Chemistry Major

It is said of pleasure, not to mix it with business. And why should the two ever even be tempted to fraternize? No reason at all, really, save for curiosity, which has already slain the cat. Merely busy bees and walnut trees have any interest in merging the pair. And so, the rest of those inclined to suppose that the two should intertwine? Should reconsider the thought in order to better their circumstances.

I have never been in danger of mixing pleasure and business, as pleasure is my business. I have no work, only play, and I refuse to ever consider giving into only one. I need no caution signs or admonition, for I have refused business since the beginning. Never have I like the pencil skirt, nor the pen. And I am afraid blazers have never much suited me in the bittersuite. The caveat is much appreciated, but rather unnecessary in light of the fact that I avoid the issue altogether.

However candid I may be about my lack of business, I must acquiesce that I do dabble in chemistry. And while I may not mix pleasure with business, I often infuse it with pain. I feel it a stronger dosage, and I can get it for half the price. I am not sure of what qualms come of such a coupling, and yet I am altogether too aware. But you should already know, dearling, the sunshine is best when it burns.

As a girl, so young a girl, I found myself often seeking out to self destruct. The bigger the explosion is always the better. There were so many ways to mix pleasure and pain and I found myself with an industrial blender, every morning trying a different cocktail, each stronger than the last. I was never much for continuity. After awhile, I lost the lid but never stopped creating new concoctions. And so I was left with a mess that seemed to coat every surface and seep into every pore. My amalgamations not only covered, but defined me.

It takes a breakdown to break down, and there were many. I would just sharpen the blade, to sharpen the taste, of every pleasure and pain filled drink. But, eventually, everything stops. And nothing you knew and nothing new works anymore. There is a point of no return and you decide. You can place the blame on anything, really, but it all comes down to responsibility, that silly seven syllable word. There are tears and much more that you cannot control, but in the end it's freeing. The honesty and transparency are worth far more than what you've been selling.

Sweet as the sentiment was cemented in my mind, I removed it. No longer needing to seek self destruction and the panic! button need no longer occupy so much of my thoughts. I need not worry for I believe in what is said and what is done around me. My emotional paroxysms and seizures have ceased and I can breathe without the assistance. This tube is obsolete. I'm not bleeding and I do not need aid of any kind. I'm not afraid, but I am terrified. Of what and where and who and why and how comes next. This sequence never seemed to have a pattern, only a constant. I've written my lab report and now class must come to an end. I have new things to begin. I am a new thing to begin.

State of Absence

There is dirt on my clothing and a patter on my heart that I haven't felt in awhile. I pulled my laundry out of the wash and there was a scent I didn't want to recognize. It used to be that I would wake up not knowing where I was, now I know and I wish I didn't. My heart is in a different timezone, my mind is on a different continent, and it's sunny in Cusco. I'm tearing apart my closet searching for a something - what was it? My bag is packed and I have cash in my hand. I could get pretty far, but not far enough. Ride the wave out, clap in time. Every star is a wish I want to make, every flash of headlights is time passing me by, every morning is a moment I remember where I am. Thunder storms predicted tomorrow in San Jose.

Clouds blanket my Washington and I forget to speak in English. I smile and I can hear my voice, but it isn't mine and I am not sure what is being said. His response is cordial, polite. I can tell that he thinks I'm a day dreamer, but I'm not. I'm not dreaming and it's not day time. There is a swift wind blowing through Porto this evening, I love it when it gets like this. All the green leaps to life on the breeze and I can taste the ocean. The man I'm speaking to looks confused, and I realize I have answered him in Portuguese. I apologize and try to laugh it off, but I've never been a good liar. I'm not standing here with him, I am thousands of miles away. Up in the mountains, out on the coast, shaded between the trees, covered in salt water and sand.

Being choked up is a literal statement, it's not an exaggeration to make your point. You'll know the moment you feel it. The firm hand of emotion pressed against your windpipe and you gulp down as much oxygen as you can manage, but it doesn't really matter. Try drinking water, still nothing. It's not so much painful as just a constant state of discomfort. It's not so much debilitating as disheartening. Firenze is still warm from the summer sun. Warm rain is falling on Haleiwa, perfect day to head out on the surf. Perfect day to sail away.

I know you're speaking, but I can't hear you. To say the least? I am distracted, absent, missing. And I wish that I was more of the latter than the former. One girl, one bag, one love. Vagabond is hardly descriptive enough, and yet it is too much. It's green and black and white, I won't have more, I can't have less. I'm bleeding airplane tickets and train fare and I am not standing here. But there are people I need to be accountable for. There are people I need to protect from my flight plans, even as it break my sanity and holds me hostage. I can already feel the bamboo growing through me.

I am pouring out all the love that I have and still there is more. It's not that being here is difficult, as not being there is impossible. My nails are embedded deep into the Maple as I convince myself to remain, my muscles are exhausted from being tensed as my body breaks down from standing still. If you crack open this chest, you'll find maps and photographs where the heart should be. Instead of lungs, breathe a sail and a steam engine. My circulatory system is waves of salt water and mineral drenched amazon river. Each muscle is a deep green plant and my stomach is digesting three or four languages all at the same time. There are kidneys made from coconut twine and a liver in the shape of a plane, metal and fabric and all.

Raw flight and I'll have to file for state of absence if you'd like to continue speaking to me. I'm not here. I'm not even there. And I'm not sure where I'll be tomorrow. I'm not a planner, but I can't not know. I like surprises, but not being unsure. I don't know where I am, and I certainly do not know where you are. I'm on the carpet, I'm on the pavement, I'm on some mode of transportation. The motion is making me just ever so sick and I wish we would stop rocking for even a moment. But I can't, because I'm not really going anywhere. I'm still. Still still.

I close my eyes and talk to God, because I'm tired of not knowing. There is only one response to someone who can't stand still - and He knows it so well with me. He picks my off the chair I am clinging to and holds me. Not restraining me, but just holding me. Playing with my hair and whispering on my heart. There is no greater comfort. He peels my fists open and calms my worries. I'm lying in the hands of my Father and breathing hard as He opens my airway so I can breathe again. It's been so long since I've filled my lungs. Here in the arms of the One who will never let me down, I am reminded. Of what, I can't tell you. That's something you have to find for yourself. I am comforted and whole, until, of course, I let my running feet touch the ground once more. But for now, I am safe in the arms of Him who loves me, unrivaled and unconditionally.

Wait

Eyes closed, pressed against the seat with salt on my face and my hands over my mouth. This is where the fear descends. Shaking, unable to remain still any longer. Houdini in a word, I cannot do this anymore. I feel the shadows closing around my sunshine, and that last ray of warmth is stolen from my tremoring soul. I've been here before. Shut down, break down, fall apart.

