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7:24 p.m. - April 15, 2005
March, march, march
Grudgingly I concede forgiveness should be more welcome in my worldview. As a Christian I'm supposed to embrace it but that's a major stumbling block in my faith: I don't feel forgiven, I resist it, reject it. Theological implications are that a) I reject the offering of Christ's redemption; b) if I reject Christ's offering, I am not a Christian; c) I cannot be a Christian if I cannot forgive wounds. Where does faith trump ingrained thinking, and vice versa? But it's been on my mind all day, flitting here and there like a twit unable to decide upon a shade of nail polish, the worst type of intrusion. Intrude fine, but be done and over with it rather than dragging on, eh? Call it conscience, regret, or divine, the result is the same: I don't want to be done with my friendship with Joel. Ah, that takes so much to admit and say. I was thinking earlier that being hurt and moving past - rather than on - is a hallmark of a friendship. Why am I so afraid of friendship? Vulnerability, sure, but there's more. I suppose it's the fear of rejection or loss, but wouldn't that make me clingy rather than rejecting? (Unless of course I reject to refuse myself the opportunity to cling?)

I feel so immature. But who said emotions are ever mature?

So I reject forgiveness for myself and for others. I'm not the citadel I sometimes convince myself I am - what a nouvel revelation! (sarcasm, that) - but damn it, I'm tired of this swath I leave behind. I become afraid when I care for people as if it's some loathesome or undesirable impulse, find it difficult to move past that and feel comfortable. And conversely, I'm afraid when people care for me, worry I'll disappoint or be hurt, be unable to attract or maintain or keep interest, wonder when the facade will come down and I'll be trapped and can't escape. That's the illogical line of thinking that drives me nuts. There is no bogeyman hiding in my closet or camouflaged behind the smile of a friend, but I don't believe that one bit. I point to examples, reassure myself these lenses of mine are accurate: See the bogeyman, see Spec, see how well-plastered my walls are after each break-in. But I know logically these lenses are the ones suffocating me, curtailing my life in shrinking circles that one day will throw me off my safe perch. The past few down cycles have brought me closer and closer to eviction from this life and I resent that, as if my place here is undeserving. I say fuck that, too.

So call him up, say I over-reacted? Be apologetic, sweep things under the carpet? Life isn't like that; it isn't neatly fixed and smoothed over. It's harsh and unforgiving, hostile and hot, dangerous and selfish. I despise indecision, especially my own.

Choose. On the one hand, I was going to send him my book of poetry before going into the dark. On the other -. There is no other - that first is enough for me. Oh, life was so much simpler when I didn't have emotions.


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