Five minutes, any day. Spent writing—something anything not for anyone anything no edits no outlines no plans no correction, this is where it goes.enjoy.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

I'm in a Funk

Mopey.

Frustrated frustrated frustrated.

I think today would be most perfectly described by a Switchfoot song if I only reworded the lyrics a little.

I'm not fine
I'm just bent on getting by
I'm not fine
I'm worse than just okay...

Today has just been one  of those days that demand stomping around barefoot, yelling at the empty house and being mad.  Mad at everything even though there's really nothing to be mad about.  Today has been one of those days where you stand at the window in front of your kitchen sink and glare at the snow and let out a little irked huff just because it looks pretty.

It's not a happy Relient K day.

It's more of a Doom soundtrack day.

Aggravated, aggravated, aggravated.

And aggravating.

Because there isn't anything to be mad about.  I mean little things yes.  Things don't go right.  Plans get messed up.  People are short with each other.

It's a time when usually I can just shrug and say, "Eh.  Ce la vie."

Unfortunately that day is not today.

I can only keep from totally despising my petty nature by hoping that when I'm not a teenager anymore my emotions will stable out a little and I won't feel like kicking a puppy on my bad days.

For now I'm just glad we don't have a puppy.

STOP

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Fall on your knees and hear those angel's voices . . .

I have been trying very hard to imagine, this whole Christmas season, what the night sky must have looked like when the angels appeared.

I've been squinting up into the midnight sky, peering through my windows and struggling to visualize the light suddenly bursting forth, the angels appearing from nowhere, the song.

From the sound of crickets and sheep munching on grass to glorious angel song.

From huddling in deep black air to standing beneath the brightness of the sun in the middle of the night.

From dozing off to all of that celebration.


I'd really love to have been there.  But until then, I guess I'll just stay here by my December window and breathe mist across the icy glass, staring up to the cloudy suburban sky and just wonder.  Wonder at it all.

From darkness to light.

From hopelessness to more hope than one could ever dream.

From separation from God to eternal and holy communion with Him in the realest sense.

From boundaries to curtains torn.

From piercing, ripping pain and bloody nails to heaven-- glorious heaven.

His plan is simply indescribable.


It takes the breath away from my very lungs

STOP


Oh Holy Night is such a beautiful picture of this.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Thoughts

Quotes have always struck me as a quasi-hilarious thing.  I mean, it's my opinion stated by someone else.  I could possibly have done it as elegantly, but just because someone else said it, it suddenly holds more weight in papers, projects, conversation and speeches.  Two people see the same way.  The opinion goes from being moot to being the more memorable part of the entire exchange.

There are some things I just don't get, you know?  Like quotes.  Also I don't get why people say "Tell me about it".  I just did, didn't I?

I was reading a Calvin and Hobbes at my Grandmother's house the other day.  It was talking about the absurd and how if we couldn't be amused at the absurd how it might not be possible for us to react to certain things at all.

I wonder how God feels about the absurd?

I mean, He created everything with a purpose.  But He also likes to have fun.  He likes jokes.  He likes playfulness. I wonder how He sees the absurd things we laugh at.

Do we laugh because we do not understand?

Perhaps if we sought to understand before mockery, the world might be a better place.

But then again, maybe not.

Hmmm.

STOP

Here's the comic I was talking about:
Interesting, don't you think?

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Contentment-circumstance

www.thenotebookdoodles.com

Sometimes I think I am a very cynical person.

I'm happier than most, yes.  Well, maybe not most, but a lot of people anyhow.  I have things to be thankful for:  I'm surrounded by great people, plenty of things I need, I'm provided for, loved by my family, I'm being educated, furthered, sheltered, loved.  I have a lot.

And yet, happiness is not derived from what you have.

Joy is not a result of circumstances.

Sometimes I think I'm a very cynical person.

I have a lot, but I still want more.  I have plenty of friends, but I still feel alone, and yet I have no wishes to get to know anyone new.  I have so few responsibilities, but the weight of them and those to come is dreadfully crushing.

Sometimes I just have really awful days.  Not on the outside, of course, but the inside.  I can be a very hateful person, towards people, towards things, towards circumstances.  I am a malcontent.

