it's me.

Perhaps it's the planner slipped deep into my backpack, that is crumbled at the edges from the textbooks that are so heavy on the back. The planner that leaves the fingers kissed with ink after touching it because there is so much, too much, to be done. And has there always been only twenty-four hours in a day? Because lately the days seem shorter than they used to be, and my time seems stretched thinner than it ever has been, and the planner is so tainted with ink that my illegible handwriting seems to read "save me" in between the classes and meetings and to do lists.

Or maybe it's the fact that I am growing older and my childlikeness is forgetting to stand by my side, nudging me to keep that innocence, that spark, that wonder.

But if I were being honest, the kind of honest that only comes out when the clock's cry sounds three in the morning and the mind and body and soul are weary, and the coffee has gotten more bitter, but somehow taste better, and we are so tipsy off of our vulnerability and conversation that I am wondering about life and purpose and meaning, maybe in that kind of honesty I'd have the guts to say this:

maybe it's me.

Maybe I am the one who is becoming more complicated, more stressed out, more uneasy. Maybe it's my own lack of discipline that keeps my body in the bed when the soul longs to be in the Word. And maybe it's my self-absorbed heart that decides to walk face to the ground, denying any stranger any amount of kindness because a girl has got to get to her class on time, and if they knew how busy I was they'd understand, and if they knew what I was going through they'd be feeling sorry for me.

And maybe it's me making it all about me. So give me more you, Jesus. Because the world does not need more me.

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