And who am I, kind Lord, what can be said of me, good God? When you created the world, and you laid its foundations, why did you think of me, kind Father, why did you conceive me, good God?
For my life is but a wild flower, and it lives as long as wild grass. The offerings of my hands and the musings of my soul have been lacking, my Good One, and there is nothing to show for this good life you have given me.
I fear that if I died today, nothing would change for the better, and so the breath in my lungs would have been no better than if it had remained in you.
For, what is the use of my life if it cannot be used, Oh God, the purpose of my existence if I exit the way I came; in silence and in tears? For I cried when I was born, and I wept when the cold air filled my lungs, branding me an alien, and swearing to one day silence my breath once more.
Father, my King, I have always felt like I was born to die, born to be killed, to die by some disease or in some fatal accident, or alone, slipping and hitting my head in the shower.
For, kind Father, what have I done with my life except to live and breathe as you allow me to, to eat and sleep as you require me to, and to give my life to you, as you command, my Lord.
For I have felt unfulfilled, and I continuously feel discouraged, my King. Lord, I will ask you the same question the world-spirit asks, which is, “Why am I alive?"
To you, my King, I give my life. In your hands, Oh Merciful One, do I place my life. Perhaps it is the hardships of this world, or the failings of my life, or the disappointments of family - and the prevalence of my underachievements baring witness to all.
But you, Oh Lord, the Giver and Taker of life, have maintained my breath. Speak to the wind, my Master and ask it. Wake up my mother from her slumber, and let her give witness. There is no hope to be found in my bones, no life to be seen in my eyes.
I feel like a weary traveler, who has walked the ends of the earth in search of hope and goodness, searching for the end to the suffering the world inflicts upon us.
My legs have grown tired, kind Lord, my heart and head have been lowered by the treacherous journey. But you yourself said that, "the path to life is narrow.”
For what am I looking for if not life, what am I searching for if not the promises that you gave to me? For when you found me, I had succumbed to my own blade, to take my own life and return to the dwellings of hell from which I thought I came.
But I came from you, Good Lord, and my life is from you, Kind Father. For the world of the dead cannot create life, nor can it sustain it. For everyone who is dead wants to have life, but not everyone who is alive wants to find death.
For death is not the culmination of life, nor is it it’s zenith. For death may quieten our lives, but it doesn’t comfort us. It might keep us still in its slumber, but it lacks the power to wake us up. Death is not the end of the road, for the world bears our tombstone, or it inhales our ashes, or it preserves us if we are buried in mass graves, our bones still used to give reference to the lives we lived.
Father, I can be all that I can ever be, if I live my life fully in you. My ancestors, Abraham, Job, David; they all lived exemplary lives in you. And you embraced them because they did, and you blessed them so.
For I am not a king, or a birther of numerous generations, nor am I the best man, that you would boast about me in heaven. I am a weary traveler, Oh Kind Father, and I pray, that on the end of my journey, I might find life, and hope, and goodness and kindness and rest in you, my Good and Lovely One. 6
