Ironic. a.m

I have plunged from a world in stasis, eternally dull to one of infinite drama. In both senses. Still feel strangely empty though. Like lampposts that don't even notice storms. They're just kind of well there. I know that seems well rather an obvious thing to say but if you were inside my head you would understand. Yet a sudden revelation in church necessitates that I post this.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;
Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;
Thou my soul’s Shelter, Thou my high Tower:
Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven’s joys, O bright Heaven’s Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

Sometimes, no well most times I just feel so lost. And yet I know I shouldn’t. And well I think probably just suffer from a classic case of adolescence where the mind is just so much wiser than the heart but I just can't force myself into believing. And I have just become this strange ball of contradictions wanting something, but ignoring it when I do get it simply in pursuit of something else though not necessarily better. I put it down to a basic case of humanness. Someone told me once though that I simplify everything like that, putting it down to human nature and thus ignoring the obvious problem. I keeping just well talking about things without thinking them through so when I articulate my thoughts I'm like what on earth?! I feel like writing in long elegant prose or beautiful poetry or just well something flowy and light that disguises thoughts but my abilities are far too limited and now I just write plain unformed, malformed expressions of a well sorted but tightly wound mind. Asif writing long jumbled words make up. the confessions of an emotionally withered author.
Sometimes even I believe in my insane pompousness. Ignore all I've written above. Sometimes things just need to be said, but not heard. like the robots on Pluto Nash (strange eddie murphy movie). You know I wish people would understand that more often. That we mostly under-react but over-act. That little of what we say is truth, is an accurate capture of situation. But it's articulation is far more important than any truth. I think only children take this for granted. When you've grown up in an imaginary world, and spent most of your time talking to people in your head, you learn that the comfort is in the expression and not in the answer, because you see no body ever answers inside your head. And you learn to talk to real people but inside your head, hold full length conversations, so that very little of what actually needs to be said is ever articulated to the real person but yet it always gets better. And it's never the way you imagine, and people never act the way you expect them to but you start living in this quasi reality so that it doesn't even matter anymore. And now I'm just typing and my point's not even in there at all. Instead it's an excerpt of a blog entry I wrote in my head, the way I've written most of the entries that will never see the light of screen.
But my point! was... now I have to re-read the damn paragraph and I don't have the energy to so never mind. You know though it's funny but it's the memories that we need to capture most that never get photographed, the letters that need to be written that never hit the page and maybe because if it stays in your mind you can over-compensate, and pretend it was better or need be, worse then it actually, and then suddenly life seems a little more worth it, in postcards from wits end.