My vision droops. Chin can feel like it carries all the weight of me in its pointed self. Then it’s clumsy naval-gazing as I bump into walls like a game of pinball. It’s no good, that view. It’s low. Pity-full.
There’s so much little to see in a day: flashy things that offer little more than fool’s gold; disparaging things that offer no hope; disorienting things that offer up a whirlwind of nonsense.
I’ve blood-shot the whites of my eyes on such nothingness.
Drooled all over myself with despair.
Ogled and slurped like I was entirely inept to believe otherwise.
It just creeps in, and the soul begins to curl up like a wilting leaf, or like an invalid into his hospital sheets.
“Eyes on Jesus, babe.”
Some of the best advice echoed to me from a sister-friend. Almost seems too few words to really matter. Too elementary an equation to solve every convoluted problem.
Why is it so hard to fix the gaze? To restrain the eyes? To behold beyond the bewilderment?
These dozing-off dips with my neck slide that teetering book right off my head. Perspective and poise thud to the floor. My slouchy composure speaks of my vision, or lack thereof.
Now, knock it off.
A little tough love that grabs me by the arms, and shakes some good ole sense into my vain vista.
How I want tenderness in my flailing around and sinking, but sometimes He comes with a loaded question that reveals all of my foolishness and faithlessness.
“Why did you doubt?”
Well, because I am an idiot. And you clearly got the wrong girl. And the scary clouds…and shiny things…and…
Nevermind. I know…I know…
Eyes on You.