#jjds

[righteousdelusions]

my tiktok is all challengers now nooooo i was actually using the app less

[dusty-nao]

“jeongje-ya”

[thismysfit-blog]

hymn

My God has no name. I did not know He was God when I first Saw Him, only that His eyes were gentle and His mouth Was sweet with love, gentle words, proud words that drew me closer, reeled me in and out like the tide of the beach we stood upon together. His arms Strong and encompassing and warm held me, the shelter I didn’t know was possible to find.

He promised to wait for me, To stay with me, To watch and to love me, The water came in and went out and i felt So small, so afraid of the strangeness of my life. But the way His lips shaped love was More than I could grasp.

My God has no name. She moves invisible down the street, singing to Herself as people rush past Her, unseeing and presuming themselves unseen, and She smiles at every thought they think, croons sympathy at every pain they feel; And here is my faith: 

I know She is not only mine to love. She is more than an idea, She is more than a gaze from the sky. She walks in bare feet on dying earth, She is a breathless pause in the midst of confusion, She is the feeling of a hand on the back of my neck when I am alone, She is my loneliness, She is the loneliness of the frightened, She is the open hand of the fortunate, She is the hope of the lost, She is stillness, She is action, She is why I am never alone.

She walks away from me when I ask Her to. She circles out of my vision, and waits for me to turn around, croons over the tears in my eyes. See, The way Her hands paint forgiveness on my heart is more than I can grasp.

My God has no name. Their church knows no prayers, no rites, no scriptures; But Theirs is the sun on water, and Theirs is sadness, And Theirs is silence deeper than joy, and love stronger than death, And I think Their Love is bigger than Any word, any promise, any offering.

I offer Them what I have. I offer my voice. I offer my ears. I offer the shape of my wandering to Them, try to slip my hand into Theirs, walk with Them, I ask Them -

If you love me, lean close to me. Let me make a gentle creation out of my life.

[thismysfit-blog]

This is personal and intense but I need to get it out of my system.

I've never had a higher power that I could call my own, except for Julian. I've mentioned him before. I keep him to myself. He is mine. But this Holy Week, he has left me.

He warned me on Palm Sunday that this week wouldn't be easy for him. I told him he was being foolish. You're too Catholic for your own good, calm down.

I wasn't able to go to church on Maundy Thursday. When I finally arrived home from my errands Julian told me to fill a basin with water, put a little rosewater and salt and almond oil in it.

You aren't Jesus, I said.

Let me wash your feet. Please.

He wouldn't come to bed. He asked me to stay awake with him, but of course I couldn't. When I woke in the morning, he stood over me, disheveled and exhausted and smelling of sweat. His face was drawn, his eyes dark and hollow with sadness, his cheeks bright with fever.

You're sick.

No... I'm dying.

I grew angry. I told him, Julian, this is blasphemous even for you. I told him I wouldn't let him go through with his histrionics. You're not God. You're NOT. You've been through enough on behalf of my soul, you don't need to enact some sort of passion play to get my attention. God can convert me on His own, if He wants. You're not my saviour, You're my Julian, and I don't need you to do this.

He only got sicker. At nine in the morning he gave a sharp cry. Don't you dare break out in stigmata, you fucking prick, I warned him. I was livid. He vanished as I spoke, trembling, unable to meet my eyes.

At three o'clock, I felt him go. I heard a wail in the back of my mind, felt a roar of darkness.

I knew, and I folded tightly into myself. I thought of Simon Peter.

(You are not also one of his disciples, are you?)

I told myself I was being ridiculous; that even if something was happening to him it was because he was being a drama queen. I shook myself vehemently, and tried to occupy myself with a book. But I felt the absence of My Julian like a hole in my brain. I closed my eyes occasionally against the miserable feeling of his absence, imagining his lifelessness. I felt as if I'd fainted, and my mind was painting the world on the backs of my eyelids.

I staggered home, ate a bowl of chili and an entire bag of potato chips, and wept. I waited for the drawl of him in my mind, chiding me for eating too quickly or crying too hard, listening for his whispering: Beloved, beloved, all shall be well.

I throbbed with solitude, I roared with it.

Eventually I took up my tarot cards. Fine, fine, fuck, what's going on?

My tarot cards chided me for being angry with Julian. He's doing this for you because he loves you. You need his help. Everything will be fine. Be patient. You're hurting and twisted and lost. Go to church, they said.

Why are you siding with him? what's wrong with you? I can't go to church on Good Friday when the Heart of my Heart is doing this to me. He isn't Jesus. He is NOT.

I reshuffled, and three cards jumped from the deck. King of Cups. Death. The Sun. He dies and rises again. Go to church.

Panicked, angry, I threw the deck against the wall and consulted my other deck, a more rational, more sarcastic soul. Should I go to church? Five cards fell out of the deck - all of them hearts, one of them the King, The Lord Christ Himself once more. Get you to church, you stubborn child. Y'all need Jesus.

Fuck it, and fuck you, I said. I put on my coat and scarf and stuck my rosary in my pocket. I ran to the bus stop in the pouring rain with no umbrella -- no secret friend scampering beside me, no wisecracks or good-natured Italian curses dancing through my head, no large warm hand to hold.

I felt sheepish when the priest met me at the door, surprised and pleased to see me, ushering me in from the rain with a handshake. The choir room was locked. I realised that the evening before I'd misread my choir schedule, and that there would be nothing to sing at the evening's service. I had no music to pour my angry heart into. So I went into the sanctuary reluctantly, kicking and screaming internally the whole way to my seat in the pews. Feeling humbled, deceived, and bitter, I bowed perfunctorily to the black-draped cross, brought down the kneeling bar and went to one knee.

