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.

Friday, January 27, 2012

I will never stop running (But He knows that)

My hands grasp the gritty dirt.  The rain falls, as it has been for so long, and the whole world is desolate, just has for as long as I ran away.
I ran away because I'm not good enough.  I'm not good enough and I can't be and it's better if I just leave.  The world is desolate with me.  And no one deserves to be with me, so maybe if I run away, if I try to escape, then I can be alone in my desolating without bringing it on anyone else.
The dirt stings the wounds on my hands, the wounds from scratching at the earth in a futile attempt to occupy myself.  A futile pathetic attempt to give myself something to focus on, anything but that great big oppressive sky that when I look up, it reminds me of you.
I hear you coming and I turn, I run, I flee to somewhere I hope you can't find me.  But you do because even my attempts to hide are futile.
You stand and give me your hand.
"But I'm not good enough.  I can't do this.  I can't be worthy, I'm a mess. I'm a disaster.  Why do you want this?  Why do you care?  I'm trying to get away from you.  i'm trying to get away because I can't ever be good enough for you and why do you want this wretch that I am?  I am running from you. Why do you come to get me?"

STOP

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Lilybuds

Amazing grace.

When I hear that song, my immediate thought is flowers.  Not typically, but just for today.  Flowers, pushing forward, up toward the sun.  Forcing their way through the gritty mire of the ground.  The slender green stalks looking so fresh and so vulnerable out there in the wide open air.  The green that slowly fades to white, the white that gradually unfurls, turns its weary face up to the sun and is refreshed.

Beauty from ashes

Today I think of the wind that sways the newborn flowers gently.  It's a celebration.  A celebration about what comes from the ashes and dirt and sand that is our lives.

It's beautiful.

Amazing grace.

Amazing.

Completely bewildering.  Breathtaking.  Awe-inspiring.  Full of wonder.  Incredible.  It leaves you without any idea as to how it happened.

Amazing.

It's what comes from the gritty mire of our hearts
if we let Him have us

STOP

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Hallelujah, We Are On Our Way

"Come on!"  He slips in the mud but pushes himself back up, dirt dribbling down his cheeks, his muddy newsboys cap on crookedly.  He's grinning like he's seen the sun beyond the clouds.
I trod on after him, each step up the hill sending aching thrills through my legs.  I look up at him, eyes empty and mouth slightly open.  The rain washes over my tired face.
"Come on!"  He cries again, propelling himself up the hill with an urgency I can't seem to muster.  "Can't you remember what we're on our way to?"
I try, and remembering somehow gets me to place my right foot in front of my left, my left foot in front of my right, through the sticking, sloughing mud, and I follow after him.  It's temporary, I remind myself.  We're making progress.  Today will be better than yesterday, better than the day before.  We're making it.
I look back, over my shoulder, to the other one.  His long hair is soaked with rain, hanging in his face, and his tired eyes stare down into the muddy hillside.  He doesn't want to go on.  He's forgotten the goal, as I do so often.  He's lost sight of where we're going.

STOP

Hallelujah, we are on our way
Hallelujah, we are on our way to God
From Egypt lately come
Where death and darkness reign to seek our new
Our better home where we our rest shall gain
There sin and sorrow cease and every conflict’s o’er
There we shall dwell in endless peace and never hunger more

Jerusalem, our happy home

Would God I were in Thee
Would God my woes were at an end
Thy joy that I might see
We soon shall join the throng
Their pleasures we shall share
And sing the everlasting song
With all the ransomed there

There in celestial strains enraptured myriads sing
There love in every bosom reigns for God Himself is King
 

Monday, January 16, 2012

Stream of Consciousness (?)

It's nippy outside today. The seats in the car are cold when you sit down, but when you push your hands underneath your thighs and fold over on yourself, breathing into the collar of your coat, you can pretend that it's July for a moment, if not April at least.
I wonder how people would feel about an electric blue wedding dress?  I think it's beautiful.
Sharpies have dominated my life for two days this week.  Coloring.  It's fun.
Working so you get things done feels rewarding.  Not wasting time . . . it makes me want to do it more.  Work.  Do things.
If you go to the front of a youth group and pray with a guy, everyone will think you're dating.  That's because it's a youth group.
I have three maroon Moleskines but two out of three are full.  The last one is starting to be full.
I have papers all over my room.  Rudolph makes a Christmas Eve cheerier than it otherwise would be.

"I don't know why you're being shy and turn away when I look you in the eye.  Everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but you-- you don't know you're beautiful!"

Pink mechanical pencils make homework better.

STOP

Want to see that dress?  Of course you do.

 Isn't it enchanting?

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Just Black/whitE

There's a saturation to every emotion I feel.  I don't think I feel more than other people, but what I feel I feel so intensely.

When I'm sad, I'm so sad I can't do anything.  I simply wander, listless, around the house, around the building that I'm in.  Listless and aimless, and who knows where I'm headed.  I sit down and just want to curl up in a ball and cry.  I can't focus on things.  I just want to be gone from whatever is making me sad.

And when I'm mad, I'm so mad I want to scream.  I stomp around, lash out at everyone, slam things.  Grumble and curse things with every inoffensive insult I can conjure up.  I scowl so the milk turns when I even look at it.  I attack things with a ferocity, mess them up, and gloom away, into another room to ruin something else in my insatiable irk.

Then when I'm happy, I'm so happy I want to sing (and most of the time, I take that liberty).  I crow about what a lovely day it is, I dance through the house and then laugh because I can't dance, and I float everywhere I go.  I beam, and radiate joy onto others, who look at me quizzically.  All I can say is that it's a good day, and they respond mildly that they can tell.

Apathy, however, is still present.  And apathy is the hardest of all, because when I can't bring myself to care I can't bring myself to do much of anything, and I just want to sit and alternatively cry, sigh, or sleep.  There's no color there, none at all.

Black and white.  On days like today I feel like every emotion is solid black and white

STOP

They're not, though.  Not most days.  But today I feel like it's black and white.  There are no shades of grey.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Where do you live?

Where I live, it's warm.

Not literally, of course.  It's the beginning of January, you silly goose-- and it's rather cold up here in Indiana in January.  Although yesterday was pleasantly warm-- almost 60 degrees.  Which is strange, and absurd, and wonderful.  Like a Christmas present you forgot about until mid-February, when it's nasty and cold and covered in salt-residue outside and that red wrapping paper is just what you need to cheer you.

The kind of warmth I'm talking about is much different than the sun shining outside.  It's a warm contentment.  A peace with where I am.  My house is harmonious.

It's warm.

I know a lot of people don't have warm houses.  They're cold, either because of things they've done or things they haven't. But that's not how it is at my house.

I'm so thankful for that.

I'm so thankful that we all get along.  I'm so thankful that we all genuinely love one another.  That's so abnormal these days . . .  I'm so blessed.

I revel in this warmness.  I love it here, because I live here.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Exhasperated

It's like slow death.

A torture that is completely unprecedented.

There's no reason.

There is absolutely no stupid reason.

Why on earth would the only word processor to fail in this house be the one that belongs to the girl who can't live a day without opening it?!

I have stories to write!

Poems!

Homework that has to be done!

And now you're telling my my word processor doesn't work?!

WHY THE HECK NOT??!?!?!?!?!

Such a cruel betrayal.

Whatever shall my words do now?

There's no virtual paper and ink for them to be captured by.

And if they can't be captured they might attack an innocent bystander!

They might KILL SOMEONE!

Clearly my Microsoft Word is necessary to my sanity and health at this point in my life.

So why did it bail on me?

;_________________: