Sunday rain

I still sometimes dream, occasionally in the most intense and brilliant shades of blue, of a gaping crevice that I fall into each time, and a sense of panic at falling yet again.

Each time I am haunted, on awakening, by a sense of meanings just withheld, and by a profound nostalgic melancholy.

why should this dead loop of memory, creeping up only in these few days, be so charged with potency in my unconscious?

Why should I be so afraid, so troubled by the waking moments that sleeping moments are so hard to come by?

I think I have forgotten thankfulness in this season. I think I am struggling with blankets of uncertainty and fear.

Oh Lord, speak to this weary heart.


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