Thoughts in the toilet

When I called
You found there was hope afterall
When I died I gave you life
When I bled myself dry
My Father was pleased to see me die
So you could live a life worth living

He would be
just to justify.

Obviously need some lessons on how to order the lines according to metre, as one writes poems, but this will do for now.

And so I have this friend who writes some of the more profound songs I've sung thus far. I don't always agree with him on his choices of lyrics, but there are always parts I find myself agreeing, wishing I thought of putting things that way before he did.

People talk about him as a person lacking emotions. I too puzzle when I read his songs because they feel so much more emotionally rich than the average person. I've learnt, over the years in my life, to differentiate being emotional and being emotionally awake.
I've come to see being emotional as a form of slumber, as drunkenness.

The thought tells me that misunderstanding happens really often.
That we tend to think that the emotions we feel are more comprehensive, more full and real than that of others. Nobody seems to us to think as deep as we do.

Between the dismissals of others and my dismissal of their dismissals as dismissals, I find a problem.
It seems to me that I will never really understand, never truly comprehend.
I can't ever be perfectly compassionate.
But then it seems clear to me that even something obscenely short of perfection can be of great help to a person- a really fortunate state of affairs.
And so we move on, cognizant of our mediocrity but not discouraged.

What's this feeling I'm getting now? Ah I know, "Brokenness".
Broken because we're broken, so short of perfection.
Broken by the thought of such grace that our feeble efforts should accomplish any work.