suitcase, closed.

I stare at my green suitcase that sits in the middle of my room, touching the bed and in the right position for the light that comes through my window to sit on directly. The images my eyes take in are mere articles of clothing while the images produced in my head are clothes I would wear walking to class or grabbing dinner in a little town far from this place. I stare at my green suitcase that holds depression and disabling sadness zipped up inside itself. I am careful to keep it shut.  I am careful to fill the empty parts of myself with your word. Fearful of manifesting anything short of your grace and not capable of lasting another attack. Wavering between the known and the unknown. My clearest answer being taking that suitcase with me to Lynchburg where there, and only there, could I open the suitcase and witness crippling depression crawl out and die before it could live in this heart again.

Instead I only hear you faintly, blocked by my own thoughts. It gets bad some days, so aggressive and continuous that my Bible doesn’t leave my right hand. It no longer sleeps in my bag but fights the war in the midst of sunlight. I’m so desperate for peace in my thoughts. But wave after wave of nothingness crashes on me. I get moments of still water though, they are so indescribably sweet. I used to get glimpses of heaven and now the furthest thing I can imagine is the promise of change in my life in four years. I’m only supposed to think of heaven in my downfall but I can’t even sleep long enough to have a rested mind. I guess this is the part where Jesus rescues me, he is my king after all. But until then I’ll keep looking for Him because God ONLY KNOWS THE CORRECTION NEEDED. Part with my soul the wicked desires that house there, Jesus please, come stand in my door way so that my mind has no other option but to look at your Glory. Please, I’m fucking desperate.






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