late night rambling

Maxims Reference:

"All mortals tend to turn into the thing they are pretending to be." -C.S Lewis

"What people call insincerity is simply a method by which we can multiply our personalities." -Oscar Wilde

I'm stuck, asking "who am I really?" The parts are many: my parents' son, my siblings' brother, Shelly's friend, Greg's friend, Sarah's whatever-the-heck-I-count[ed]-as, ___________'s friend, AAA Matthew, the generous son of God , the sinner filling his head with noise to silence God and have 'just this sin.' What model gives this any form? Spectrums, graphs, percentages, or solutions? Am I leaping or crouching? Who are the characters/actors/agents in this story? The trite summations of life and God I dispense to others have lost their resonance. Are they now merely insufficient for a more evolved person or have I hardened my heart?

Disabused of a comforting pride—one that told me that I stood at the center, being touched on all sides: that I was the complete man—all I have is this awareness of a mind always lying to itself, conspiring against faith and love. How much deceit has seeped into my life, underlies my thoughts, and strengthens the sinful pillars of my mind? I'm resigned too, sad because of an intervening conviction that these existential crises are a mark of immaturity/irresponsibility to others and God.

What is motivating this all? Will digging deeper help? Is this all mere vanity before God and you, affected weakness concealing a sinister and deliberate treachery, seeking pardon for the tormented hypocrite rather than the prideful one? I answer my own questions, of course.

I imagine the scoffers condescending still, "You homo curvatus in se. Buck up! This is the 'doing' faith. Your mind filthy only because you wish it so; hands idle save for wringing."

But I protest, "All I do is make the sub-conscious conscious. I've made the incision; I'm performing the surgery. There's bleeding, such disarray; It's not time to sew up now! Oh how I pray for virtue not managed nor planned but flowing from the Spirit, of vice extinguished, not merely explained—vice not demanding sympathetic countenance but evocative of a righteous purifying anger.

My heart feels dead and it's not taking orders; there will be no repentance today. There is a reaching coming from some will but its only organ-of-use is that damned mind: offering an explanation of sin and capable of manifesting only shame when something in or about me longs for redemption.