The Weaver - Anonymous

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the underside.

Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

I had that thought again just now.

First time in a long time. Not since a few years ago, when I was taking the pills.

Primarily for her to carry that burden of guilt for the rest of her life.

Made stronger by the sight of the open window in my room.

I'm sick of it all. Ending it might be the best solution.

Childish? Yes. Stupid? Yes.

I'm going insane. Push me any further and I'll retaliate in a way that no one can fathom.

Over-reacting? Maybe.

This might be the last straw.