I hate baking. It’s too stressful. There is too much pressure. I never want to bake again. Or cook again. Or do anything house-wife-y again. I hope that changes eventually, but right now I am okay.
It’s a sundance.
There is no rain, although the clouds threaten and cover the skies.
It’s a craving.
She weeps at night to fill the hole in her soul, but doesn’t know what created it.
It’s a God-shaped hole, perhaps.
She knows she needs Him yet pulls away because she is scared.
She wants a sundance.
She wants to be carefree and natural, and find fulfillment
for the hole in her soul.
She cries over craving
because she doesn’t know how to find or figure what rips her to shreds.
She listens to the music
the whispers in the wind, the echo of the stereo.
She looks out the window
hoping to find God.
She makes chocolate.
She wonders if it will lead to destruction, or maybe she is already at the bottom.
Hitting bottom is a good thing.
She writes naturally and it surprises her.
I don’t know what my name is.