How hard would it be to look up at the sky every once in a while?

To have your feet on the ground, but your eyes on the stars.

Dreamers get let down, of course.  But doesn't everyone?

When did I decide that dreaming wasn't worth it?

STOP

I need to be reminded of the little things, sometimes, I think.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

What Can I Do


I feel like this every day of my insignificant life.
But I am not ill-equipped.  I am not without weapons, without cause.  I am without motivation.
I am apathy.
There is so much that I can do.  So much!  What can I do?  Never enough.  But I can do something and that something is so much because it is still something.  Value.  It has value.
Where I am now there is no value.  There is no meaning.  I just exist, apathetic, stagnant, helpless, impactless, existing for what?  For nothing.  For myself, which is worse than nothing.
I don’t matter.  My wishes do not matter.  I do not matter, not me, my dreams, my hopes, desires, cravings, feelings, fleeting thoughts.  I don’t matter.  I am but an empty vessel, filled with that which I choose to fill myself with, waste myself on, anything that does not matter, that does nothing for those hopeless individuals around me, nothing for even myself.  I live my days and they are over and they are nothing but a blur and a smudge and it doesn’t matter because I’ve done nothing, nothing at all but waste all of my precious gifts.
I am an empty vessel
Prod me.  Whip me.  Stab me.  Compel me.  Direct me.  Force me, Dear God, force me.  I cannot do anything because I cannot force myself to stir, force myself to be anything but an empty vessel filled with fleeting thoughts, passing entertainments, shallow ideals.  I am afraid and my fear keeps me from breathing, living, doing anything anything at all
Force me
because I am an empty vessel
created by You
and You
do what you will
with this earthen vessel
for I cannot move myself to do anything at all

Sunday, December 4, 2011

In Years Past

Red lipstick
and classy high heels

Bowling hats
and black and white wingtips

Music and dancing
Twirling skirts and laughing groups

Joviality
not found now
But I don't think it's because it doesn't exist

It's because girls have forgotten to act with grace
And boy to open the doors

It's because boys forgot to walk closer to cars
and girls to lower their voices

It's because we don't act with class
Or pretend we're worth respect

We are simply loud and demanding
Demanding and who wants to respect that?
Who will open her door?
Who will encourage him?

We've lost all our class

It's a sad, sad thing

but every time you slouch
and burp
and demonize yourself

you're not being funny

and you're not even being abnormal, anymore. . . .
you're just being
modern
and
young


Class would be a beautiful thing to retain
and sophistication is so rare now

STOP

Sorry.  Just me thinking out loud, listening to old Christmas music, like Silver Bells and Let It Snow.

I miss when it was normal to be dignified.

Friday, December 2, 2011

The Year 2011

"When one of my fellow employee's iPod ran out of batteries, I let him use mine while cleaning. I can indefinitely occupy myself with my own thoughts and know that it's harder for most people to do the exact same thing for 4+ hours without some kind of entertainment."

I came across this the other day perusing another blog. It was the craziest thing, because it made me stop and think.


Can I indefinitely occupy myself with my own thoughts?  Without noise or music going on in the background?


I used to be able to.  I've blogged about it before (but not here).  I love long car rides (without small children) when I can just sit in the backseat and look out the window and think.  Philosophical quiets, I've come to know them as.  Silence where I can just be, at rest with myself.


I was sitting here in my bedroom all alone, my older set of brothers downstairs quietly, the younger set away for a while with my parents.  I was doing homework and listening to music.  And then, as I reached over to turn His Favorite Christmas Story up, I realized.  There is no one home.  The house is quiet.


Why do you need to be listening to something and ruining the quiet?


Can you really focus on your government when you're humming along to Christmas carols?


I understand that music is a wonderful thing, but my brief silences need not be marred by a sort of ADD buzz in the background. There's nothing wrong with focusing on one thing. (Internet, I'm talking to you.)


I used to be able to indefinitely occupy myself with my own thoughts.


Sitting here, thinking, in the quiet, I'm just not sure if I can anymore.


