A Season of Winter

What was it about faith that made it painful? If I love God, must I hate myself? If I leave God, will I learn to love who I am? Did my desire warrant my exile as my ambience contradicts a doctrine built on conservatism? And for this, I should cut into my skin and bleed sacrificially? For God's supposed glory, I reviled the very sensation I longed for, as if a man's touch might condemn me forever. For years, I prayed for God to rid me of my affections and fix my thoughts on what is "true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable." If only to be accepted by the masses.  "The Christian faith" is but an idealistic worldview placing human individuality at the substratum of sin. Written within my spiritual redemption was a compendium of contradiction. Such as a God that loves me for who I am, with a love that may presumably change who I am? And to be affirmed by Christian ethics, I must first admonish the most authentic parts of myself?  The c...

I used to wake up to see the sun rise each morning. There was something about a pastel sky that made me happy. Pale streaks of yellow and pink that contrasted a sunset, birds chirping in senseless communion, but harmonious all the same. Only the best parts of the world were yet awake. I considered myself lucky to behold them. In many ways, I was like Spring. Vibrant in my colors, fervent in my harvest. I made good company, casting a soft light in many skies, or so I thought.  Then I was Summer. Unbearable to some, enjoyed by others. I couldn't help the opinions of those around me. It is, after all, my nature to burn. To feel my own heat scorch the skin of those who stay in it for too long. I watched as my world hid from me behind closed doors. I wondered, am I too close to the surface? If I pull back, will I still be Summer? If only I could be Spring again, then I might still have another sky to brighten. A sky other than my own.  That's the thing about seasons; they change ev...