself before a God you cannot see, hear, touch, or feel.
They say to have faith, but how can I have faith?
If I ruled the world, there would be justice for all suffering.
Am I manic for saying that?
Is this a manic thought?
I don't know why I follow a nailed-pierced man with blood coming out from the side.
I remind myself of wearing a cross of who I follow.
Am I right? Am I wrong?
They say to surrender, like the Buddhist who releases the desire to end suffering.
But how do I release when my suffering has become my identity?
They say to empty the self to awaken to the truth.
But what if my self is already empty, and the truth still feels silent?
They say to walk the path of devotion, like the Hindu with garlands and chants.
But I don't know which name to call out when the dark comes knocking.
Krishna, Yahweh, Jesus, Allah...
Do they hear the broken in the same language?
They say to submit, like the Muslims, to prayer five times a day.
But my knees won't bend unless it's from exhaustion.
They say the Torah is life, and God's law is sweet like honey.
But what if the scrolls are closed, and I forget how to read?
I do not claim to know.
But I know what it feels like to seek.