STOP

Sunday, November 20, 2011

To A Guy I Know (Who I Know Will Never Read This)

I've no doubt you're a wonderful person.
Actually, that's a blatant lie.
I flipping love you.  When you smile it makes me grin.  When you crack a joke, it's hilarious, and I can't help but laugh and laugh and laugh and all of our friends think we're crazy and that's perfectly, perfectly fine.  Your new classes make you look super cute.  You're attractive, wonderful, crazy fun, and if I had to pick anyone to have an epic lightsaber battle in a toy aisle with-- if I had to pick anyone to ride the Vortex with me-- if I had to pick anyone to storm Chuck E Cheese with-- it would be you.  They would all be you.
You are fabulous, and I adore you.

But I don't love you like that.  And if you ever told me that, I would be beyond heartbroken, because you are a wonderful human being.  You're precious.  We have amazing times together.  But I'm not for you, and you're not for me.
I wish I could say I was, if you'd want it, because then you would be happy.
But I couldn't ever say that.  We're the best of friends.
But we're just friends, and that's all.

Anything more . . . well.  That would just mess everything up, and I would rather die than ever give you false hope of anything more than the craziness we are together every once in a while.

You've got a princess.

I've got a prince.

But I'm not yours.

You're not mine.

We just both happen to be royalty.

And thanks for all the marvelous times. I'm glad this never has to be said aloud, and that you make my day.  For that I am ever so grateful.
_________________________________________________
HAHAHA Classes meaning glasses, duh.  Because NaNoWriMo kills my ability to spell.  Sorry 'bout that, guys... but it says no editing.
Just thought i might clear that up.
. . . 
Classes. *snurk*

Thursday, November 17, 2011

It isn't like that, please

It's not like I'm deaf.
It's not like you're mute.

It's not like I don't see you.
It's not like you can't look me in the eye.

It's not like I enjoy having you shut out.
It's not like you're opening the door again.

It's not like I can't tell when you're lying to me.
It's not like you try to keep your lies from me.

It's not like I won't forgive you.
It's not like you have to fear my tears.

It's not like I love to see your pain.
It's not like you have to hide it from me, either.

It's not like I don't care.
It's not like you can't trust me.

It's not like I don't love you.
It's not like that.
It's not.

I'm so sorry I haven't been what I could be, but I'm trying so, so hard.
I'm trying.

It's not like you can't try too.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Bleeding alone

I race, volleying through the halls, dashing as fast as I can, my feet slipping on the shiny tiles, my heart pounding in my chest, and I can hardly breathe for the sting in my throat.
Sliding through the automatic doors, I slam into the shiny white wall on the other side.  I hear something crack in my arm, and pain shoots through it, but I can still move it, and so I run on.  I don't know where I'm going but I'm going to find you.  I don't know what you're feeling but I feel I must help you.

My fingers dig into the rims of the mirrored windows as I struggle to look in, strain to see through the darkness to see if I have found you.  Not here.  Not here.  Not here.
I round the corner and suddenly a huge glass dome looms in front of me.  Inside the floor is sticky with brown drying blood, and in the center you sit, the slits on your arms leaking scarlet Ichor onto the white tiles around you.
I pound on the glass, screaming your name.  Look at me.  Look at me.  You've got to look at me.

Your head drifts upwards, and we make eye contact. Tears stream from my blue, but your green simply stare.  Your blood continues to flow.
Let me in.
Let me in.
Let me in.
Oh, please, just let me in!

I've come to get you.  To free you.  To let you out.  My fists bash into the glass, but I can't break it, but you do not move.  Your eyes float to the door.  The only handle is on the inside.  Your blood continues to flow.


I want to help you--



You look down.


Please. I scream, my voice breaking, throat raw, heart splitting inside me.



Why do you let your blood still flow?


____________________________
Sorry.  Longer than five minutes.  I trust you still love me. ^_^


Friday, October 28, 2011

Gloves and Contentment

Gloves.

when I was little I convinced myself that when I was older, I would wear gloriously long, black silk gloves.  I would have a red, floor-length fur coat.  I would wear black and white and red and pink and whatever other colors I wanted and I would look GOOD, by Jove.
Looking back, it seems I was going to grow up and be a nice version of Cruella DeVille.  You know, with the high heels and the fluff and the jewelry and class.
Just minus the puppy-killing.

