Choosing To Live

There's no other choice. What does it mean to be committed to something? I'm looking at marriages of people I know, who for some reason keep choosing it over and over and over every day through hell and ever-smaller slices of heaven. But this is not about marriage to another human being. This is about marriage to life.

I sit here. here. - I am here. No doubt about that. And though it tears me, I choose to stay. I can't see why - no rhyme, no reason - no comfort or ease, no direction at all. My world crumbles but I still live. I've got nothing for you at all... nothing for me. Breath still goes in and out.

Sometimes I think I'm my father and that almost kills me. This is irony, truly... almost.

I look at these pictures and paintings and think they are not good enough for anything, not anything. I read the words I write and wonder why I still feel like a desert on fire - not the good, cleansing kind - the endless, exhausting kind. Is it burning away just the bit it means to take, or is all of me burning away with it. I don't know. Right now I'm blinded by dust and ash.

But I'm here still. And I choose that - I choose it and bless it. How can I follow a heart I can't feel? So back to faith... a big circle. Like the cell dividing to create life all over again. It's not difficult at all to comprehend that we are entirely new people every so many years - that our cells regenerate our entirety. The amazing thing is how such a weak creature can keep living. Fragile. Stubborn.