Quiet and still, there is a small whisper on the back of my mind. Gently tugging at the strings of my despair and easing them into peace and contentment. The book falls open somewhere near the middle and I sigh in relief. You have granted me a new heart. Once upon a time, I had asked for it. I remember now. It was a silent memory, but silence is not always indicative of nothing being said. Sometimes, silence is all the sound you could ever ask for. I beg for it now.

I'm on my knees in desperate agony of love. The kind of love the drains you until you're a small puddle at the dip in the porcelain. Not nearly enough to make anything of, not nearly enough to matter. The sort of love that takes you for everything that you are without giving anything in return. And yet, wait. Be patient. Be still. It has offered you everything in return. Everything you never knew that you needed. It's always in the small things, in the things you never knew you were important.

It's the smile when asked to get ice cream. It's the head on your shoulder and arms around your waist. It's your name being shouted from across a room. It's the funny compliments. It's the shameful look of being reprimanded. It's the excitement. It's the teasing. It's the laughter. It's the refusal to do what you say. It's the tears you wipe away. It's the hair you play with. It's the blessing that you are allowed to do any, all of these things. It's that you waited and waited and this is what you received. It's that you didn't recognize it at first. It's that it exhausts you. It's that it breaks your heart. It's that it breathes into your lungs. It's that it feeds the part of your soul you never even knew was starving.

I am starved. It's hard to face - when you know you've dropped the ball a thousand times before. It's difficult to be responsible when there are hundreds of eyes on you, each pair brighter than the last. Not because being responsible is hard, but because you might fail. You might fail without ever realizing it. You might let someone down, you might break a heart, you might disappoint - and that is too much to bear. You want to be all of the things those little eyes see you as. You want to live up to that standard so they might have that standard for themselves. You want to be good and honest and transparent. You want to be appropriate and loving and stern. You want to be upbeat and real and you don't want to be any of these things for yourself, but for them. Always for them.

I am heavy as I wander from responsibility to responsibility, and I remember God telling me that this Summer would be difficult. That it would be impossible. I remember Him gently loving me to this point. I am burdened and weighed down, and I find it so difficult to retain the joy Christ has placed on me. Oh grace, how you escape my grasp. How I forget to grasp for you... to be still in silence would be a beautiful thing. A beautiful thing.

And as I am here, I remember. I remember to wait, to wait, to wait. When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the LORD will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them. These are the words of the God I know. These are the words of a God I love, who I strive to be like. My heart is soft, pliable. It has been beaten and bruised, and restored. I will wait on what I know to be true. Eyes tilted towards He who made me, in earnest and waiting. I will lead by example and love beyond my capability. Love like Christ has called me to love, love like I have been made to. I will live up to the expectations of who I was made to be and never question the possibility of it all. I will be enough. I will be more than enough.

Wait.

Seven Syllables

Responsibility is a big word. Six syllables at least, you could make it Seven. You're a terrible liar, but you can talk yourself into anything. You are terrified of all the people staring at you, not because they are looking but because of what they might see. The rumourmill is running hard and fast. You've always been a fan of a scandal, especially when you're the last to know what you were involved in. You are not afraid of your reputation. You are afraid of how it will effect those you care about most. You've dropped the ball once. More than once. You can't stand to drop it again.

You're standing on a carpeted stage and there are so many earnest faces. They are eager and confused. They'll believe what you tell them, so you'd better get it right. You can't decide if it's a shame or a good thing that you lost my poker face years ago. Lady GaGa would be so ashamed of you, but Christ would be proud. At least of this. There was a time where you forgot how to spell. And you didn't realize responsibility could be a Seven syllable word.

One. Make good decisions. It's five-thirty in the morning. Typical. Count the hours of sleep. One one thousand, two one thousand, thre- "Hello?" You put on your cape and rush out the door. Windswept you show up on the scene. There are worse things than romantic heartbreak, we forget that. It's cold and you listen to the anger pour from the lips. You are angry with those lips, but squeeze the hand. Forgiveness. Grace. Sigh.

Two. Set the standard. Be on your best behaviour, now. This moment could change everything. Be courageous. This could be your only shot. Be transparent, but appropriate. Be strong when others can't be. Be a listener and give sound advice. Be honest. Be truthful. Be patient. Be kind. Be trustworthy, be trusting. Be calm. Be outgoing. Be hopeful. Be faithful. Be everything good. And do it well. The lives of others depend on it. No pressure.

Three. Recognize. You don't realize that you're on a carpeted stage, do you? But you are. You're standing there with eyes of every color looking at you, through you. The less you realize it, the more in danger you are. Scream at the top of your lungs and hope someone hears you. But even if they do, it's unlikely they'll come to your rescue. Be aware you're in a glass cage. You're held accountable for every action. Not just in theory this time, love, not just in theory.

Four. Carry the burdens. Being loved comes with strings, but not the kind you always think of. More dangerous, invisible strings. The kind that tie you to someone, maybe even permanently. You earn the privilege to be burdened with others issues. You earn that. Trust is not given freely, it does not flow from one human to another. It takes time and energy. And it comes with a burden.You are looked up to and with that privilege comes great responsibility. All Seven syllables.

Five. Take initiative. Go out of your way and make yourself uncomfortable. Struggle. Suffer. Don't ever fake it. Come honestly and openly before others and yourself and, most importantly, God. Maybe you can't do it on your own, but you must do it. There are lives that depend on this, on you. It's terrifying, isn't it? Red pill or blue pill? You decide. Take that first step. No one can make you do it. Seek out people. Seek out answers. Seek. This is where wisdom sleeps.

Six. Live Out Love. Actions speak louder than words. Show people. Live out the love that is shown to you on a day to day basis. Live it. We are called to this important decision every moment of every day. It's possibly the most crucial one you will ever make and it's happening all the time. You can always change your mind, but which will you choose? Live Out Love.

Seven.

Shhh, quiet now. Breathe. The Seventh syllable is to just breathe. The Responsibility is yours and you can choose to let it shape and define you. To chisel you out of stone and make you into something more solid. But you can also be still for awhile and know that you do not have to dwell on it. It does not have to make you anxious or worrisome. It may hurt. It may change you. It may make you exhausted. But these Seven syllables are a gift, a blessing in disguise. They are teaching things you never knew about yourself. Holding you accountable. Shhh...