Today, I do wear gloves.  But the gloves that I wear are knit gloves, short, and without fingers.  They're black and grey and white and pink but they're not glorious or silky by any means.  They're just warm, and kind of homely, but I can write and type with them on so it's enough.  I love high heels and walk in them like a queen, but high heels equal pain now that I'm old enough to have experienced wearing them for hours and hours. 
I have no fur length coat, much less a red one.
And yet, I'm perfectly content, and I have been every step of my way.  Almost every day of my life.  (I say almost because middle school is a time that should be forgotten from human memory completely.)

Gloves.
They're different than I imagined, but I still got them.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Time. No Wait, Attitude? And Then More Time. Yes.

Time.
There's been more of it lately.

Well, not more.  Perhaps I'm just taking better care of it now.  I'm still just as entranced by its ethereal side, with the past and the future; the mysteries wrapped up in time, memory, and the human ability to forget will never cease to enchant and perplex me.  But now there's a much more applicable side to my time.  I'm paying more attention to the now.

I always said taht you need to live in the now, to take care of business, to do what you need to and not just waste the seconds.

And yet I wasted more time than anyone that I know.

It's bizarre.

Kind of.  Also kind of expected.  I'm the kind of girl that finds it very easy to tell others what to do, and harshly, dishing our sarcasm and wit, but if you tell me what to do, give me some sass?  I'm affronted and I'll let you know.

I can dish it.  Taking it?  Why would I ever?

Anyway.  I was talking about time. (Sorry, I haven't done this in a while.  My brain train switched tracks on me there.)

As you take care of little things, important things, like your time, it's funny how things that are bigger, and more impactful, show up, eh?

If you're faithful with the small things, I suppose.

Anyway.  new opportunities are cropping up for me, and it's pretty exciting.  The future is a crazy exciting place, it looks like, and I am SO ready to see what it holds.

STOP

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Funny How We Forget


This moment is joining my past.
I stand in the hall during my senior year, surrounded by classmates and teachers and friends and acquaintances, chatting and waiting for physics class to end, and I realize…
this is possibly the last time
i will ever stand in these halls like this again.
this is the only time
that I will stand,
just as I am,
with these people
and these thoughts
and these feelings
for the first time
the only time
ever
And the moments join the past, and they live on for a while before fading slowly to black
And though I will come to that hall so many more times this year, and be surrounded by classmates and teachers and friends and acquaintances, chatting and waiting, it will never be the same instant, the same thoughts, the novelty and sadness and apathy and detachment and sorrow and memory that it did that day
never again
It is past, now.
it will be forgotten, now.
There is so much to look forward to, but yet so little when you look back!

Names labels boundaries and oppressions

Hello, my name is ________________________.

The white space between the blue borders should not be so intimidating.  But every time he reaches for the Sharpie to scrawl his name, he watches his hand move in slow motion, and he hears his heart beat, feels his pulse, struggles to fill his lungs as the tip of the marker on the oppressive and horrifically blank nametag, and he tries not to think as the letters slowly form beneath it as though he wasn't writing at all, but it was being written for him and inflicted upon him instead of his hand inscribing


when it should be writing



Thursday, October 6, 2011

Ha Ha. Not.

I was just about to get on here and grumble artistically about how I wish I had more time in a day.

And then I read my last post.

Ah, ambivalence is a most charming character trait. /sarcasm.

It's hard not to complain when I don't have enough time to do things that matter.  When I can't write.  When I can't blog.  When I can't even slap a poem onto a piece of paper in the midst of my day.  When I can't sit down and have a meaningful conversation with my mother without interruption.  When I can't look through pictures with my little brother without him reminding me we both have gobs of homework to do.

But I guess that's when I just have to suck it up, huh?

I'm going to be spending my weekend on homework again.

It would be nice not to feel like I'm burning out.

But sometimes I think it's my own fault?

It probably is.

Diligence isn't something that comes easily to me (maybe I'm the only one).  You can tell because I had a thought and had to sit down and write for five minutes on it instead of starting my Government homework.

I can be such a malcontent.  Like I'm wasting my time, my life, my talent, my opportunities.

I need to realize I'm just not perfect and give it up already.  I cannot get through a day without wasting something.  But can anyone?


