All I have are words now, only words with you. Nothing else can matter. All the rest of life, and things, they chatter in my head, but I’m already dead, and it’s only an illusion at this point in time. I need you to help me break out of this place of oppression and pain, this place from which I pine for the fullness I’ve so far only tasted in small doses, and in between seasons of unfortunate complication.
I am facing now a trial without precedent. I’m up against some odds, and it looks for all the world like nothing could be more far-fetched than the idea that everything will be okay…and all I can do is just bring it to you, and sit down right there at your feet. I used to be obsessed, like Martha, with all the things I thought you would be mad at me for not doing, but all I can do to just be here now, and I am coming to the realization that this is exactly enough.
The concept of sufficiency is still foreign to my mind. I am yet only just getting used to the idea of the potentiality of you actually and genuinely being the fullness of all things, and of there being nothing I can lack in you. Even this uncertainty will pass, it seems, in time.
