What's my self-perception? My words seem stopped up even when I don't
think about them. but it's not me. I am in Him, and walking. What moves
in me is fully moved in me, and fully realized at that moment. My
understanding of it will grow - this is only first light. May I stop
moving if I ever think I've gotten something. I am free, tied to
nothing.
"Make the heteros get married." bahaha
I feel like this self of mine
is getting more flimsy: that the stuff that comes is all just fine,
fine. I get a little harried, but it's not consuming. I guess I expect
consumption. I desire consuming fire - but passion, I suppose.
Zakar means 'male' or 'to remember'.
Jehu means 'he is God' or 'it is Jah [who is God]' -
(n.) A coachman; a driver; especially, one who drives furiously.
Concerning Ischus and Dunamis, I'd say it's a man who remembers who he is.
Something's been imparted. I've thought too much and carried too much and considered and believed I knew what it would look like. But I don't.
I don't, okay?
You tell me I'm wonderful, and you provide for me at every step. You show that you're outside of me, and it still feels like a headgame - I might win if I can just catch the rules. So you manifest to me, and we have a very real encounter i sound crazy expressing. I assume I want healing. But it seems like all I want's to be right. Your life is LIFE, and I can talk about it. But for now, I'm content to stress about all the I's in me. Faith toward God; not toward the self.
A MAN REMEMBERS. It's who he is; it's his makeup. I remember you, lord, when I'm falling. I remember you when I'm catching fire. I remember you, head, when I attempt to make my own way. I SUBMIT TO YOU, HOLY SPIRIT, WHEN I'M WRITING, SPEAKING, AND BREATHING. MY THOUGHTS ARE NOT MY OWN BUT THEY ARE DIRECTED AT YOU. I DEVOUR YOUR WORD FOR IT OPENS MY SENSES - MY SPIRIT UNTO YOU.
I can't do you, I am you. There's the game. I spend all my time trying to figure out how to be this one particular person I can't get all the details to, and I'm him all my life. If I'm you; I'm content. I'm powerful, and able. Secure and easy, unharried. I create in rest and, well, am rested. If I celebrate you I no longer have to celebrate myself - this, whatever you made - this gift of operation. I can just write you. I still need training, but I can participate if I'm you. I'm yours.
I'm expecting something crazy on my behalf, but you're with me, so I guess everything's just outrageous.
Thanks, pop, for being kindly. For smiling on me when I would run. Thanks for bringing me home. This heart is yours. And I'm a man, so I don't swear, but I remember my word and now my yes is yes. I do.