STOP

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

We Are Not At Home

Get over it.

They're words I need to tell myself sometimes.  The homework is taking too long.  Mom's food isn't really that good tonight.  The project didn't turn out.  The words failed.  The computer deleted it.  My clothes were super cute but they don't match this jacket.

Get over it.  It has to be done.  Eaten.  Acceptable.  Worked on.  Restarted.  Worn.

Who really cares, self?  You got a 92 when someone else got a 98.  The curve gives you 100, but you're still unsatisfied.  Now someone has 106.  So what?  Study harder next time-- or just accept it.  You're doing great anyhow.

Some bigger things, I can't tell myself to just get over.  Life spiraling out of control.  Things going crazy.  Stress, stress, stress.  Tears eternal.  But that's just when I have to remind myself.

We are not at home.

We're just not.  We don't belong here.  So get over the little things, and let the big things remind you... you don't belong.

You were created for so.much.more.

Whyever settle for dirt when you can have gold?

Why settle for now when you can have eternity?

STOP

Also.  I got a new theme.  Like it?  Yes?  No?
I do. :3  Sunshine yellow.  Lemon poppyseed cake yellow.  It's a yummy warm theme.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

"The world Is mine And everything In it"

A legacy.
I heard at Summit Ministries Leadership Conference that if you can google your name, and no one is hating on you or criticizing you, you are not making a difference.

I can google my name and all that comes up is random stuff about my step-aunt, who has the same name as I do almost.  My pen name has more results but none of anyone talking about me... just my profiles on my usual haunts.

But I want to be able to look myself up and find that I am making a difference, someday.

I want to be able to look back and say that people know who I am.  Not because of who I am, but the kind of light I was able to be, in Christ, through Christ.  Surrendered to Him.

I don't want to die and be remembered in passing and then forgotten.
I want to die leaving a legacy, a monument to the awesome power of God in my life, an image of His glory and splendour and incredible majesty.  I want to be able to have people look at my name and say, "Wow.  Look what God did."

When people ask me what I'm going to do when I graduate, I bite my tongue to refrain from replying, "Why, I'm going to change the world.  You?"

But I am.


(somehow.  Even if it's just in one person's life, in one person's one day, that they will remember and cherish.)

I'm going to change the world, someday.

Are you getting ready?

What are you going to do when it's time for you to start a new chapter in your life?

Me?  I'm leaving a legacy.  I'm gonna be that controversial chick they laugh at on Yahoo!News.  And boy, oh, boy, am I excited.

STOP

Monday, September 26, 2011

Last Year

Fear and
sadness

sorrow and
Remorse

Pain of
imperfection
and yet

No Remedy
just Malady

No Peace
Just terror

No surrender
Just clutching earth with bloody hands

I had heard
and heard

but words
have
no
power

with something so serious

for i had the words
and i had the ideas
i had the truth

but all it was

was words


and I was afraid
terrified
lost
and i knew the truth
but He didn't want me


i cried
until it hurt
but i did nothing
but wipe my tears away
and replace my mask

september 24
september 25
He wanted me
and i eased my cramped
bloody
filthy
human hands
open and finally let go

[there is no more fear

don't pain yourself]

and let Him wash them

though i was not worthy

and i will never be

since when must i be worthy?

He must only be Good.

and He is
so
incredibly
Good


STOP

Sunday, September 25, 2011

pressure.Asphyxiating

What do you do when your whole life is crashing in on you?
When you're bracing the walls with wobbly boards as fast as you can and they keep shattering, splitting, cracking underthe pressure just when you think you've got it, and you finally think you can have some semblance of order, some semblance of control, in your own life?
What to you do when you don't know what to do anymore?
I can call, but I've been calling.
I can pray, but I don't know if I can pray forever.
I can't try to keep the walls up any longer.
I just want to be free, but I can't get that freedom.
How do I even know what freedom is, if all I've known are walls?

Please, won't You keep it from smothering me?  Won't You hold it up, so I can finally see the sky again?

I need to see that sky.  Please.

Since when is Life so hard that we can't function anymore?  Since when is there so much there's no way to start?  Since when did simply existing become so complicated?

When did I stop living and start struggling to stay alive?

I hate it here.

