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.

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.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Alive but Not

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?

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.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Misunderstood Human and finite

Misunderstood is a most intriguing word.
To be truly not understood.  Not who you were, or what you did, or why you did it.
Not to be a mystery—not able to be understood—but to be misunderstood.  To be understood incorrectly.  To have your words taken and maimed, warped to fit someone else’s idea of what you were trying to say, write, or communicate.  To have your meaning stolen and distorted, and then presented as truth.
In a way, I think we’re all misunderstood.
No one can tell how you really feel on the inside.
No one knows how you feel.
They just take what you do and say on the outside, and try to assign some kind of meaning to it, try to make you make sense to them.  But really, we don’t always make sense.
Sometimes I think if we could read minds, we’d all just be a thousand times more easy to understand.  On a base level, we’re rather simple.  Or we seem that way, anyhow, until you get deeper, below that level.  And then we can be complicated, and sometimes we misunderstand ourselves.
We’re most interesting creatures, wouldn’t you agree?
I don’t believe anyone has completely understood another person.
It’s glorious… and almost sad.
It’s a hard thing to be.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Aching Defeat

Bleeding, aching fingers drag you across the ground. Your tears flow from your throbbing eyes, and they sting the cuts in your flesh.  The scalding ground is numbing your flesh, only to have the sharp rocks rip across your skin as you inch forward.  Every movement is excruciating.
You struggle to turn your head, to glance back at your torn feet.  They are embedded with shards of glass from the prior miles of your journey, making all hope of walking impossible.  Instead, you continue to scrape your body across the vicious earth, struggling to make it to your destination, the city where you can rest, and your pain will be taken from you.
You begin to feel the terrain change, and the ground is suddenly sloping up.  The city is on the other side of a ridge, you know.  Desperately, you attempt to pull yourself faster up to the crest, struggling to see across the earth to catch a sight of your salvation.
You can’t quite see.  You heft yourself up, stones impaling your hands, and you can’t take it.  You fall, and your face hits the ground.  A shard slashes the skin above your eye, but it only adds to the lacerations already on your face.  You grit your teeth, and attempt to raise yourself again.
The landscape is flat, for miles, until another small ridge rises up over the steaming, volcanic glass valley.
Your salvation is nowhere in sight.


This is how I felt while I worked on homework this morning.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

So Long

So long
The summer is leaving us
the sun is setting sooner
and the wind is whispering of change
The chirpings of the cicadas are dying out
as the leaves start to feel faint

So long
Autumn is dropping its final leaves
Apples and caramel no longer fill the air
The delectable smoke from every bonfire
has evaporated into the late October sky

So long
Christmas is passed, the New Year now old
There is no more snow on the ground
The ice is beginning to thaw
and the trees are threatening to burst forth

So long
to the Spring as the sun shines bright
And the flowers have all died
as the air warms, and the days grow
Spring is just a gateway, now closing

so long
to a year
and it has been a good one


"I'm gonna be your halfway"

You look at me from across the table and half-smirk, emanating confidence and ease, the same as that corner of your mouth rests there, higher than the other, and you just watch me for a moment.  An eyebrow is raised, and you’re daring me, waiting for me to reply.  For me to continue this wit and banter.
And I pause, for a moment.  My expectations are high.  My standards are not easily reached. And you know this—we both know this—but you’re trying to get me to come down on them.  To make it a little easier for you to slip into my heart.  But I know this.
The funniest thing about it is that you know it too.  But you’re so confident, so assured, that you’ll be able to pull it off.  My determination is nothing in your path.  I can see it in your easy smile.  You think my requirements are just dreams, that they all can fall of no effect for you.
It’s almost cute, your arrogance.
But let me ask you this:
Who do you think you are?  And since when do I need you?

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

you are not PoiSon

What if you were a poison.
If everything you touched was alive, and beautiful, and lush and precious and then it wasn’t.  It was dead, and cold, and shriveled and black and burnt and in pain and aching. Aching, because you touched it.  Because you were there.
What if you had Midas’ touch.
If everything you were near was changed.  If you wanted to do good, with everything in you, but everything you did was destroyed, ruined, so close to fruition only to crash and burn, smoldering into a disaster so unrecognizable you had wasted all your time.  Because you were present.
What if you emanated ill will.
If you couldn’t help it, but everyone you were close to was plagued with ill fortune.  If bad things happened to them at every turn, if they were hurting and confused and their relationships were imploding and you were the one that set the charge.  You did.  Just by loving them.