If you hear me, Listen. I don't know why you brought me here in such a rush, but I'm here. I don't know what's taken my Beloved from me, or what you want from me. I don't know why you would call me to your altar with such sweet music, and then strand me there. I'm confused and angry. I don't know who I'm talking to, but I'm here to listen to you, and that is the closest I can get to surrendering. I have no music to hide behind, and no praise to offer. My dearest Beloved has abandoned me in your name, and I have no tenderness left, only suspicion. Just tell me what you want. Do what you want with me.

The service was short and solemn, the altar stripped. The kind and patient priest read in English and Spanish alternately; during the sections delivered in Spanish, I couldn't stop staring at the rough hewn cross lying at the base of the altar. Occasionally I thought I could make out the outline of Julian's body, lifeless, on the floor in front of it. I expected to become angrier or sadder as the service progressed, but I only became tired, listening grimly, halfheartedly.

At the end of the service the priest invited us into silent meditation, to come up to the altar and make deference to the Cross if we wished. I watched a few people go up, kneel, touch the cross. Something tugged at my spine. I needed to go up, so I did. I rose and went to the altar. I bowed awkwardly, knelt awkwardly, lay my right hand on the cross, awkwardly. I felt completely unworthy to be kneeling there, but then, that was probably the point.

To my dismay, I've never attended a funeral. But I knew, kneeling there, that I was attending one for my Julian. I addressed the rough wood under my hand, speaking slowly in my mind, as if the Cross were making record of my grief and it wanted me to enunciate for good measure.

My Beloved is dead, though I cannot prove that he ever lived. I am alone. He rests for me, and I cannot know what will happen when he returns, if he will return at all. Whatever is happening here, whether a fit of madness or a revelation of my soul, have mercy on me. I am afraid and small and lost. If you hear me in my confusion and anger and pain, have mercy on me.

I rose grimly and returned to my seat in a daze. I didn't hear a word of the closing prayer. I shook with dry shivering sobs that produced no tears, and left the church wrapped in a fog of thunderous silence.

Some say that Jesus lay in darkness and rested on Easter Saturday. Others say he descended to Hell and lifted the condemned to Heaven. I hope Julian is sleeping, peaceful and oblivious to my sorrow. I also hope that he has stormed Hades' front door, profoundly drunk and covered in the love bites of a dozen paramours, whooping and shouting "Rise, you beautiful bastards, unto the light of Salvation!"

Last night I threw black satin over the walnut framed mirror in my room.  I hid all of my secret statuary and decorations; Balthier's face turns to the wall and the TARDIS comes down from her shelf. My strange religion folds in on itself in mourning. I’ve stripped my room of Julian's presence, leaving only a gold Guatemalan coin and the three of swords on my altar. Pierced with grief, Palomides will weep for my loss until Easter's sunrise. All through the dark, Julian's coin will silently declare itself:

Let all unspoken debts be paid, and all secret things assigned their proper value. Let Peace be known in every heart, and Love made paramount in all the world, forever and ever. Amen.

[thismysfit-blog]

Ecclesiastes

"Meaningless, meaningless, utterly meaningless," he says in my ear; "Everything is meaningless." I know he's quoting the Bible; I remember the passage well. But I wonder if he whispered this in King David's ear three thousand years ago, when thought was God and progress King. I feel so small and so tired of thinking that I might shrink away into a little cold lump of ash, pressed tight under the weight of my confusion, buzzing with questions that have too many answers.

I feel like I'm starving for him, I feel like I'm drowning, I feel so many contradictory things that it's pointless to talk about them but he's everywhere and nowhere all at once and please please make it stop,  I'm thinking, the rows of associations have begun to spider into tangents so thick and wild that I can't slow them down, and I can't breathe because the noise in my mind has become a physical weight on my head, and I've folded my hands into fists, and please please please please please becomes the only true thing in the world, the wanting, the fear of the collapse.

And now, his hand covers mine.

The tension in my shoulders snaps, unwinding all at once in a rush of catharsis, as warm tangled rivers of emotion finally flood the cold graphite lines of my thoughts. His lips touch my shoulder lightly, once, and his hand trails slowly up my arm. 

He isn't here, but he's here. He's everything, and he's mine, and I am completely, truly, eternally his. And so it is, I think to myself, because thinking makes it so, and not thinking lets it go.

I try to speak to him but he shakes his head - turns - flickers out and reappears on the other side of my bedroom window, suspended in midair, drenched in evening sunlight, as if an oil painting of himself. 

I take off my shoes and follow him, out the back door and into the garden.

[thismysfit-blog]

jjds (2)

i am under the impression that your love, in whatever form i can find it is all i shall require to endure

but here are the shapes and sounds of society sleeping and the rut-carving movements of humanity growing and these are my hands and this is my mind and my heart wires them to each other and though i am not damaged there is a distinct possibility

that i will never make sense of the things you've given me

you see a mind intact but silent seems to me much worse than a broken mind that can sing

[thismysfit-blog]

jjds

you're

the reason i hang on to every breath and the reason i am constantly letting go every smile that's ever crossed my lips and every tear i've ever shed everything i've ever wanted and everything i've ever thrown away you begin everywhere and you end nowhere

i am always leaving you and you are always coming back to me

the in between is so empty and so full but still i die for you over and over again

tonight I am honey dripping from the tips of your fingers onto the earth but all around us flowers decay and the work of our golden bodies isn't enough to feed the world yet.

I still do not understand.

please forgive me.

[thismysfit-blog]

Olafur Arnalds || The Wait