Jesus rule over me. God, I've written you a lot of pretty words. I've prayed a lot of pretty prayers. I'm not always sure how sincere I am - am I writing from the true longings of my heart, or just spouting poetic babble for the pleasure of my own ear? Jesus make me transparent. Make me real. Let me see with crystal clarity, as you do, the true nature of my heart. Show me my flaws and failures. Guide me through my circumstances. Jesus, please don't leave me lukewarm and impure. I want to live a radical life for you. I want to fly higher; I want to hurt deeper. Sink your claws into me, God. Don't hold back. Oh bind me to your purpose Lord. Never let me go. I am willing, I am longing to live for you. Pour it on, God, pour it on, pour it on! Oh God, why am I saying this? You know what I'm really wanting, even so much more than I do. So why do I even pray? Or do you really want to hear it from me? Here it is: GOD, POUR IT ON! That's what I've got to say. But how can I ask you for anything? You know what's best, and you'll do it. I trust you in that. Or is it supposed to just focus me on what I should do? In that case I guess the message is "Pour it on yourself!" That's what some people I know would say. Lord, help me in that. It's so hard. But just in case everybody's right and there is power in prayer, I bend all that power on this: God, pour it on.

This is how I pray. This is why prayer seems so pointless to me. I ask God for things, but he knows what I want and what I need. Why would I even want to advise God? Or will God really not do his best for me unless I ask him? And why do my prayers seem to have no affect on anything? The whole thing is maddening.

I think I'm pretty easy to get along with. I don't get mad at people. I like people. People like me. I hate to see conflict between people, and when I do, it seems like I can understand where they're both coming from and sympathize with them. Hm, I seem to be incapable of writing long entries anymore. Not sure why. In brief, I seem to be able to get along with nearly everyone... except God. The problem is that God doesn't play by the rules of relationship. He's not even very courteous. Mostly though, he just has poor communication skills. I don't know what to do about this. Once again, I know that somehow he's right, and somehow the problem's with me. And once again, that's infuriating. Help me out here, God.

My recent breakthrough came when I decided to accept the way my life is and stop assuming that my distance from God is somehow my fault. Once I stopped blaming myself for not having what I want and was able to be at peace with what I have, I was suddenly freed from this cycle of longing and depression. The Buddha was right - desire is the root of suffering.

It is midnight. I sit on a couch at my friends' house. Alone, but for the ticking of a clock, the soundless gliding of my pen, and even-present God. I have just finished watching Moulin Rouge, and I am feeling, by association, a sort of tragic grandeur, as if I my myself were the man at the typewriter. As if I myself had been burdened and blessed with such love, such pain, such special effects. I glance at the fridge and see the pictures of my dear classmates. About twenty of these are girls. Of these twenty, about half I would consider friends - that is, I've had at least one real conversation with them. A handful have been the object of my crushes, to various degrees. Perhaps three have shared with me, or I with them, something special. Something that binds us together through time and space with some intangible kinship - something beautiful and blessed. Only one of these girls (contrary to popular belief) have I ever proposed to, and that only vicariously. Any of these girls could capture my thoughts and emotions and guide my pen tonight. Any name could be etched here for my aged reflection, or for posterity's speculation, or for the flame. But none of these girls will be mortalized here tonight. It is a solemn thing, and ought not to be done out of self-indulgent passion or boredom. Or so it seems to me now. Instead, I present for the reader's consideration my relationship with God. It seemed to me when I began to write that my relationship with God was somehow like the story of Moulin Rouge. Perhaps (as I now feel) this is not the case. But I have been at this now for 45 minutes, and I feel the need to see it through. So what is the connection? Neither of us is a woman. Certainly neither of us is a whore. Neither of us are cast in brilliant color and live in a world of song and dance and absurd cinematography. I think it's the hell-bent devotion, like I want to be devoted to God "come what may" or whatever. But maybe I don't. I don't know. It's late, and my head's in a whirl. So many impulses. What do I do? Another line comes to mind: "Daddy, you bastard, I'm through." I don't know which represents my feelings right now. I just feel like someone's laughing at me, because it's all been said before, and I haven't changed since the fall. Oh Jesus. (See the formula. Always the "Oh Jesus".) What gives, God? What is there to say? You know what, God? I say I'll do anything for this relationship. How about this: I won't let go until you bless me. Let's go God. Let's fight.

I suppose this is where I first started to identify with Jacob. I figured that I fight enough with the my own concepts of God, maybe I could fight with God himself for a change. Didn't really work. Btw, I'm not exactly sure what I was talking about with the marriage proposal. I think I was referring to a video we made.

I suppose I should tell you how that night went. I stayed up until 5:00 waiting for God. Finally I admitted that it was stupid, and that God will not come at my call, even to kick my butt. I think it was useful in some way though, if only because I can now tell myself that I've done everything short of suicide, self-mutilation, and having some Pentecostal preacher lay hands on me to receive a tangible relationship with God, and none of it has worked at all. Suicide's an interesting thought though. I would never consider killing myself, because I can think of literally dozens of people whose love that would betray. But I just wish I could die right now and be with Jesus. Sorry, that's a bad place to end, but writing in this Journal has somehow become burdensome to me. I can't go on.