These are not risks we run in everyday interactions.
We are not poison.
We are not capable of turning our loved ones to stone by a look, or killing them on sight.
We do not destroy, maim, harm, and confuse everyone we meet, everything we touch.

So why do you act like, in everyday conversations, you are capable of so much hurt?
Why are you so afraid to just love people?


Sunday, August 21, 2011

Time notwasted but Spent

I heard somewhere that clocks don’t tell you what time it is; they tell you how much time you’ve wasted.
Wasted time is the only thing you can never truly get back… you lose not only the time, but every opportunity, everything you could have been doing, every sensation of every time your fingers tapped against the matte black keyboard keys typing out every single pointless URL, every single waste of time that you choose to entertain yourself with.  Do you dwell on those taps?  Do you realize you will never again feel exactly what you just felt at that particular time, ever again?  Do you realize that every second that goes by is one more second that you’ll never see again?  They die so rapidly, so ineffectually, you can’t possibly think of every single one.
A whole life is a lot of time.
A lot of time to be spent with others.  To be spent alone.  To be spent crying, laughing, weeping, skipping, singing, shouting, wailing, hurting, healing, bleedinglivingdancingdying.  Seconds, all of them take seconds.  But do you realize how much time you’re given, how much time you have the opportunity to spend?
Every single one of them.
I once heard that clocks don’t tell you what time it is; they tell you how much time you’ve wasted.
But why waste those poor, fruitless seconds?
Why not spend them?


Determination and Defect

Determined. That's what I saw when I saw you, when I looked in your eyes. Grim, beautiful determination, and you were ready, willing, and capable to take on whatever came your way.
Determination is kind of an interesting thing when it comes to you, though. You can be wonderfully set on something, and intend to do it, to complete everything, to tie every loose end you've ever created, and I watch you, after you work and work until your fingerprints are worn thin, and you're burning out, and wearing down, and you're exhausted.
I wish your determination was less of a compulsive drive pushing you on, on, on, and more of a constructive feeling, inspiring you to do, and do well, and stop, and enjoy what you have done.
You mustn't mistake striving for determination, my love, is all.
You worry me sometimes. But I know all I can do is pull you close to me and let you rest your tired head on my shoulder, just beneath my collarbone, where you can hear my heartbeat, and you can just exist for a while. No striving. No determination. Just rest.
I love it when you rest.
You live in such perpetual hurry. Calm down. Slow down. Breathe, and taste the air. Blink, and feel your eyes refresh themselves. Open them, and focus on the flowers.
Busy, busy, busy, my love. Won't you rest for just a moment with me?


There's nothing wrong!
Did you know that? Did you ever stop and pause, and think, of your own volition, that nothing is wrong?
Well, think now! Nothing is wrong.
No defects. No issues. No problems.
The grass is green. The sky is blue. The clouds are fluffy and light and white. The flowers are smooth and inviting. Birds sing. Warmth envelops you-- not heat, just warmth. The air invites you, welcomes you, captivates you.
All of nature was arranged by someone who loves you inconsolably. With an aching, passionate, desperate love. He pours out his time into making his garden, his canvas, his entire world, beautiful, for you.
And you say you're defected. You're hurting. You're broken, and lost, and alone, and you just want to cry, and cry, and slip into the darkness and let everything go away because you hate it, you hate the light, it hurts your weeping eyes and you just want the day to leave you.
Can you imagine the pain that makes him feel?
Nothing is defected. His creation is beautiful, made for the beautiful woman he loves more than the universe, more than anything else he would make. Made for her. For you.
Please, don't say you're defected.
He made you so carefully.
He loves you so drastically.
Please-- for his sake?


Saturday, August 20, 2011

Hello, World

To spend five minutes, simply writing, without worrying about grammar or word flow or people reading it.  Without going back to edit it a million times, to make sure it is absolutely perfect.  Just writing, and then stopping, and then posting it here.

I wish I could say the idea was mine, but that would be an untruth.   The idea came from a post on a friend's blog, which led me to the woman with the original idea: Five Minute Friday.

But I thought, Why only Friday?  Why not any day you feel like it?  Why not every day?

And thus, this blog was born.


Christina Icarus