The Paradox of Freedom

The Only Thing I Want is to Want Nothing At All

I no longer wish to write long essays or logical deliberations. I only wish to continue breaking myself—to see what heights my lightened soul might attain by the grace of God.

I do not trust myself. I pray that every word I speak may serve, not preserve. I am breaking, yet being built. I am on an elevator with an unforeseen rate of acceleration. What I commit to one day is levels beneath me the next. I no longer know what tomorrow will hold—nor even tonight.

I am brought to tears by revelation: that I am ungrateful, that I have never been grateful, and that I will only ever be a speck of sand upon the shores of gratitude—never quite submerged in its ocean. I will always deprive others of the gratitude they deserve, because my heart is still hard.

And yet, the gratitude that pours from the wellspring of my soul—through tears—is sweeter than any gratitude I’ve known before. This happens day after day. The tears God grants me wash away the filth from my soul, granting me vision. I have never seen more clearly, and still I see through barely translucent glass. I see more than ever—and yet, I see nothing.

These are no longer essays.
They are prayers.
They are confessions.
They are spiritual meditations.
They are tears, funneled into words, that I might offer them to God and not keep them for myself.

I feel stuck—yet free.
Confined to one place, yet lifted on high.
I cannot move, and yet my sight is unshackled.

The only comparison that seems to suffice:
I am stuck in a hot air balloon.

The view is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—only heights I once looked up at, dreaming of reaching. In order to ascend, I throw every excess overboard. I suffer the pain of loss, but rejoice in the fruit of rising.

Part of me longs to dive after the pieces as they plummet—to cling to the solid ground of familiarity. That is the old man in me, the worldly self who serves himself. But the new man—the one God is making—empties everything that weighs him down.

The higher I climb, the farther I am from the world below. And though I long for it, the nearness of the unknown compels me to continue. By now, only I remain onboard. The excess is no longer external. Now I must cast off parts of myself.

And so I do.

As the atmosphere thins, the small sins grow loud. The hidden becomes magnified. The subtleties of pride and vanity beg to remain—for the sake of “wholeness”—but Heaven requires lightness.

The conflict rages in my soul:
The voice of the world below whispers: Hold on.
But the voice from above—the whisper of the Spirit—says: Let go.

My chest tightens. My hands sweat. My mind races. I close my eyes—and I jump.

But only a piece of me dies.

I open my eyes. I remain. I am lighter. And again, the process continues.

What lifts me up could also bring me down. If I cling to what is sinking, or anchor myself to what I’ve thrown overboard, I will fall. But if I stay aligned with that which ascends, I too will rise.

This, so far, has been my journey in Christ.