And Sons

Serve God, love me, and mend.

i believe in things most people do not

and while i am often unsure

about those things i am certain

this is the dichotomy

the beat hits

one and three

This is not the end.

you're the one i want to tell

all my nonsense to

you're the one i want to watch

the world change with

you're the one i want to hear

the truth from everytime

careful now

i might just trip over

Live unbruised we are friends.

glasses on the table

vibrating from the drums

i'm one for sand between my toes

it was the strangest moment of clarity

i'll laugh at just about anything

i'll only ever regret

the things that i can't ever smile about

so i try to make them few
if any

And I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

don't mistake my quiet for silence

oh silent mistake

i'd paint you with my words

if i wanted to

but i think i'll leave them

for a sunnier day and a brighter disposition

Sigh no more, no more.

oh i won't beg

but i will beseech

if i feel the tide is grazing my lips

pushing higher and higher

until the waves roll over upon my tongue

this is the moment

i remember

i'll always remember

One foot in sea, one on shore.

there was a man

on the street in barcelona

what a funny place for him to stand

just there in the median

without a sign or a hat

without a rhyme or a beat

yet there was a reason

unforseen in the mediocraty of his demeanor

My heart was never pure

it was that man

he knew me without a name

i was without words or hope

and he knew me better
than the closest friend i've ever known
this is that moment
of clarity
you'll know it when it hits you

And you know me and you know me.

i don't love you
so don't ask me to
maybe someday
when i can better see the stars
from where i'm standing
i am apparently not as transparent
as i think i am
And man is a giddy thing oh man is a giddy thing

it's dark outside
but i'm inside your warmth
despite the distance
without the knowledge of the future
rehab of desire
and we're back at square one
or something?
Oh man is a giddy thing oh man is a giddy thing.

trust is a bit of a grey area
and i don't speak well
it makes for a fun game of hideandseek
crop circles in the carpet
and everything meant in that
i have no idea what the future holds
but i think that's why i believe in God
i'll sing upper harmony with you
i'll sing upper harmony
Love, it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you

i won't ever say something for your benefit
being honest as i may
but i might not say it
and aren't those the same thing
hearts are easily cut out of paper
it's harder to give them dimensions
and once you do
it's hard to remember
each of the chambers you put things in
It will set you free.

lost
reward of unparalleled unconditonal if found
but then the question remains
is it something you actually want
my answer is yes
at least i think it is
but i don't worry nearly as much
as i most likely should
Be more like the man you were made to be.

i've got my head in the clouds
my feet in the water
and both hands clinging to the trees
i am always more than willing
to play in the dirt
just don't mistake me
for being grounded
i am still working on staying still
There is a design

i'll write it on your back
between the thread
i'll say "thank you
i am glad of you
and i hope you know
all you mean to me"
there is more i have to say
i'm sure
but i'm not ready yet
An alignment to cry

i can place the sunshine in my hair
and it makes my eyes so green
i'll never settle for less
than exactly what God has for me
i am standing
i'm just not sure if it's still
i am waiting
i'm just not sure if it's patiently
the music slows down
when life speeds up
dichotomy
Of my heart to see

there is a line
the question now
is whether it'll catch anything
i'm down by the river
rocky shores
and poor misunderstanding
under a bridge
over the water
this is where life happens
where are you in it
The beauty of love as it was made to be.
the truth is this
i don't know
i cannot know
but this is more than
well
more than i ever knew
i've never been one for expectations
but mayhaps
this will be the exception

If You Sing The Melody

If you sing the melody, I'll find a harmony. The only light I like to be on me is sunshine and I dream in black and white. Sometimes I may answer your questions in a language you do not speak. My life has been full of all that bête noire, but I believe the best of humanity. We are exactly what we put into this world. I enjoy conjugating verbs and kisses. It's not much, sugar, but it's all I know. This road began in Casablanca.

You're facetious while I'm capricious and between the two of us, it's a wonder the point is ever reached. I don't know what you do and I don't know where I am. But you can't also have every piece of information before making the leap. I was in a little white dress, fitting. And the past is not forgetable, oh this, graphic novel of stories. My ring had a finger, a piece of twine so delicately wrapped around. I burned it that December day.

Forever is a long time and it's what I'm searching for. I don't wish to sound vague or cryptic, but I'm really unsure of my voice in any other manner. Sarcasm is a tool of God himself. My fingers hit black and white keys, hoping to create sound after the noise and before the music. This is where I am standing and I can't explain why I won't move. I'm staring at the clouds, isn't there a verse for this? I think I've heard this tune.

My blankets are made of untrust and I prefer to be warm. My heart breaks each morning and is put carefully back together over the course of the day. I imagine this is what the world has always been and never was. Unused potential without the potential to be used. Where am I standing, where am I standing? This isn't what I thought it was and my heart is in my toes. Separated and fallen so far down myself. I am searching the skies for something I thought I see.

It's ironic, paradoxical? My English has worn thin and I need a new. This is the great divorce, the great divergence of all that I thought. Oh how false seems pretty in the sunlight as it glances off and makes the world shine for just a moment. But the temporary isn't what I'm looking for. It isn't what I thought it was, nothing ever is. But I was never promised truth, only contentment. This is my life, I think.

I'll read this page until it fades between my fingers. Worn thin by love and affection poured out into action. I'll never stop dreaming and my feet are anything but on the ground. There is something about the sky and the water and the wildlife that is far too appealing for anything of that nature. I'm hopeless and I like that and I am not sure if it'll change. So here is how I'll spin it, to the left to loosen the heartache. Pray for this moment, cause it's all you'll ever have.

Four Funerals And One Hundred Engagements

"Bom dia, minha estrela." Every morning is the same and I can hear your smile. It sounds tired but determined, you don't want to let me down. I'm afraid of never hearing that voice again. Scared this might be the last time you make me laugh, the last time I hear your soft Portuguese kiss my ears. There are diamonds in these eyelashes, easily wiped away if I were strong enough to pick up my hand. I love you, I love you, te amo tanto. This is the moment.

You ask about my night, I tell you how happy I am. It's the greatest dichotomy ever handed to me, I always loved the beauty of contradiction. It's bittersweet now - how appropriate. I've never talked so much about God in one sitting and still felt the need to further discuss the issue. I tell you I'm working and it makes you laugh. You tell me that you think I've found the one, whatever that means. I don't know that you're right, but I won't disagree with you now. My heart is in so many pieces. There are worse things than romantic heartbreak.

"You are my church, estrela." I smile. And you are mine, most beautiful man whom I love, and you are mine. I have everything I need right here, on the other end of this phone. Your voice is the only thing I need now. I am so tired of counting funerals. Just another excuse for a pretty dress and so I won't let you have one. This is my celebration of life, your life. I demand it be celebrated. I'm determined to smile. "Always so full. Full of joy, full of light. You are the best person, estrela." Only, I'm not. You are.

There is something in the way you say my name, "Estrela," that makes me believe in tomorrow. You are so sure of who I am and I think it makes me into that person a little more each morning when I wake up to your voice. I love you, I love you, te amo. You're so kind, so sincere. You say what you mean and mean what you say. And with each morning of frenchpress, I feel myself holding you closer and closer to my heart. It's only half true, absence isn't the only thing that makes the heart grow fonder. I'm not sure of the other half, but you have it.

