Sunday's Ritual

Part of my Sunday was a success. I spoke with my dear friend, and felt the longing that accompanies our weekly chats. I long for days of wine al fresco. I long for the feeling of home that can only accompany the sound of dear friends laughing as they revel in youth filled gaiety. I long for the passionate intimacy of our collegiate journey. I long for the guiltless, esoteric, excess of soul-searching melodrama.

Part of my Sunday was failure. I chose my Saturday night over His Sunday morning. I let myself down there.

Are you out there, God? It's me, Kelly...

I wonder if God really has a plan for all of us.

I am listening to This American Life and there is a woman talking through tears about how she really wants to believe in God again.

I know her pain. The feeling of want, desire, and emptiness.

Just believe, child. Believe.

4am

It's nearing 4am, and the sounds of the house amplify. I can hear that raspy breaths of my roommate, and the tick tick tick of the clock. The dog stirs and I am aware that life occurs on multiple levels. The bracken laced whir of the refrigerator ceases, and I wonder, truly wonder, if it is keeping the eggs cool enough. These are the thoughts of my insomniac brain. I weigh the world against the angels on the pinhead. I see them so clearly at times. They frolic and dance as we do. We who exist on this speck of dust neath a giant's thumbnail.