To Be Still

My computer is full of old poems, from a time when I was in love. A feeling that I haven't felt since before my 20th birthday. A feeling that I miss, which comes with the realization that I don't feel passionate anymore. I can remember a time when I was extremely passionate; for the Lord, for girls, for anything. I feel its been drained out of me slowly.
There was a time when I could use words to express what I felt, what I expirenced. But now, after a year of dull prose, I can't help wondering what happened. The passion is gone.
I've begun to read Neruda again. He used to inspire me with his mastery of metaphors and his chillean dialouge. I've also begun to revert to these old poems that are everywhere. In reality, I feel like I'm just grabbing at whatever I can find. The problem is deeper than that, though. It's in my outlook, my own failure and short-coming. I want to be needed, and I am needed, but I'm full with the dissatisfaction of un-fulfillment. I'm sick of working so hard for my salvation when Grace doesn't make me feel satisfied. Not to say that it isn't satisfying, but I think that my own failure takes away from it. I know it does. Whatever this satisfaction is, it's been ellusive thus far. Consider this, from April 2, 2005:

I wish that you were here with me
Song of my soul, heart of my heart
I wish that I am not alive
When you are not with me
I am the tree, and you are the ground
You are the dirt and the sun and the rain
You are the roots and the birds
And the children that play beneath me
I need you to be near me,
I need for you to always be with me
Oh bright summer night
Oh sweet summer day
You are the snowfall you are the rain
I here, now, I am the earth
Just waiting for your shower
Just waiting for your salvation
For when I am Lost, you find me
When I am hungry, you feed me
And I am forever satisfied after