You were named for the Saint, Mateo. But I don't remember ever calling you that. I don't remember you once being that name. You have always been Maddyfeijao to me, Mads on affectionate occasion... Your name moves so smoothly off my lips. I know exactly how to form it, where to place the emphasis for every emotion I have with you. What will I do without it? It's hard to explain how names go out of use once you lose the one they belong to. I am afraid of it happening to yours. So soon, too soon. There is so much more and less to say. All of it begins with your name on my lips.

This morning you ask if I will do you a favor. I tell you anything because I mean it. I would do anything, anything at all. I can hear the strain in your voice, I can hear the discomfort. You're fading. I've heard this same malaise and I never wanted to again. But it's here in front of me and I'll do anything, anything you ask. There is a moment of silence. Only breathing. The clouds are so beautiful today. We used to watch them together. And then you ask, "Write this down, it's important."

"Please be happy. Please live your life. Please take advantage of every moment. Please fall in love and allow yourself to be loved. Please get married and have children. Please love God and humanity without regret. Please continue to be exactly who you are. Do none of these things because I tell you, but because you realize you deserve them." I can hear you smiling and I smile back. We're quiet for a moment and you tell me how much you love me. I've never believed anyone as much as I believe you in this moment.

"So many engagements this spring, I feel strange and out of the loop." You tell me not to. That it'll come soon enough, probably sooner than I imagine. And that mine will be just as, if not more full of love and joy. You think I've already found who God's created for me. "A perfect set," you say. And you have only one request, the same one he had of me. "I don't know that I'll be there, estrela. But I will be there with you. Write out our love. Small, just for you. A liberdade, unicamente liberdade, estrela." I know, I've made this promise before. It's my most precious promise, my most precious secret. And I'll keep it. Close to my heart, where I keep you.

"To this I search for,

a keeper of the heart

that does not fall before the wind falls.

My life, my love,

described as infinite,

without compromise my sacrifice knows no bounds."

Empty Hands

i am afraid of the empty space in my hand

i'd rather it be full

and

if i'm being honest

i know what i'd like to be there

you have a good grip

just not on the situation

your smile is what lights the dim

of four in the morning

i would never like to read minds

especially not yours

but i would like to know

what is sitting upon yours

from your own lips

and not from my own thoughts

you ask me

sometimes

to tell you about things

that i am not ready to tell you

other times i ask you

but that smile graces your lips

i put it there

not always

but more often that not

i treasure the hours

and i like when you tell me things

that you haven't spoken of

in some time

the empty space in my hand

it makes me uncomfortable

i'd rather it be full

and i know what i'd like to be there

you are honest

too honest

it's good for me to know

that people can be too honest

the existence of what i thought imaginary

the last

the last one

well

wasn't honest like i thought

it made me want to keep empty hands

but i miss them being full

i am not sure about the past

i have no idea about the future

then you smile

and i don't have to know

either way

Conversating With The Ceiling

I'm wearing thin and you can see through me. It makes me uncomfortable, makes me squirm. But then you kiss me lightly on the forehead with your smile and Love. I feel you here beside me. I close my eyes to listen better to the sound of your voice. This is what straight jackets are for.

Skepticism keeps you safe, but safe is not the same as happy. So I am out on a tree branch and laughing at how it bends beneath my weight. Tomorrow I may not have a branch to stand upon and so I must play on it today. Lost in my thoughts and the Love of your gaze, I am content as it has been promised to me.

My burdens have been placed elsewhere. I deserve to be burried beneath them and yet I lift my eyes and see stars. How blessed, how graced, how affected by mercy. I think so little of tomorrow as you have promised to care for it. And still, I seek after. I seek after.

You've given me each thing I've asked for, in a way I least expected. Or, perhaps, even wanted. So patient with the sound of my voice and the length of my questioning. I look to the ceiling where I imagine you to live and I can see you shaking your head at my perposterous notions of understanding.

Hoping in small joys. I am glad of it. The eternal optimist, I believe joy and Love can fix all that they come across. Broken dishes included. There is something in the way you whisper my name. "Malialani," it sings. Here I am, here I am. I respond so loudly into your silence and I can almost hear the laughter playing on the wind. "Silly child, whom I Love."

I am listening. I am meant to be listening. I am trying to be listening. How small I am in all of these moments. I could never understand Love. Not in the way that you are. I can only ever beg to be spared the full amount, for I am undeserving and could not ever hope to be strong enough to withstand it.

What I'll never understand is why. Not in all my attempt at comprehension will I know. For it was I who killed you. After thousands of years of disobedience and failure, and still you Love me. Always and unfailingly you Love me. Oh, how you Love me.

Ramblings In A Wedding Dress

i don't believe in circumstance

and God exists for me

how could he not?

i've got the double beat in my chest

i'm standing right here

and there's nowhere i'd rather be

it's manna from heaven

no need for a future

no need for a past

i'm sure of the moment this changed

couldn't keep from smiling

it makes me nervous

but sunshine detracts from anxiety

life doesn't go as you plan
life plans you as it goes
i don't have a tomorrow or yesterday
all i have this is moment
and i want it to be spent doing the things i love
with those people i love
ask me anything
i'll ask you for one thing
i am not complicated
and i don't believe in games of the heart
with me it's never a guess
my heart is on my wrist
no sleeves to speak of
or shelter it from the harm it has befallen
but i'm always willing to try
mayhaps that's my downfall
i will always trust all over again
i love how i feel safe between all of you
a cocoon of friends
my heart is in fewer pieces these days
once it was in shards
but i've never let that stop me
i believe in you
whether you believe in me or not
i love you more than i could ever express
i don't have to know who you are
my drug of choice is given
not taken
and this world needs more users
my nose is in a book
while my heart is in a spray paint can
i trust God to know
all the things i don't
which could never mean i won't seek
but also means i might not find
this is what i want
i am almost who i want to be
but i'm not sure you can really reach
all your potential in this life
there's something greater waiting
i believe in miracles
i think you're one
yes, you
please don't argue
you can't see things from my perspective
so you could never really understand
exactly how enigmatic you really are
i am glad to have these people around me
i want to hold hands
to laugh and to whisper
to know secrets
to tell them
and you are the people i want
to do all these things with
how blessed have i been!
with all of these glorious people
i am jealous of myself in this
of those people who i believe
would look out for me
and i for them
i'm the kind of girl
who will never really grow up
just living in the inbetween
existing in the maybe
i like it there
it's my own
i want to marry my best friend
whoever he might be
to do the things we like to do
not because it's date night
just because we do
i wish not for the perfect lover
but for the perfect heart
because i'm looking for forever
and i don't much care for a taste
when what i wanted was the whole thing
i'm not sure i'll ever be so lucky
but i refuse to settle for less
i'll close my eyes
and count to a million
perfection is an illusion of perspective
what petty games we play
to invade eachothers hearts
when all we really had to do was ask
all you really have to do is ask

Six Years Later

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,


Day of grief and ineffable sorrow.

