Restless

Clean this heart and make sense of it. Peel away the filth from my grasp, even though I still cling to it with these hands, I don't want it. What I want is to be rid of it.

As for the thoughts that come on me like a plague in the night, robbing me of rest at reasonable hours; let them be understood. I do not ask that You take them from me completely, for that leaves behind a certain sense of failure, puzzles that were left half-finished and then thrown back into the box.

So make sense, if You will, of these musings, because I have finally come to the end of myself. I won't pretend that my need for You is little, neither will I aim at understanding just how great my need for You really is. The arrow would never reach the mark, for the human mind is so small and I am convinced that my mind must be smaller than most's, for if it were a decent enough size, I doubt that it would threaten, as it does so often, to burst.