wow my name is abigail

December 6, 2024

I think I was meant to be an artist. I want to draw the shape of my face and the contours like geography. The depth. Whether there's a glimpse of beauty or there's a few pieces that fit awkwardly together, incomplete. I want to draw the way the bright-coloured pen glides across the creamy tree. I want to draw faces that can never be drawn because they're not material. It could never be complete in words. In the art of colours and strokes. I can only paint but an outline, even if I use every language I've ever heard. The sound encompasses more -- more, but it leaves much to the grasp of the imagination. And this can't be described. How one needs something so indescribable to accentuate the seemingly ultimate. While they experience this ultimate: longed for all their life but never yet found in complete form. We desire this and keep thinking it has been found. Yet, all of us are looking for the same -- and all of us are fragmented pieces, separate, too many parts lost.

I got onto something there. It was real because why would my imagination contain things I can't imagine. We sense the complete reality when we get close to these fragmented pieces, easy to access. Easily broken. Easily mislead. Let us stay at this place.

A beautiful creation to be. Oh the bliss. One out of so many, yet the only one. He loves us.

We're alive. The joy. The freedom. Capability. The memory. But we must remain under standards. For we must please the other fragments. Let us not dwell on hopeless things. Look with what favour He has favoured us.

Yet we long to be elsewhere.

Problems we possess. What more would you expect? Incomplete, fragmented.

Like we lost the pieces of the portrait, the threads, the one tip of shading, we lost what made it all fit. He has it all. He has every piece we lost. He kept it, dusted it. Keep us. Let us be complete. In You. The only place it is possible.

Isn't it fun. He has a plan. He knows who it is we are, what it is He gave us. I don't know myself but He does. You see how I clash with myself after a moment of reflection. But you know.

Five hundred pages more. Everything is left to write. Can you measure everything with any unit? Yet everything is Yours. Your creation. Who are You? Uncountable in units. Who are You? Impossible to know.

How complicated are You? We're so dumb, we think we know better than You. We think we know what we need better than You. You set the galaxy in motion. You didn't even lift a finger.

So keep me far from Your presence lest I melt. You're the one who started the fire.

But You're the One who died.

You wanted us to live.

I want to please myself. I want to be loved, appreciated. I want him to touch me.

But You died, You, our Maker.

This changes everything.

"There's no art
To find the mind's construction in the face:"

--William Shakespeare, Macbeth