THE END OF ME
A storm is coming, that's what you said. Back in November...
It's difficult to process what I'm going through right now. It's not hard to describe, but to face. You force me to confront a frightening reality about my spiritual state, one I desperately want to flee. I've noted this many times now during this process, but finally sense all the protective layers of delusion have been lifted. At last, the raw wound at the center of myself can no longer be buried or ignored. I'm aware of it every waking moment, cannot blink or turn away, and it's devouring me from the inside out. I've come to the epicenter of it all.
I'm far too broken to ever repair. I carry far more pain than I've ever wanted to admit, and an unconscious bitterness has grown unchecked in the darkness. It's all coming to the surface now, and it's ugly - filled with a hate I want to deny, but with which I identify more than I've ever allowed myself to recognize or explore. I'm afraid, terribly afraid. I'm loathe to heal the deepest parts of me because there's a desecration there, lying in the ashes of the past, and to harrow those halls is to risk being consumed by the very thing I seek to mend.
A deep hopelessness overtakes me, such that I long to resign myself to what seems an inevitably dark future. More and more, in the throes of this hopelessness, I find myself wanting to unleash my pain upon the people around me. It may be I'm jealous of them, and see in them a light I desperately want but feel will never find expression in me. I find all of this terribly troubling and entirely fitting at the same time.
In end-time philosophy, there's a concept of the Eschaton, a pivotal moment that signifies the fundamental shift from the old to the new. The old is dying, and I rest on a razor's edge. I cannot escape or even move and have no idea what happens next. My soul is laid bare and the Eschaton awaits.