As I should have been, given that the light sky had surrendered to the night sky, I was strewn across my bed last night. My eyes hastily decided that there was nothing worthwhile to see. Tiredness preceded insomnia, which was unusual, but certainly welcome. I was thinking about my personal understanding of God and how it seems so meaningless to me. I don't want to understand God, I want to know God. But that's foolishness because understanding and knowing are one and the same, at least, according to a dictionary.
Perhaps I don't truly know God? What sight do I have to perceive divine intervention? What if "divine intervention" is built by the hands of my own subjectivity? And then somebody will tell me to look at the scriptures. Well, again, what if the scriptures were built by the hands of others subjectivity?
There is no knowing. And I don't really care to know. But I also don't care to not know. I don't care about either. It's faith and I know it's not dead because it's practiced in the world. Even though I can see that faith is alive in the world, it doesn't necessarily mean that I see that faith alive inside of me. And that's what hurts, seeing what is absent inside when you look outside.
What care does God have toward the times I talk to him? My confessions, worries, praises, what could they possibly do for God? They can't improve him, for God is absolute. They are of no help to him, which I can understand, but they don't help me either. They don't improve me, based on the judgment I have of myself. I don't usually find joy in talking to God. I usually do it out of a fear of what God could do to me, for God can do anything that doesn't contradict his will.
Notwithstanding the disorder, I still use prayer as a channel to find peace. I suppose there is some amount of belief in me that God is peace, even though it is a modest amount. I want to find myself in the supernatural someday. A small marketplace with vendors and a cobblestone pavement underneath. And the vendors won't be selling withering fruit, but the fruits of the spirit.
But I'm not there and the world is hiding my soul from me. Oh, how weary you have become, once world of faith!