Papa.

I hurt; I ache; every cell is sorrow.

My troubles are modest. My pain, insignificant.

So why?

Why do I feel like this?

Again.

Is this my fault, Papa? Do I invite these troubles?

Or do they infiltrate like insects, till they claim every crevasse and dark place, making their home among the rot? The shadows of my soul.

I will die. Worthless; having accomplished nothing. I’m purposeless. My life has no meaning. Every breath is waste.

I want to serve you, Lord. I can’t do what you ask if I can’t hear you. Your words are far away. Every moment I stand in stifling silence. I ache for your voice.

Carry me. Cradle me like an injured child. Hold me close, so I don’t disappear. Without you I will slip into the darkness that swells within me, a growing putrescence. Swallowed from the inside.

I wish you would end this grief for me. I can’t. You formed this vessel. It is more yours than mine.

I am tired. So, do it, God.

Crush what little remains to dust. Make it stop.

Everything.

Stop.

…

No.

That’s no good either.

I want to discover what lies at the end.

You create all things. You form every sparrow; dress every field with flowers; spin every tale. Each has a purpose.

It exists. I know it. I know.

Lord, let me see. So long as I can see. So long as there is a reason. Something that makes all of this heartache worthwhile. I can take the punishment of Promethius. The burden of Atlas. Even the torment of Tantalus. Anything.

So long as there is a reason.

Give me courage.

Give me strength.

Don't leave me too long in this enveloping gloom.

I love you, Papa.