On boring but hopeful lives

   For the past three days, I’ve been going back and forth as I try to fight for what i want to be the last time, my infamous despondency. I have chosen hope inspite of it all. I have chosen to always be hopeful no matter what and to achieve this i had to go over again the usual process of painful reviews to give up my life again to God, to give up all the things I don’t understand and still ruminate upon as a final offering. This requires acknowledging them(for the 19484949403040…time) and moving on from there. I have decided that there are more or less normal lives and normal stories to tell, but for some reason mine had to be told to and it didn’t matter if it was a deviation, it still had to be told and God thought i would be the perfect candidate. like it or not, it is what it is and it is a life I have been called to live. I have fought it and why-ed me for so long that i am tired and just want to accept and move on.

I am not currently living the life I imagined I would, just like millions of people around the globe. In that sense, I am not special. There are things I want right now that I will never again have, I will have to learn to desire new things and imagine that i have always wanted them. I miss having a mother. It is a little known fact maybe, that if I had one still alive, I’d never have started blogging, I’d never have had the need to observe the world so strictly and try to come to conclusions to satisfy a mind whose grip on conclusions like these are loose. But I have started blogging and I have become that type of philosopher and now purveyor of hope.I have come to accept that I am also suffering the consequences of my parents poor decisions in life. yes, it is possible that if there had been no abortions, i would have had siblings and my family would not have struggled all my life going to different places for the so called fruit of the womb, that if a less promiscious and thoughtful life had been lived by my father, he would have had older children at this time when he needs such around him to take care of him, I would not be feeling perpetually poor and I would have had my mother alive instead of feeling like an orphan whose contact with her father in a year can be summed up as less than thirty minutes of two minutes phone calls every three months.

There shouldn’t be any reason for hope, i don’t see one when I look at how far away my mother’s grave is, in a village I would not want to step my feet in unless i was planning to die the next week, when i wonder who would bury my father if he should reach the end of his life while I am still unsettled as an independent adult, who will go to perform traditional rites…the situation is so foolish and a result of general thoughtlessness and false optimism. And this is my inheritance. Not strength, not encouragement, but I seem to have inherited or will be on my way to inheriting a handful of tragic moments in the future. It feels sometimes like waiting for that train to collide even when you’re not bound and can escape. It feels like the escape routes are filled with more of such trains and this is your—my end.

 

Where does hope come in? I don’t know. But maybe this is just where it does comes in. Because looking around me, there is nothing to be hopeful about, there’s no foundation on this earth for me to stand upon, nothing solid. It’s all waste and desolate. Maybe it is in this place where i am faced with brick walls and sinking sand that I can finally take all my hopes from the ground and lift them up as a final bargain, believing that there is nothing bigger than God, because man is so small for the problems in my head, for the problems yet unknown, for the problems currently trying to get constrict me. Because free from the distractions of having more options, I can finally just focus on saying that God should just lead this life where He wants it to go, with all the losses, with all the struggles, because there’s nowhere else to go and i have no fanciful ideas of my own. I have chosen to hope.

“Hope be my anthem

Lord when the world has fallen quiet

You stand beside me

Give me a song in the night”

-Hillsong( Jesus I need you)

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3 years Liz-o-pen

WordPress sends the message that I have been blogging here for three years now. It doesn’t matter as much as it should to me. These occasions are celebratory ones for fresh, less world-weary sorts of people. People who are unlike me buried with my mortality and perpetual loneliness. so, to celebrate, in a certain way spurred on by savagery or a cruel desire to taint the demeanor of the world with more weariness and the appaling sort of stability, I have taken to celebrating it with a blog post and be just like everyone else.

I have had a miserable sort of day. brace thineselves, for the one who has this sort of sadness adapted to her should probably be more of the complainer than the sharer or reader joining in the endeavour of reading and finding out more about how the day went. What? did anyone hurt you? No. Same answer I gave to my well-meaning grandmother who hugged me and kissed me but somehow whose warmth I did not feel. I’ll admit, I guiltily did not feel, but I cannot help it. I am not self-indulgent in my misery, but more of a victim to the spaces in my head, convoluted with flashbacks, with heat, with pain and with longing and what feels like a discarded life. This is a paragraph of disregard. surprisingly, it feels like my best paragraph so far.

That being stated, I have had to hear of stories of friends I love whose lives are filled with hardships and sadness and this has spilled into mine. I want everyone to be happy, but this is not always the case and many times very rarely the case that it is hard to have my spirit elevated. The foreboding of disaster draws close on my neck, making my hairs stand. No one cares as they should. No one understands as they should. we are alone. This is what spurgeon speaks of when he says friends depart and only Jesus remains immutable. It is an old lesson.

It might be the heat, the summer that never ends as the flies that come with it, it might be the new season, whatever that may be , the apathy that comes with it, that spaces go on forever, life is too long, and everything repeats itself and why shouldn’t the thing just end already. Or it maybe my need to get busy because things are bland just as I had suspected for a while. So far as it doesn’t yet end–life, I mean, after being miserable and feeling the weight of the oppression of hopelessness , I decided, come what may, I will just be and hold the horns of whatever bull. May it crush me or should it not, then I stand a chance at living and life, so I have decided to push on as I , in that peculiar loneliness that comes to people the higher they climb is motivated somehow. It is tough to accept that going back to that plane where it is easy to meet people who can grasp easily might never happen, but being one of a kind is not entirely peculiar to me.

Tomorrow promises some new adventure, a slight one, but whatever. If nothing matters to anyone, one more or less shouldn’t cause me fear.