You steal the days of my Spring

And the sweet of plum blossoms he once held so dear.

Lacking where my heart would be,

You further my injury year by year

No possibility for reclamation of delight,

No prospect of salvaged happiness,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March!

Oh day of impossible affliction!

Already have you come for my light,

Larcenous and rapacious in the blackberry winter!

Are you not shamed by your actions?

Are you not disgraced by the impetus of them?

I am for you, oh day,

As you have taken those precious to me,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Oh you day, anguish of my soul.

Yet, I aver there will be a time when I reclaim you for myself.

No longer pusillanimous nor enigmatic,

But confident and sure in the power of my joy.

The flowers of plums will be mine to hold dear

Each bud bursting forth with greater vigor,

Greater vehemence than ever before,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Day of soft violence against my soul.

What you have stolen, you may not keep

Each blossom I will countermand.

Restored my heart shall be,

My mourning melted from its chambers.

Joy trace evident amongst those restored,

Small light still on the horizon,

On this, oh you of days.

Renewal of Understanding Nothing

Oh! am not I free to be that which I desire? Trapped here beneath moutain of opportunity to no avail. I am lost to wishing, but should that fail I know not what to do. I play piano amongst the noise, this world leaves nothing to the imagination. And so, how can we be expected to succeed when everything has been done before us? Nothing new to please the masses, nothing but whatever seems most scandalous. And even that has lost it's edge. We are on the brink of self destruction for the sole purpose of entertainment.

My mind plays pretty tricks upon the light that is lacking in this weather. I don't pretend to have any answers and I know better than to ask questions. Yet, I can't help but be anything less than impertinent. Searching for answers is my hearts greatest success. I must acknowledge the understanding that has taken place in my heart. I know what I must do, still it remains to be done. The future is uncertain and I loathe it as such, but must make the best of circumstance. Perfection is overated.

There is much that illudes me, but for hope. Silly little dreamer of a girl. Nose in a book, eyes on the sky. It doesn't make much for company. I'm letting go of what I thought was true. It's been quite the realization. I've made up my mind on the matters, praying only that this is finally the right path. Tomorrow seems so very far from now...

I'd rather not comment upon what is about to occur. I'm not sure of it, only that it is the direction I am headed. I hope to be as forthright as I can be without being dishonest. Because I have a tendency to try things and fail. I never know what the day will bring. There, a violin. Planted like a seed in the recesses of my mind. A soft composure of of all the winds and strings, my favourite. I like things quiet and loud all at once; simplistic and flowing but indepth and concentrated. Every thought waiting to be built upon.

I'll vacation from the moment and oblige you the best I can when I return. The sand on the walls is most grudging of how it was put there, you see. Although, I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter at present. Not that it matters much, as I will change the topic momentarily from boredom. Feet are meant to run bare and wild. Showing their teeth and grit on every occasion so as to make the others aware of their deserved freedoms.

Someone dripped a drop on the waters so as to make it disappear. Removing it would take more time and effort than we can afford. Instead we shall drip the rest of those drops in with the one and call it a day. One with sunshine and green grass beneath the blossoms of Springtime. To dance without ceasing is the only appropriate behaviour. Oh! spin in circles, dearling, for there is less time than you might hope.

Rays of sunlight sitting idly by the window sill, greeting it in such a pleasant manner that you can't but ask him indoors. "Why yes," he chants and enters swiftly, for he dearly love to play upon the rooms and faces of those who occupy the house. An offer of companionship is made and accepted, though no one is certain who spoke  first. It becomes irrelevant once such a friendship is in place. What a joy to be in this place where affection is so graciously shown.

Beyond the day and past the week, therein lies the confusion. For time is a thing of man and the sunlight cannot commit to such a rigid schedule. He comes and goes as he please, you see, and that is just not acceptable to the human mind. Kindly he will refuse the offer and hurry back to his place along the edge of the sky just as you bid him farwell. So far away it seems,  the horizon.

In the back of the symphony orchestra, back against the wall there is just enough room to sit upon the floor with your knees in towards your chest and feel the vibrartions of music flow through you. It is the way music was meant to be heard. Not only in your mind but physically as well. This is where the common courtesy ends and that of true appreciation begins.

It should be difficult, I think, to feel strongly about anything at all if there was not some love mixed into the paint. What an upsetting prospect, yet obvious in it's own sort of way. The buds begin to pop violently forth producing the sweet product of a laborious winter. Soft scented petals make their way into the world, brightening even the sunshine. Oh! for the world to be green again. SpringSummer is on it's way.

I delight to think friendship is withstanding of most grevious offenses, so I do hope not to somehow make this relationship uncomfortable. I have a tendency of that sort that never seems to fail me. If rejection were an art, I would be its master. On both sides of the canvas. Time and experience can never truly be substituted for, even by practise.

Your actions are a wonder to me, I cannot make them out. I try and see your vantage but it blurs outside of my own, I confess. Little to be said or done but hang upside down and allow others understanding whilst I pretend and dream. Easier that way, I imagine. I don't pretend to know you, but believe me when I tell you I care. Regardless of my understanding. I can't seem to help but care.

Awake from dreaming, dear self. For you have run away with yourself again and nothing exists quite as you saw it there in your subconscious. Reality is a poor substitute for ones imagination. I can't claim to know of much that rivals it, save for love and wonder. Two which conquer all else, all else which is conquered by two. This is my renewal of that sentiment. I understand nothing. Not truly.

I Am Still Painting Flowers For You

Oil under my nails, french press on my tongue. This is the antithesis of normalcy. Sing songs, whilst in little white dresses, about a love revival. I'll over punctuate to get my point across. I'm sure I had one - a point I mean, of course.

I shouldn't like to distract from that which is meant to be important. But I can't seem to make my vocal chords cease from vibrating. My shoes weren't meant to be walked long in, so I may ask to borrow a pair. It will be good for me, you know, to walk awhile in yours. It's really beneficial for everyone involved, unless you have the gout.

All my shots are up to date. You simply have to load them, aim, and fire. At what, I can't be quite sure. I am not sure of anything much these days. No, I'm not wearing a belt, but even if I were I'm not sure there would be anything under it. Empty space is always good to have an excess of.

I feel flat. Abandoned soda bottle in the cup holder flat. Afraid to blink because I might miss something that matters. I'm finally standing still and I remember why I don't appreciate the feeling. It's cold and stagnant. Flat soda.

