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2005-03-11 - 11:35 p.m.

When I told Andre I'd called my mom today, he asked me, "How are things with you two?"

"I think she thinks they're okay," I replied, which is a perfectly truthful and legitimate answer.

"Do you think they're okay?" Which is just a stupid question.

No. They're not. Sometimes the desperation for them to be okay is overwhelming, crushing, but let's not kid ourselves.

"Do you think they'll ever be okay?"

And I don't know. That's as honest an answer as I can give. I just don't frakking know. I may not dwell on my hurt and my anger; I may process and leave behind...but I don't do a whole lot of forgiving either.

I mean, I understand what unreliable, fragile creatures we are. Our weaknesses seldom surprise me. Seldom revolt me. Usually, I find a tolerance that drives Andre absolutely up a wall...but how can I not empathize? I am a realist and that means facing up to some truths that are no beauty.

But empathy and understanding are brain functions. Even sympathy is a feeling rooted in the mind. But forgiveness?

For me, forgiveness must be predicated on a) repentance and b) the belief that the person would not choose to commit said sin again, given the choice. (Poor Grandmother; Gramma's Catholic efforts sank far deeper than the Seventh Day Adventist ones, I fear)

ilmomof3's journal led me to another by kilowatt; reading a couple of (her?) entries, I am reminded of my own quest for mindfulness, for equilibrium, for ecumenical living. I don't think I've fallen away--not exactly--but it's harder to let my mind walk among the clouds when so much has happened in the earthly realm. I think perhaps I have lost focus, and in doing so, I think some of my beliefs have altered in ways I don't know, or completely understand.

It's like my dream of the previous night; while on the one hand, I felt a consciousness of Time (not time), and its consequence, I think I've lost the belief in a life outside of Time, an afterlife, if you will. The pieces no longer fit together. I had the perception of eternity before me, but the only thing that filled or punctuated it was the absolute aloneness. Not solitude, which is often pleasurable, and not to be avoided; ALONENESS.

I'm not the same girl that stood against the lightning and forswore the Dark. Parts of me are harder, firmer, but other parts are friable as glass, porcelain dust held together by spit and duct tape. I hate this feeling; of not knowing who I am anymore. I hate coming on these edges and corners all unexpected. I hate that I don't feel Their presence the way I used to; I miss the consolation of faith.

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