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, 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?