There is a very serious possibility that I've already missed what I'm waiting for. I don't like it here, it's terribly crowded. I want to be invisible. In a large open room where the walls are covered in memories. Flat on the floor, I can focus when I'm creating. It's the only time I seem to be able to muster up patience.

I can pour my heart onto canvas. Bleeding ink onto the page, smearing paint into the mix. Have you ever considered maybe the path your on isn't your own? That maybe you weren't meant for any kind of path that the feet can follow.

Raw milk and honey will fix any problem you might think you have. Snow will cover any imperfection you imagine is there. Ducttape will hold anything together again. But what will hide you from yourself? I've fallen down the rabbit hole and the only way back is painful self discovery. The strange psychological kind where you break mirrors to get away from yourself.

There's too much truth on the ground. I want to pick it all up and give it back to those people it has effected. Pity is altogther poisonous. This place is not where I live. This world is not what I was meant for, I cannot see how it plays a part. I'm exhausted and I can't seem to find my way out of the covers.

I shut my eyes tightly and when I do, I can see stars, galaxies, universes. The world is covered in white black and green, the only colors I really see when I'm dreaming. I'm spinning in circles and catching falling stars on my tongue. It's snowing stars and I'm not cold.

The garden is made up of teacup flowers and evaporating butterflies. This is my imagination and anything goes. The grass is made of sand and there are no shoes here. Instead of flying kites, we attach the wings to one another and take turns in the sky.

Nothing is flat here. Each tree plays whatever instrument is closest to it's heart, a constant orchestra on the wind with the birds creating a chorus. Sometimes things go dark and we fight back the clouds with bottled sunlight. Other times there is injustice, unkindness, mistreatment and we battle that with stronger things. Utopia does not exist for the sake of itself but by the courage of the people.

And as I dream of bigger and greater things, they become more real to me than anything waking. I prefer a world where life is of value and light is of worth. I believe in its possibility. Complicated simplicity. I believe.

If nothing is true, what more can I do? I am still painting flowers for you...

Call Me When You Get This

If I were to pull off a heist, I'd rob an antique store. If I were to commit murder, I'd slay misunderstanding. If I were to write an autobiography, I'd scrawl it on the walls of a city. If I were to paint a masterpiece, I'd do it with my fingers. If I were to compose a symphony, it would be of wind and silence.

I'd like to walk on my hands so I could see the world from a different point of view. I code my library by shade of meaning. I'm not really interested in competition and I'm unconcerned with winning, but I'd fight you for the memory of it all.

I'll always blame you for growing me up. I abhor vacation time and I detest the work week. Empty walls are empty canvas that need to be covered in otherness. Paint by celcius or whatever you understand it to mean. I disapprove of boredom, it haunts my daytimes.

Fresh as the toothpaste in my drawer. Where are the leaves when you need them? I watch old films and read books that you can't see the title of. I have nothing at all to elaborate upon verbally, so I hope you get my meaning. I sent it to you by post.
The cup is French with Italian innards. I boil my water in a pot, unsure of where it might come from otherwise. Oil pastels are my gloves. Seemingly impossible to remove. I don't appear to have anything to say. But I'll shout silence from this soap box. I eat my own art, the calories few and far between.

I'll scribble on the back of someone elses photograph, making it mine. Demanding truth from the static. The radio plays only that which radiates from it's little speakers. I'm jumping on the ceiling trying to get to my bed. Sparatic ecstatic noise. Fifteen walls, one door, two windows, one curtain.

I've managed an entire post without writing a word. And yet I'm saying exactly what I mean. Most of all I'd like you to understand something. I'm just not sure what it is. But then, I don't suppose anyone is - sure, I mean. Or, maybe, somewhere, someone is.

You Mustn't Be Afraid To Dream A Little Bigger, Darling

I was a little girl...

To have all the answers, would be a magnificent feat. But I think we seek it too often without wondering, perhaps, if we have all the questions.

Alone in my little world...

I am afraid of being looked up to. There is no greater power than that of influence and I am terrified of that power. As a teenager, I didn't think twice about it. I didn't realize the sway of my opinion, the consequences of my actions that had nothing to do with me. I couldn't see past myself. Now that I can? I am fearful of this power that resounds in me. It echos in the deepest parts of me and I want very much to shut it off. I want to change the world, but I am afraid to do so. I am afraid of the possibility of success and what that might mean for me. I am afraid that I might change the world in the wrong way, that I might use my influence poorly and hurt those around me. Those who I don't even realize I affect. Forgiveness removes guilt, not consequences. You live with those for the rest of your life

Who dreamed of a little home for me...

There are times I think intellect is the greatest fault of mankind. The more you know, the more you crave to know. But the more you know, the more responsible you become for that which you know. It's never ending. With every further ounce of knowledge gained, you lose the ability to sit idly by. Foolishness is knowing yet not doing, Wisdom is knowing and doing. Only those of intelligence can be fools. Are we foolish? In this time where information is an ongoing slur about the world, are we foolishly not doing what we already know to be true?

I played pretend between the trees...

You can hear words all your life, but until you take them onto yourself and give them meaning? You will not understand. There is so much left to learn, but if we haven't taken that which we have already been told upon ourselves, will we ever really know more? Sometimes I feel as if there is more than I could ever comprehend going on in my mind. An overload of information and use of that. I look beyond myself to try to apply that knowledge. And perhaps someday I'll acquire the wisdom I seek.

And fed my houseguests bark and leaves...

Dust of stars, where have you wandered? You have forgotten your first love, forgotten you true self. Come back to the start. This path is in place not to shelter you, nor even to protect you, but in case you desire to follow. It is not commanded of you, is not regulated, you must chose. What comes next, is nothing anyone can tell you of or convince you. You must discover for yourself what lies beyond, if anything at all. Creation dear, what have you done? You have forgotten yourself in your action, whether it is through pride or regret. And if you have forgotten yourself in it, are they not the same? There is nothing worth holding onto. That which is, already has hold of you, so worry not. There is nothing too great, nothing too terrible that cannot be overcome by Love. And real Love is tangible for all who chose to accept it, is it not? But you must feel it for yourself.

And laughed in my pretty bed of green...

Oh to know.

Pretty Little Girls In Mascara And Pearls

Pretty little girls in mascara and pearls,
What is it you fear most?

We fear the day our beauty is stripped away,
And we'll be nothing but ghosts.

Pretty little girls in mascara and pearls,
What is it you really fear most?

We fear success after trying our best
And having nothing left post.

Pretty little dames with dresses and names,
What is it that you want?

We want a white knight to put up a fight
No matter the things that daunt.

Pretty little dames with dresses and names,
What is it you honestly want?

We want a life where we're more than a wife,
To change the world, tres detente.

Pretty little ladies with lillies and daisies,
What is it that you desire?

We desire love and trust, honesty is a must
And a passion that feels like fire.

Pretty little ladies with lillies and daisies,
What is it you truly desire?

We desire change and so many better things
For this world we so admire.

Pretty little women in silk and linen
What is it that you need?

We need a man not a boy who thinks he can
Nor one whose gone to seed.

Pretty little women in silk and linen?
What is it you really need?

We need nothing for we can do anything
All by our own little deeds.

--Malialani Elizabeth Jane Danger Carrell

Sometimes I write poetry.

Put On Your Cape And We'll Save The World

You got so much love in you.

Sometimes, right after I get out of the shower, I spike my wet hair up into a mohawk and run around the house in leggings and a cape. Well, maybe not really. But it sounds like a good idea. When we were kids it didn't seem so silly as it does now.

When you’re a little kid, what you want and who you want to be? Change by the minute. First you are fighting off Dragons and then, suddenly, you are dancing in a magnificent Ballroom. No one find this odd or inappropriate, in fact, adults tend to encourage this behaviour; “The imagination is a beautiful thing,” – for kids, you mean. As you “grow up” the tolerance for the wonder of imagination is quashed quickly and effectively by school, television, and “the real world.” We were commanded to sit up and pay attention, to stop day dreaming and start taking steps towards having a “good life." You know, a job and house. Success, money, and stability will eventually equal happiness...

… But wait. When I was seven, the good life meant being outdoors from sun up till sun down with lots of forts, bruises, and tree climbing. When I was twelve I believed it to mean comfy clothes, soccer grass stains, and sleepovers, giggling until the sun rose. Then I was seventeen and the good life was anything that gave me an adrenaline rush, no rules, and no responsibility. And now, as a young adult? The good life is supposedly going to University, a job, and settling into society. Now wait a hot second, what was "good" when I was a child sounds much more appealing that what is "good" for an adult. I think I was lied to. I think "the good life" is bullshit. I think school and television prepare you for nothing and strip you of the things that were actually good. I think the real world is more imaginary than anything I thought up as a child. It's funny how our priorities shift.

What do you want, sweetheart? Disney tells you it's yours.

Everyone has a direction, everyone has goals. But, let's be honest, aren't most of us just moving in the same direction? I want to run against the traffic. Not just to be contrary, though that might be part of it, but because I don't like the direction the traffic is going. Let's get back in the fray, stop running away and start running towards. But what does that mean? I'm not really sure, I pose the question so you'll find the answers in your own life. The sun exists for everyone, but everyone sees it from a different horizon. Humor me, shake things up a bit would you?

Put on your childhood cape and we'll save the world. And I don't mean individual salvation. That is only a tiny piece of the picture, this is a montage of images. Take your shoes off and stay awhile. I'm hoping I have enough time to explain it to you, but this living room is shrinking and the clock on the wall seems random. We might lose the time at any moment. Are you doing what you find joy in because there is joy in all of these places. What if you're missing it? Do what you love, do what brings you happiness, don't settle for less than that which brings you contentment. Don't ever settle. We're not ever promised happiness, but we can seek it. We're not ever promised joy, but we can chase it. What we are promised is contentment, but that does not mean we should allow it to prohibit us from going after that which brings us happiness and joy. In fact, I'd argue the opposite. In being content, you are free to chase after all the good things in life without being inhibited. Live free, with your cape in the wind.

Peace be

And How These Hands Could Create Better Things

This is not an escape plan.

Intro To Malialani Elizabeth Jane Danger Carrell; Spontaneity 101 - Class begins whenever you say, querido. I'll teach you my ways if you let me in on yours. There is quite a bit of ground to cover.

Who are you? Your job or family or friends? Are you your beliefs or thoughts? Are you all your material possessions? Your body? Your mind, your heart, your soul? Who are you and how do you know? Are you important? And who decides?

Je pense, dunque, je suis.

My name is Malialani. It means "heavenly calm," the joke is my family is that it was wishful thinking on my parents part. I was born the 20th of April 1989 to Patricia Jean and Gerald Kehaulani Ka'ilihau in Omak Washington. I am Hawaiian, Chinese, and a smattering of European. I have two younger brothers by blood, Zachary Ka'ilihau and Alexander Kolomona - or - Zbear and Alika. My family moved to Maple Valley Washington when I was 4 and has lived there since. I spent Summers in Hawaii with family and had a pretty typical childhood climbing trees and trying to fry eggs on the concrete. I went nuts as an adolescent, there were ups and downs but mostly downs. I learned a lot about myself and what is inately important to me, but couldn't seem to make life work. Eventually, I skipped the country. I travelled the world, picking up obscure jobs, and making friends along the way. I currently attend Shepherds Bible College and am unemployed like the rest of America. I do a lot of yoga and have extensive conversations with God. I'm happy. I hang out with my friends and family and do whatever comes into my head. You might say I've found myself, but I don't. I'm a work in progress - aren't we all?

Dime, dime si te vas con ellos.

Indifference, Intolerance, and Injustice outrage me so I can have a short temper if pushed. I am eternally optimistic which drives people crazy. I speak in slurred sarcasm and laughter and a lot of people don't follow. I like to try anything once, but sometimes I don't. I think habitual use of drugs or alcohol is highly overated. I sing along with the radio loudly - and dance. I believe every human life has intrinsic worth and I'll debate it until I die. I am a follower of The Way but the only people I'll ever throw a Bible at are those who make judgements. I'm honest and loyal to a fault, but often do things without thinking. I've mastered spontaneity and making everything in life an adventure, which can be a little overwhelming. I'm a complete eclectic musically and I love most things oldschool. I speak 10 languages and I am learning my 11th because I believe in trying to understand one another on every level. I'm down to earth and I refuse to participate in drama, but that means I sometimes shirk away from conflict. Do you feel like you know me yet?

Beijos infinidades, que bom.

My favorite color is green. Favorite number is 7. I write because I my brain has too many thoughts for me to function without putting them to temporary permanence. I draw. My best friends are named Kendall and Wesley, they will both be on my side of the officiary at my wedding. I refuse to wear dresses or skirts that go past my knees. I'm a food snob. I tend to do exactly what I feel like. I read the Bible a whole lot. Actually, I just read a whole lot. My two favorite activities are playing house wife and travelling the world. I have tattoos and piercings. I apologize only when I mean it. I loathe shock value. I use humor to mask when I'm uncomfortable. I give second, third, fourth, fifth, anddd one hundreth chances which means sometimes I get walked on. I would let music consume me if I could. My favorite film is Casablanca. I like to take pictures with a film camera that is older than I am. Antique stores provide me with hours of entertainment. I tend to call any place that I feel comfortable "home." I draw all over myself and will probably die of ink poisoning at some point. Do. You. Understand. Who. I. Am. Now.

