stuff

my music stopped when I decided that noone was listening.
I say decided and not realised because it isn't necessarily the truth.
it's me being melodramatic.
and anyway the truth is never black and white like that.

that day when I couldn't understand my own music
that was perhaps the day . . .
I remember my heart sinking at the sound of it.
like a cook getting the sponge out of the oven
and finding it flat as a pancake and burnt to boot.

the source of the joy had evaporated
leaving only dust.
like a happy banquet after all the guests have finished and left:
a tumble of left-overs, smears, crumbs and dirty dishes.

tonight confirmed for me something that has been dawning for months:
without you everything is dust.

and still the problem is to allow God to be God in the way in which God is:
not to try to reform you into a more suitable, digestible shape.

I am who I am

it will never be a question of understanding that:
only a question of allowing it to be:
the temptation to tamper and meddle is still so unbearably strong

[there is so much I still need to tell you!]

if I ever sing again it can only be to you