Won't You  help me out?

I can't do this
STOP

Saturday, September 17, 2011

I Miss you My love

Sorrow.
It fills me with such sadness to fall out of good habits.
Reading.  Schoolwork consumes my time.  Had I the choice, I would neglect my school books for leisure reading, I Am the Cheese, or Lord of the Flies, or The Day I Became an Autodidact, or Bonhoeffer.  I would consume books like I do oxygen: perpetually, with fervor and enjoyment.
But I wasn't given permission to read, not last year, not Junior year of high school.  My parents said I would focus better on my studies if I didn't read.  If I cut off my oxygen supply.  I would focus on my schoolwork, then, and do better, and not procrastinate.
Did that happen?
Instead of books, I found the internet.
The internet-- and though I say this I love it far beyond I should-- is a cesspool.  It is stagnant, rancid, and disgusting. I wish I could take back so much time.
When summer came, I set my mind.  Books!  I would read them-- read them all-- and love every second.
I picked up something-- anything.  I began to read.
It was awful.
Torture.
A waste of time.
I had no more love for books.  I simply didn't care.  The words held no magic.
And I returned to my internet, which was more amusing to me.

STOP

I regret not reading books more than anything last year.
I understand my parents' wishes and their desire, but it didn't work the way they intended.
I wish it had.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Mess ed.u p


Messed up.  Broken.  Crying.  Burning.  Aching, dying, bleeding, lying.
It’s a picture.  Do you see it?
It’s you.
You’re hurting yourself.  You feel like you don’t have a choice.  You’re trapped, stuck.  Others exist, but not really—you’re completely alone.  By choice—both theirs, and your own.  You’re erecting glass walls between you and the world:  they can see in, but they’re separated from you as you glue every broken, cutting shard together, creating a barrier, both against your will and in accordance to it.
If I was still there—
If I was still there I wouldn’t be here.
I don’t know if people know this, but I was suicidal a few years ago.  To me, no one cared.  To me, it was obvious.
But I was terrified of killing myself, for fear that God would not accept me.  I had done so much evil, and He hated me for it, and there was no way that I could refrain from wallowing in the mire that was myself without simply ending it, casting myself on His mercy, and praying He would understand my reasoning behind taking my own life.
But Mercy is what He does.  Love is who He is.
Hate me?
Never.
Hate you?
Never.

A Midnight September Sky


The September sky.  Looking up at it, it’s not the deep blue of a midnight summer sky, the heavy reminder of warm air and stars and sunshine in the morn.  The September sky is a dull, orangey-grey, a warning of October, a lupine, clove, wild and chilly canopy over the damp night.  The September sky beckons and calls you to forget your civilian and humane duties and curl, cat-like, under a shedding tree, in the pumpkin and allspice and dying leaf air.  It wants you to be slowed.  Contemplative.  Not so human and consumed.  September skies call you to realize that things are changing, and things are dying, and sometimes that is okay.  Sometimes it is that time.  Time for wolves and things to turn all shades of brown.  Times to fall.
September skies.  Time passes.  Things die.
But one thing September skies do not tell about, in all of their muted, midnight glory, is regret.
But do you?

Sunday, September 11, 2011

9/11

I was sitting on a rug on our wood floor.  I think I was with my brothers.  Or was I?  I can't recall.
I remember my parent got a phone call-- I can't even remember if it was my mom or my dad-- and I remember the urgency in his or her voice.  I remember being afraid.  I didn't know what was the matter.
I dropped what I was doing, ran to stand in front of my grown-up, reassured by the height and power of adulthood.  My parents could take care of anything.  My faith in them was formidable.
I remember watching as they turned on the TV, and I knew it was important, because my parents didn't watch TV.  We only turned on the TV to watch Sasha the Siamese Cat on PBS Kids, or Pokemon on 4Kids.  My parents didn't ever watch TV.
I watched the news with adult hands on my shoulders, watched as the tower smoked.   I didn't understand.  It was a movie to me.  No one was hurting, burning, dying.  It wasn't real.
I watched as the next tower was struck, watched as the news reporter didn't realize, watched as my mom or dad watched, horrified.
I watched, impassive, a child.  A movie.  It wasn't real.
I didn't realize people had died until the days following.  I didn't realize anything.
I was six then.
Now I'm sixteen.
It's so much more real today than it was then.
STOP

