Sunday

I usually feel like people don't get me, and I usually think I'm right about that.

Maybe I'm not as forthcoming as I'd like to believe I am. Maybe that same forwardness throws people off.

With all I'm given, maybe I'm a sponge to some, meant to soak up all of their mess when they purge and cleanse themselves, leaving me soggy and dishelved in a corner somewhere.

Maybe I give out way too much love, more than I can replenish at once. Maybe there just isn't enough to go around.

Maybe, just maybe, someone out there does understand what I'm saying when I say it, can look at me and know that when I feel, I feel all.
Yours. Mine. Theirs.

Maybe that someone won't be able to handle it. And I won't know them. Or feel for them. Or love them.

I wonder how He did it?
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