I have past my wailing. There were times in my past when I thought it all too much, that it would have been better if my life ended just then, that I should rest from this existence, that I wanted no more of this world. I dreamed of death, and how sweet it might be. From that, I now have become one who relishes his days here on this earth, but the transition from times before was by no means an instantaneous one; I did not wake up one day and suddenly life was worth living. If slowly, it did come: a gaining theme, a change from wanting death to loving life: a sense of purpose that grew to my days. It is now no longer the time where all I look forward to is sleep, to deaden my senses — something has lit a fire in my belly, ignited in me a passion to drive me on.
How did it happen? I prayed. There was a period a couple of years back when, for about a month, I prayed for roughly half an hour a day every day. And I did not specifically pray for a purpose to move me — the purpose came as sort of a side effect of those entreaties. God gave me the thing I did not know I needed, when I perhaps prayed for things I did not require as much as I thought I did. And slowly, inevitably, things turned around in my life. No, it was not the end of suffering, but something that became for me stronger than the pain. I have past my wailing. My purpose, my passion — it matters not so much what it may be — it makes me real, as if I had only been a ghost before that, wandering aimlessly through the halls of an empty heart, haunting only myself.
