Last night I had trouble sleeping. I dreamed of shaving, of Tommy's retreat site, and of Jodi-- the first two are portents of today, the last an echo of those long gone. I do miss her, every day.
The goatee is back, by the way. Shave my head and call me badass.
My soul is sick-- jumbled, hollow, and lost. Needing a long sit-down with God, and the discipline or desperation to do so. In every action I'm mired in futility and frustration, in inaction I'm dead. I am, no doubt, expecting too much from life before 7:00 am. It's good to know myself: if I don't take a nap before work, I'll be hating life and everything/one in it all day.
Someone on LJ made me think: Jesus should be my first love, but He isn't. A wonderful, terrible thing to know my need. I'm limited in my ability to change my own heart. "I believe, help my unbelief." Hope is here.