Do you feel?

Should I put a soapbox under my feet? Or mayhaps speak into a megaphone? I'll just roll up these pages I scribble on a speak to you through them. Which of these facts makes me who I am? Is it all of them? None of them? Riddle me this. Who I am and who are you? Where do we come from and what is our purpose. What are we doing and why are we doing it. Where are we headed? Our 9-5 jobs and white picket fences don't seem to be cutting it, do they? Being a rebellious little teenager doesn't give you anymore anwers than that white picket fence. So what are we doing? What is it that makes us who we are?

Mai troppo tardi.

I have green eyes, short brown hair, caramel colored skin, and a few freckles - But that doesn't tell you what I look like. I feel like there is joy hidden in all things - But that doesn't tell you how to make me happy. I've stood in 20+ countries on and 4 continents - But that doesn't tell you where I've been. I go to Church - But that doesn't tell you what I believe. I try to only do things that make me and others happy - But that doesn't tell you what I like to do or how I do it. So what is the truth? I suppose that's individual and you'll have to find out.

And this is me, saying things I actually mean.

If You Leave I Hope You Need To Come Back

You look like the songs I've heard my whole life coming true.

I WANT TO SHOUT THE THINGS THAT ARE ON MY MIND!

But I'll settle for all CAPS. Our generation, we speak in riddles. And I'm sarcastic as the best of them. There is something about our method of speech that blatently denies any former rules and adheres only to remaining scandalous and backwards. We don't function in honesty, just shock and awe. Constantly demanding the answers to life be furthered, without gaining ground ourselves.

I've got the virus and I'm coughing up truth. Choking on my own honesty, getting it out of my system. Hot tea won't do it for me. I can't get this off my tongue fast enough. My fingers won't go as quickly as my mind. Synaps snapping and running courses they know so well. It's a river in here, rain on the roof. I write as I think and so it makes sense only to those of us without a train of thought. Feel this.

If I dial your number, it means I want you next to me. I can't express my emotions via technology. There is something real about standing in front of someone, as strange as it seems. You're on my mind, sitting there above my left ear and bouncing your heels off the side of my head. If you've got something to say, shout it out!

Trust me. This is the time to breath, just in case you forget later. I shake my head when I want to say something that I won't say. I speak in other languages when I'm frustrated so you won't understand, but I do wish you would - per quel che vale. There is something in the way it breaks. Not quite right, claro que no. But I'll let you know when things change. If they ever do. Sing to me in silence. Speak me silly and show me up.

I can't give you an answer. Only more questions. There is something backwards to this noise we call speech. It's like we're trying our damnedest to not understand one another. Cosa? I'll work on that. Find me piled under grammar and punctuation. Dig me out to retrieve my body. I'm not sure reviving me will be plausible at this point. It'll be your words that bring me back. Build me up. This is just your imagination.

Joyeux. There isn't enough here to keep me. Isn't enough here to hold me. I'll never sit still, don't make me. You don't know what you're asking of me. I am different, but I am still me. There is a middle name somewhere in the midst of this. Photograph me while I'm not paying attention. You'll get a truer picture that way. I hope you leave me speechless. I can't rewind what didn't happen. Or fast forward what won't. Time doesn't exist, see? Not really. We're all just words. Words built out of dust, given breath and love to do with what we like. Tongue tied abroad. Blink.

Troppi.

I Want It With Whipped Cream On It

"Be generous: Invest in acts of charity.
Charity yields high returns

Don't hoard your goods, spread them around.
Be a blessing to others. This could be your last night.

When the clouds are full of water, it rains.
When the wind blows down a tree, it lies where it falls.
Don't sit there watching the wind. Do your own work.
Don't stare at the clouds. Get on with your life.

Just as you'll never understand
     the mystery of life forming in a pregnant woman,
So you'll never understand
     the mystery at work in all that God does.

Go to work in the morning
     and stick to it until evening without watching the clock.
You never know from moment to moment
     how your work will turn out in the end.

Oh, how sweet the light of day,
And how wonderful to live in the sunshine!
Even if you live a long time, don't take a single breath for granted.
Take delight in each light-filled hour,
Remembering that there will also be many dark days
And that most of what comes your way is smoke.

You who are young, make the most of your youth.
Relish your youthful vigor.
Follow the impulses of your heart.
If something looks good to you, pursue it.
But know also that not just anything goes,
You must answer to God for ever last bit of it.

Live footloose and fancy free -
You won't be young forever.
Youth lasts about as long as smoke."

Eccelesiastes 11, possibly my favorite chapter of the Bible. I'd like it read at my funeral in any case. Ecclesiastes falls into the category of "Wisdom Books." Written by Solomon towards the end of his life, he details his successes and shortcomings. Just passing advice down to younger generations, giving them all the knowledge he has on life so that they might live better. Most people don't particularly like Ecclesiastes, they think it's depressing. I disagree wholeheartedly and I think this passage is the perfect example of that. I don't think Solomon was being morbid or downhearted, but rather honest. Youth does last as long as smoke. One minute we are running in the streets without a care in the world, the next we are concerned with self image and friends, then we are attempting to join this world as adults, and pretty soon our lives are winding down. It's not bad or good or anything really, just truth the way Solomon saw it.

This passage pretty well sums up my life. I have the unexplicable desire to share everything I have with everyone around me. To the point where I write the word "LOVE" in red sharpie on every piece of paper money I come across so that our interaction is not merely the exchanging of funds. I want to be a part of peoples lives and for them to be a part of mine. I want everyone to know their worth and to have someone who helps them recognize it. And the clouds have gotten dark over my life, many many times. But eventually the rain comes, lightening those clouds and giving room for new life. I don't pretend to have all the answers, but I try to give my all to everything I do. And I have tried to live each day, each moment to it's fullest potential. I have tried vehemently to follow my heart at every turn and run free, wild to the rest of humanity. With some success, I believe. I have a rule I try to follow: Do anything and everything that comes to mind if it does not injure yourself or others. Sometimes I follow it well, other times I am lacking. Whether it be in following my heart or injuring myself or others. But I do my best. And yet? Youth is fleeting, we can't let it pass us by.



I'm lucky. Blessed. Graced. Favored. Granted. Whatever word you like, I am it. There was a point in my life where I slapped labels all over myself like I was a lightpost downtown. I don't anymore, but if I did? My new label would be "blessed." And it's all thanks to people like you. My walls are covered in photographs. My family, my friends, my teachers and mentors. People I love dearly, people like you. Probably you.

Thank you for being you. I hope you understand what I mean when I say that I love you whole heartedly and unabashedly. I hope you know that love is unconditional and that it is because of, not inspite of, the way you are.

Peace be,