Lesson 179 ~In My Father’s House~

With these hands as the song goes but I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to what they could do, should do, or would do and much like when I was failing Math all I could genuinely do is write out more questions, again and again. “In My Father’s House.”

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Lesson 179 ~In My Father’s House~

Forgive Me Echo,
No Fear, for as Elton John put it, “If I was a sculptor, but then again, no,” I’m not much of a master builder, or a craftsman of any sort and yet I dare to call myself a writer. Maybe because my writing isn’t meant to make people comfortable by any means, my hell, my white room, or red room as the case may be most days.

It seems I go out of my way to make people comfortable, well as much as I can and the thing is no matter what I’m never comfortable even in my place, my comfort zone they call it. Not to sound like a Mad World but it my bed sleeping is the best I can do when it comes to myself and anybody else. You know what’s truly sad is that even my death will be some great inconvenience that I feel guilty about and that’s my sin for today, the fact that I’m always in the way every day.

Now how can that be a sin, I don’t mind watching the world burn as much as the next man, but I’m supposed to be doing something, and not just working but doing it well. Perhaps my failures are catching up to me, I mean didn’t I pay my bill, didn’t I go shopping and the fact that I can do all of these things and can’t put a coffee table together. I got the hammer and the nails… makes me think about my crucifixion but even in that, I find myself lacking and honestly what am I complaining about I should consider myself lucky?

In my father’s house are many mansions or something like that in the bible, but I believe I have told you about my sloth-like ways plenty, I can’t stand being idle, but I can’t stand being a waste of air either, another reason I don’t talk perhaps? Working with my hands is not for me, whether it’s building furniture or trying to remake the universe in my twisted, distorted image.

So is that what I’m apologizing for tonight, a lack of purpose or for failing at the things I give myself to contribute to myself, to a girl, to the world at large. Do you forgive me Inspector Echo for this travesty of life or even survival as I dream yet again of one-day being lost, In My Father’s House?

I Will Have No Fear

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