Saturday, September 10, 2011

sloW Burn


I watch the fire, burning the wick of the birthday cupcake candle before me.  It’s been burning since this afternoon, and I’ve been sitting here before it since then.  We’ve been suffering through Dante’s Paradise together—which, if you ask me, is must more like a personal Inferno.  Dante’s preposterous praises of the Greek poets are enough to make me want to run for a lighter, not to mention his lovesick descriptions of Beatrice.
I watch the flame, flickering, dancing, fast, darting.  It’s never still, always wavering, flitting from one side of the wick to another, up, down, all around.  It cannot be still.  It’s like the very incarnation of A.D.D. . . . which is saying something, because I would have guessed it was one of my foster brothers that was that.
But watching it, I wonder.  If you slowed it down, I bet that the flame would be even more beautiful.  Imagine it dancing gracefully, sweeping and bowing with its firey arms extended, smooth and poised.  Like an inspiring dance—not that crap they call dancing nowadays, but surreal, flowing movements that are so incredibly peaceful and pure.
I would love to see a flame dance.
STOP

Friday, September 9, 2011

Messy messy Teenage girl Room

You see clutter.
I see belongings.
You see mess.
I see system.
You see chaos.
I see organization.
You see crumpled paper.
I see potential art.
You see stuffed animals.
I see remnants of my childhood.
You see the different colors and textures.
I see the years of my life, amassed in my furniture and my curtains and my bed sheets.
You see empty water bottles.
I see evidence of exercise.
You see Hello Kitty beside a Ferrari, Captain America beside Elmo.
I see my loves through the years.

Funny how we can be looking at the same thing, and we see something so different.  Funny how I am at home in my mish-mashed chaotic lair, and you would rather walk on glass than work, or read, or eat, or think, or write, in here.

Well, it's a good thing it's my domain, then, isn't it?  I'll just come out ant talk to you, in the no-man's land of the hallway.

Could it be cleaner?  Why, of course. I'm not saying it's perfect.  But it is bearable.  And right now, bearable is about all we got.

You can attest to that, can't you?

STOP

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Sorry about today, Government Class

When everything inside of you is screaming no, shouting that something must be said, that you have the right answer and it has to come out now, now, now or you're going to explode, I am really no good at doing anything but pounding my hands on the table and expressing what I'm feeling, typically letting my emotions get the better of me.  My heart speeds up, I throw down whatever I'm working on, lean forward.  My voice gets loud and intense with feeling, and every conviction I've ever had is not, could not ever be more important that this thought, right now.  It's the most imperative thing, and you've got to listen.  You've got to.  It's so incredibly important.

Perhaps Government class isn't the perfect place to be shouting your opinion, though? Perhaps you ought to use your inside voice, Christina?

The teacher was amused.  He's had me in one of his classes before, and he knows that when I've got something, when I've really got something, it has to be said.  It has to come out, and it'll be passion-filled and verbose, if not true.  He understands, and I think it just makes him grin more than irritates him.

But the other kids in my class?

Yeah.  Sorry about today.  It's important stuff, I swear.  Nature of man, guys.  I'm excitable.  It's relevant.

Maybe not the best combo, but ehh.  What can you do?

STOP

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

So more like Ten Minutes, Actually


Silence.
There’s this pressure to be silent, to let the darkness be, to preserve the oppressive quiet that hangs over us all.  We are fastened in this black darkness to stone, cold and mute.  The stone is rough, and it digs into my knees as I kneel.
Silence.
It does not ask to be respected.  It demands it.  I cannot speak out, from fear.  Fear because it’s been far too long since anyone has spoken.  In fact, I can hardly remember.  Has anyone spoken? My vocal chords feel dusty and creaky from disuse.  Will they even work anymore? The shackles about my wrists do not chafe—I have not moved in an eternity.
Silence.
I turn my eyes, ever so slightly, and let them rest on the captive beside me.  She is crumpled over herself, kneeling, as I am, kept down by the darkness, the silence, the fear.  She stares at the stone before her, as I do—usually.  But now I look at her, and I see the awful haunting in her eyes.  She looks like she’s falling apart, slowly, from the inside out. The chains are heavy, and lie, quietly, on the stone about her.  They’re holding her down, in, still.  Captive.
Silence.
It’s killing us slowly.
Emotions, something that have been shoved aside, down, forever, are building up inside me.  I can’t take it.  It’s just silence.  Why are we destroying ourselves for this ever oppressive silence? We were made for so much more than silence, darkness, chains, stillness.
The chains rattle, loud as cannons, as I stand.  Clenching my fists, I scream into the darkness above me, an angry shout, a cry, daring the darkness to respond.
It cannot have me any longer.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Never Moving Always There simply still


