There was a house where I used to live. Live? No, trapped really. The house had no walls, yet blocked me in. No doors, yet shut me inside. No windows, and no light. The house’s name was Sorrow, and I made my home there for a very long time.
I’m not sure when I moved in, when I arranged my things on the mantlepiece and put up my clothes and made a place for myself there. I just remember that I was there for the longest time. It was a strangely comforting place. Even in the midst of the terrible aching that was the constant theme, there was a disturbingly easy sense of familiarity. As much as the walls fenced me in, they were my walls. As much as the doors shut others out, those were my doors.
I had come to believe that the underlying theme of my life is constant melancholy and sorrow, and that any experience of happiness, joy, or fulfillment was but a fleeting illusory moment that will quickly pass away, leaving only the sadness that is my ultimate destiny, and that to believe otherwise is a naive attempt to escape from reality.
I used to live in a house called Sorrow. But I don’t live there anymore. I’m in the Lord’s house now. And it is a good thing indeed.