I should know what to say. There should be a spot in my heart, a marble in my mouth that would bless me with the lyrical brilliance you need, the comfort, the relief, the acknolwedgement, the confessional bleed that would let you breathe outside of your lips again and bring you freedom and a slight momentary pause of peace.
I don’t though.
We believe that for suffering, our reward should be wisdom, knowledge, the pat clatter of enlightenment. But I got nothin. For all my trials, my struggles, I’ve instead been cursed with the knowledge that sometimes it’s just bloody rotten horrible, sick and coagulated and messy in our hands, and no amount of whispered platitudes or sheltered love can change that. Life, a pile of entrails slick in our hands and cooling in the fall air.
I want to have the meaning. I want to have the purpose. My children ask me, what’s the point is living if we’re just gonna die? How does that make sense? and I shake my head and shrug with resignation and a reminder to myself to read more Descartes and tell them I don’t know and maybe no one does and does it have to have a point? I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
It gets no better or worse for repatition, no simpler, no prettier. Remaining it hangs in cold air like truth, bartering with us. Give us a kiss it slithers let us in, this doubt, this wondering acceptance. I don’t know now what I didn’t know then and the balance hangs and I find myself again with the shrug, and the words trapped, perhaps forever in a place where they mean something else, and they matter. A place where words are a solace we can quantify, paint silver and ruby and massage under dim gold light.
But I don’t know.
They’re hidden then, if they’re there at all, burnished and cold. Perhaps they’re as lonely as we are, scratching and crawling for meaning and reality, sober in the corner, suffering with us. Perhaps they don’t matter, as we revolve with the knowing that it just is. That the suffering, the pain and the ignorance and the wonder, it all just is and we handle it with aplomb, and grace and many nights of plain faced sobbing into pillows.
I don’t know.
I have no answers. Is it better to admit that I’m not omnipotent, to myself, to my children, or stay the course in strength and glory? Can I mock an answer made of gods and monsters, tied with wax and arrogance?
Sweet hell, can I ever make it better?
I crave to take this pain from you, from all of you, transform action and slivers of ache into love and warmth and marshmallow relief. I want to bring it meaning, bring it reason and cause. Can we spin tears to gold, sadness to leafy green mornings in June? Can we make it better?
Can we answer yes, there is a point Virginia, because we make it so?
Can we answer yes?
Spin Me I Pulsate 
Sometimes there is nothing more comforting than being assured that yes, it is yucky and messy and dark and unpleasant and painful. Sometimes it feels better to know that there is not a particular Lesson every time, and that suffering is not always related to stupid choices and sins.
I have faith. I believe in Jesus. But it’s not the kind of faith that finds silver linings in every cloud or finds a sin for every suffering. My hope is in eternal life with God forever in a new heaven and new earth without pain or tears — but it is also in knowing that Jesus became a human being and suffered every kind of human suffering, and sits right there with me in the midst of pain — I don’t think faith lets me transcend or escape suffering — deliverance is THROUGH, not around, over, under, or without.
One thought — so we all die. Does that mean it’s better to spend life avoiding any pleasure? Because it’s not going to last, does that mean it’s not good? Maybe one can choose to still enjoy pleasurable things because they’re pleasant, even though temporary.