Being human is hard. It wasn't meant to be, but it is. Solomon called it a "heavy burden" this being human thing. We will never be satisfied. We will always want more of something. But what is it that we really want more of?
I find myself like Eustace clawing and scraping and pulling at my skin, this dragon skin that keeps my soul bound. I writhe under its constraint and its weaknesses. I'm a prisoner inside my own anger, resentment, insecurities, faithlessness, and selfishness. I hate how the scaly, lumpy, dragon skin looks... how it feels. And I can't cast off this feeling that there is something greater; there is more.
Discouragement a constant companion in this, our humanness; failure its closest cousin.
With what are we left?
The Reality that we are nothing.
All is nothing. Vanity! Useless vanity!
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