Why do I write? What do I have to say? I am tired and emptied, and the following result is of little worth. It is poorly written and poorly conceived, yet it is necessary. I shall let it be.
Today came accompanied with an interesting existential crisis that I fear will not be resolved for some time. In one sense, I should be glad that the crisis will not be resolved as unless it is resolved to my satisfaction, my life is at risk. And so, in due response to the presentation of this epiphany of self-doubt and self-reflection, I have undertaken to prevent the further procrastination of the person I ought to be. This newborn creation of mine—this blog—is the projection of at least one facet of myself that I believe ought to be seen, though not for altruistic purposes. I intend to display my inchoate self, my self on a journey, my self on an intellectual and religious sojourn towards some goal which is only dimly perceived from this vantage in time. And so I shall lay out my intentions.
I. My Faith
I am a Christian and I am a sinner. With this catechism knowledge in mind, I am entering a new stage in the desperate war against my sinful self. I am complacent and easily satisfied with my corrupt nature and I fear that my complacency will remain unopposed until the bitter end unless with God’s help I consciously determine to oppose it. I intend to reach the point that I am at odds with this complacency and reject it at every rearing of its Hydraic head. My vices are basilisks that keep me frozen still with inaction when I should be fleeing as Joseph fled. I intend to make it my constant prayer that I this contentment is dissolved.
I am under no misconceptions as to my own ability to accomplish this goal. I can do nothing without Christ who I pray strengthen me. It is also true, though, that unless I determine not to make myself prey to my faults, I will never escape them. I am a Christian, blessed with the Holy Spirit of God who works to sanctify my daily. This work ought to bear fruit in my life, and as of yet, I fear that my branches are bare and withered, fragile and ready to snap before the lightest breeze. My life ought to be a manifested mirror of Christ and it is not. I bear the name of Chris, follower of Christ, by birth. I bear the name of Christian by God’s grace. I live up to neither of these.
II. My work
I am a writer. I am a poor one, I confess. I am a sparse one, at that. Since my arrival at school, my writing has declined to such a degree that I can only shamefully categorize myself as a writer. I claim the title with the hidden fear that someone will inquire too deeply into my work and find that I am only a self-aggrandized facade. I despise this about myself. My imagination and my thoughts and even my school have suffered so greatly as a result of my laziness and disregard for the craft that I have been blessed to have even a small natural inclination towards. Today, I submitted an essay for the Honors College. Since 12:56 pm, I have been writhing in regret, self-loathing, sadness, and discontentment. The essay I submitted was all true, all legitimate. And yet, while prosaically discussing the imagination and its vitality to a Christian life, the essay was devoid of any imagination. It was devoid of any emotion, depth, honesty, or any other aspect that would make it my own. I am ashamed of it. In this craft I have undertaken, I never want to be ashamed of something I produce. I am determined to place myself against the whetstone and sharpen my craft until I can produce the stories that I ought to produce to glorify God.
III. My consciousness
I am insipid. I am entirely obsessed with externals. I have put on the guise of an intellectual when I ought to be garbed in the motley jester’s cape and crown. I am the Fool, and utterly foolish. My every action is carefully thought out so as to give the best impression to others. Oh, I have become skilled and portraying the histrionic self that I want others to see. It shames me, but it is so. I am merely the painted throne, demanding homage. I am the stretched skin demanding respect with no body, no mind worthy of note. My thoughts have dwindled from creative contrivances that would pick apart the universe and rebuild it in an evening. I used to entertain myself with such thoughts in my mind to give me pause years later. But now, I am a fool. I have no more intellectual prowess than a brick. My thoughts are bland and derivative. I am tired of this state. It is high time that this changed and I returned to the use of my mind for what it was intended.
I beg pardon for sounding conceited. I am, certainly, for this is one of my greatest weaknesses, but I only intend to delineate these faults so as to have a record for myself. You, my hypothetical and vainly imagined audience, are not the purpose of this thing.
IV. My relationships
Though intimately related to all of the presequent matters, this is problematic enough for myself that I think it is worth noting for my own needs. I am a terrific egoist of the Roark and Taggart type. This egoism is in constant tension with my Christian life (though not always in contradiction with, I believe). While the philosophical egoism itself might not be the cause of my pride and self-absorption, it is certainly of relevance. I espouse a system of belief based in the sacrifice of a god for his people as the tangible acting out of his love for his revolting people, and yet I continue to be one of the most self-centered and apathetic individuals I have ever met. My friendships are so often a matter of convenience for myself. I love many of them, but I take them for granted until such a time as I am desirous of the balm that friendship offers such usually self-sufficient people as myself. I intend to end this folly.
V. My hair
I think I need a haircut. I think it is perfectly legitimate to force an allegory. Consider: my long un-sheared hair as the physical manifestation of the inner weakness that has been growing inside myself for the past years, the clipping of aforementioned hair as the image of my efforts to destroy these cancerous traits.
Of course, one must never forget that hair will always grow back.
I shall not wax grotesque any further. I shall let you be. I will leave by quoting, as so many frustrated Christians have done before me, John Donne and that magnificent fourteenth sonnet that so easily speaks for me, when I have not the heart to speak.
“Batter my heart, three-person’d God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”