Medicine for a Little Moon

Prescription: One Dose of the Planetarium {take as needed}

Mission Log: Maladaptive Daydreaming Sobriety Coordinates: 

1 year, 7 months, 8 days, 16 hours, 28 minutes, 32 seconds

It goes down bitter:

The desaturated hues of Mars, plastered across the wall— the rusting of the heavens

Which, after all my daydreaming, are still mostly a black, cold void.

Bitter, the highways and whiny children— the reminder that here this is all, and out there— that is all.

Another, Lord…give me another. Though I grimace, my insides are cleansed, oriented toward what I wait eagerly for, groan for.

I let go of trying to romanticize this— these spheres— to quench a hunger they were never meant to slake. 

It goes down bitter, but good, good:

To shift my eyes from fading stars to their true object of adoration, to plant my feet willingly on this cracked, concrete city ground and be—aspire to be—content right here. To cling not to aesthetic or anesthetic— to be blinkingly awake, eyes open, seeing earth and space and You and myself as we truly are.

It goes down bitter, to harness my creativity as salt and light in this reality. But hook me up to an IV, if you have to. 

I am less and less sedated with each passing hour: more able to glimpse You for who You are instead of who I deign to fashion You into. 

Frames fade in luminescence. You grow ever more radiant— white-hot righteousness— bathe me in Your light until I glow. 

Thank You for having mercy on this remote, cold little moon— for drawing me into your orbit, giving me life and purpose. Remove anything in this system that eclipses my communion with You, my reflection of You.

It goes down bitter, and You are the sweetest, brightest reality of all. 

“He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.” — Hebrews 1:3a (ESV)