My Song

"My Song"

I've got two faces. One, I keep with me and God. It's the one I don't have to deal with all the time. The other, is me. What everyone sees. Is me. But I don't have to deal with that one either.
Why? This doesn't make sense. I'm a geek philosophizes in his spare time. I seek to understand people and what they want versus what they need. Yet I personally can't deal with myself; "The world is crumbling, but I know why", sings a member of Jars of Clay. Quite insightful. But I know why. I find myself not understanding how I can see through others' problems and know how to deal with them, but I can't solve my own. The world is crumbling, as well as I. But I know why. Why do I have to tell everyone else why? Why I can't fix my own is maybe what I want, but maybe I want to keep it this way? I don't know. He does.
He gets it. That would make sense. He made it, He works it, He can comprehend it. But I'm still here. I still can pick up this cross of shame and grace and walk up that once crimson hill back in Israel. Yet the hill isn't really in Israel. It's in here. In this page. In these words. In my mind, heart, body. Then why?
A friend, Joel the Beloved, told me something in a somewhat unsteady argument where we had decided that the other was an idiot for not solving their respective problem by now. He said, with a slight amount of contempt, that it would be nice if I would just "not be so cryptic all the time." He was referring to my (obviously annoying) habit of pointing out easy to understand ideas in a way that makes no sense to everyone else. I like to call it my "Epic" syndrome. I like things to sound amazing. But he would refer to it as my Proverbial Sayings Syndrome.
Maybe thats what this is: an explanation for all my cover-ups and stealth operations on the battlefield. Here I am, pretending to be a leader, someone called by God to do something; But I have my own agenda. And "my people" sit back and tell me that I'm forgiven, just try again. I see that as only skin deep.
The funny thing is, He's the one really saying it.
I get myself into this idea of freedom, but it only lasts so long. Then I find myself looking for the painkillers again. I can't deal with it. I gave it to Him, but I want it back, so that I don't have to deal with it. It is just another easy to use pronoun. My end shows my means. I'm justified. Think about it. It doesn't matter what my it is, just that I keep holding on. All I want to do is let go, but I really, really just want to not deal with it.
Maybe my cryptic sentences will finally stop being two-faced and show up their worth in my friend's eyes. Maybe not. Either way, I hope I can realize that he is not so easy to figure out. He's a soul. and souls have a tendency to be deep. Deeper than I can see or feel. But maybe, just maybe, he'll get me this time and finally feel what I feel when I worship. One wise person commented (not to me) that singing songs other people wrote is worshiping God through their eyes and hearts. A type of communion that goes through other people into the worshiper and becomes them, so they can see another facet of His mind-blowing coolness. These words are my song. My facet that God assigned me to portray. This is my song. My song rings true, but me doesn't. Not yet. I'm still working on that. Conclusion sold separately.