Creative Writing... or not

Again, the classroom was cool. I rubbed my arm and looked around. My fellow students wrote busily, taking notes. Beside me, Shar looked over and grinned in silent camaraderie. A normal day. I sighed, still feeling a little sleepy from getting up earlier than usual.

Though the lecture was fascinating, I found my mind caught up by the strange chill breeze freezing my left hand. I glanced down, rubbing away the chill and felt no breeze, though that hand was several degrees colder than the other. A solid pressure settled on my shoulder, sliding down to wrap around my upper arm. I glanced over at empty air then felt for the cause, finding nothing. Yet still, the feeling remained. Twitching in my seat, I looked around for moral support, someone to tell me this all was a joke.

Shar still watched the lecturer. I tried to listen too--rubbing my arm, stretching; trying to remain calm as another chill slid down my back, pressing against my spine and stretching over my shoulders. Around me, the class listened intently, oblivious to my situation. With no apparent cause for me to blame, I focused on limiting my suddenly frantic imagination.

There, on my right shoulder I felt the pinch of claws, like the talkative parrot a friend had shoved onto my arm years before. Knowing there would be nothing, I looked anyway. No bird. No sly grin from a teasing classmate. Where could all this come from?

The lecture ended. Shar sympathized at my growing collection of strange sensations, but could add no insight. We parted and I headed home. I could feel the fierce intensity of a too-close fire behind my elbow and wondered whether I had finally gone insane.

Invisibly bound, pinched, burned and chilled, I spent the night trying to distract myself from the ever-growing catalogue, keeping the light on against my fears.

...

Ok, so that's not me, up there. But she's feeling some of the same sensations I do. She just doesn't have a reasonable explanation.

What a mystery remains within this much-studied design. God certainly created intricate systems for His people.

Multiple layers of meaning...

I would rather be dead than dying.

Only in death will I find life.

And if I must remain in the process of dying, I choose to welcome every step that brings me closer to my goal (though I often end up running away). I will choose to welcome the shedding of the facade of life. I will become Real. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally.... Even when ...Even when dying feels like being eternally stranded in a featureless grey mist.

I often mistake this mist for life. But the mist hides mysteries, and with these eyes I cannot see through it. I can only count on the promise of a great and grand scenery, and a path beneath my feet that leads somewhere. One day the mist will clear. It is a Promise by One who never breaks promises.

He loves me. Even when I can't see my own hands before my face, He loves me. I will trust Him.