Lord, a great sadness has come over me today, and I no not why nor what to do. My hands disfavor all work, my heart sinks with every word, and I desire nothing but some comfort that is far off, beyond my very reach. All around me is that which I never asked for and never wanted.

A father who sees me as one might watch a bird flying overhead, not a daughter who is in need of love, care, attention, guidance and protection, but as a beast who has her own flock. In some ways, he sees me as his maid, his servant, here to give to him and do as he requests. Here to serve some duty or purpose, to love and attend to him, which I fail at miserably in my distrust of him. Perhaps he sees me as something, an object, pretty to look at, but if he cannot possess it, a pointless thing. It is very painful, and I am viewed as selfish in this light.

In truth, I am sick of any celebration of fathers or of men. I am tired of birthdays and holidays and some force telling me to be grateful for those which God has set before me, who seem only to mock me. I am not a bird, I am a woman with a word, with a spine and a voice and a feeling and a heart and I must outsmart them. They all seek to weaken me, even those who are here to love and protect me, will eventually start tearing at my heart. They fail to see our commonality, and I am not one to teach them, nor to trust them as my teachers.

The verses I stay up to read remind me to trust one thing, and that is God. How trying is my life at times, and how much I've sought and still fail to find that comfort. How hopeless I feel at times, for I feel too weak, and overcome to take another step or give another drop of myself down that empty well. He knows I am tormented in the darkness of night, up to hear the swallows begin to chirp softly, then to hear those nesting in the trees begin their loud cries.

You show me couples Lord! You show me dancing, life, vibrancy and truth. You show me fun, and beauty and yet... I am so far on the outside of all of it! You have given me some small beauty, I know it's true. Men tell me of my great intelligence, they marvel at it... and yet, what use are these gifts if I cannot share them with those who receive them with honor?

I can think of nothing I'd rather do than write and write, and write a novel.