Still.  Like a picture frame.
Still.  Like a cool pool of water.
Still.  Like a tired soul on a hot day, watching the trees sway in the breeze.
Still.  Like glass.  Like ice.
Still.  Not moving.
Still.  Resting.
Still.  Relaxing.
Still.  Breathing.
Still.  Here.
Still. Waiting.
Still.
Still.  For a long time.
Still.  Persistent.
Still.  Ever on.
Still. Present.
Still.  Something will happen.
Still.
Still?
Still.
Always.
Still is a mind picture for me.  It’s the salt in the sea, sand on the beach, a figure prone beneath palm trees, lying, existing, waiting, has been, will be, not moving and hasn’t been, still still.
Waiting and suspended.
Contemplative.  Patient.
Time… what is that? Since when does it matter?

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

crafted Reality


The cyan blue rays cut through the air as the day begins.  The technicolor blades of grass sway gently in the breeze, and tiny marbles of dew slip down the green bows.  The crystalline clouds burst with light as the pipe-cleaner wind brushes by.
Somewhere, a wind-up bird chirps sing-songily, and a shining pond reflects the blue paper sky above.  Cranes fly through the still air.
The sounds are sharp, and the plush moss of the forest makes a soft bed for the origami creatures resting under the paper-maché branches of the oak trees.  They aren’t aware the fluorescent sun had risen, and their sides rise and fall gently in sleep.
Nothing is keeping the life from this day, and slowly, the crafted world begins to wake.
STOP

Monday, August 29, 2011

Alive but Not


Alive.
Your bright eyes dance as you talk to me, and your little smirk is so endearing.  I love the way that you get so excited about what you have to say, when you tease you look so mischievous.  You remind me of a silly little boy, with your love of life and your grin that says just how much you love to tease.  I love that when you’re trying to make me think that you’re hurt, you can manage to frown with your mouth, but never your eyes.
I love how you move with such intensity, such drive, as if everything you do or say or are included in is so incredibly exciting you can’t stand to just sit back.  You throw yourself into everything whole heartedly.
I even love that you can be incredibly hot-headed sometimes.  I try not to smile as you get more and more frustrated with people that don’t react the same way you do, and how you will take on anyone—anything—that threatens to harm anyone you love.  You are determined—committed—to protection. To helping people.
Sometimes you are harmful with your words.  Sometimes you let yourself get out of hand.  But that’s just the way you are, and I understand.  Everyone does that.  That doesn’t mean I like you any less.  I don’t think I can.
Everything about you is so alive, and fresh, and new.  It’s just you.
You’re so alive to me.
So how is it that you’re not real at all?
STOP

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Connection Problems


Today my internet was dead.
Diagnose connection problems? It invited.
Wouldn’t that be nice if we had a Diagnose connection problems button for our lives?
We have to go about determining the problems with our relationships ourselves.
Sometimes it’s easy, like we haven’t been spending enough time with people, or we were short with someone, or the other person is just really busy.
Those can be fixed pretty easily.  A cup of coffee, a lunch date, a card, an apology.  Sometimes it’s easy.
But other times it’s hard. When you just can’t figure someone out, and everything you’ve been saying is somehow offensive to someone, and you just don’t click with your best friend anymore.  When relationships drive you crazy.
That’s when you’ve got to humble yourself and seek some outside advice.  Pray.  Read the Bible.  Talk to someone.  Admit you’re not incredibly smart and don’t have all of this put together yourself.  When you admit that you need someone’s help... or Someone’s help.
 STOP