a thought; father

today, i heard a sound. today, i saw a sight. today, i felt this feeling. today, i understood this thought.

that sound was the noise of weeping. that sight was the vision of a comforting hand. that feeling was the embrace of the widest love. that thought was from the heart of God.

--

it was a dreary rainy day. it was just one of those days. sitting at the bay window, only grays and drabs could be seen. cars splash through puddles. people march under their umbrellas. one man sadly walks his dog.

after a short while, thunder rings out as if only to reinforce the curtain of dour. there is water collecting on either side of the road and flowing slowly and deathly into the gutter. aside from the drudgery of raindrops the only sounds are of the cars speeding off and splashing the sidewalk. thunder resounds again.

but then a young child appears. she's wearing florid pink boots and a plaid-patterned raincoat. she's smiling. she jumps into puddles. she chases that squirrel to its tree. the rain is a gentle caress. those street-side streams are playthings.

we are not that young child. we merely watch from the window as she plays. we are not actors in this film; we did not purchase tickets to this fair. as much as we wish to jump through the window and fill her pink boots, we cannot.

but then, our father comes. he tells us that we, too, have a pair of small boots. we, too, have a sheltering raincoat. he gives us these things. we rush out the door.

our father stands on the threshold. he watches us diligently, carefully. each puddle we splash, each fallen leaf we examine, he is overjoyed. the articles we wear, that he gave us, keep us dry. as he watches us at play, a smile is on his face. he loves us.

a beautiful heart/a foolish heart

there within her skin, her fragile ribcage, the layers of muscle and membranes, beneath veils of strong guise, scattered bits of emotional debris, and finally under a tight mass of fear, lies a beautiful heart. some would say that it is red with blood, with iron, a healthy heart that does its job; a heart that provides, a heart that pushes on, a heart that gives. some would say that she has a heart that takes back the blood depleted by its dependents, refills it as necessary, and sends it back out, knowing well that the blood will return, depleted again. some would say that she has a heart that sustains, not for no reason at all, but for some purpose. some would say her heart achieves something as it beats; her heart reaches for some end as it pulses; her heart wishes life as it thumps. some would say her heart is a miracle.

But i would say that her heart is red with love. i would say that her heart is more than a pump that pushes oxygen toward her vitals. i would say even that her heart is more than just a vessel for keeping in her thoughts, her emotions, her desires, her fears. i would say that her heart, as with all of our hearts, is not the sum of what lies within, but what can be and is put forth. therefore, i would call her heart words that normally do not describe an organ: generous, thoughtful, careful, resilient, and so, wonderful, miraculous, amazing, incredible. above all, i would call her heart beautiful; i would say that she has a beautiful heart.

--

but what would she say of her own heart? would she say these same flattering phrases? would she exalt her heart up in the same way as i have? what does she feel about that heart that i have so praised? would she mention that her heart cannot beat forever? would she say that her heart is like any other? would she detail all the little flaws that cannot be seen from where i stand? would she explain that her heart truly is nothing more than a small pulsating bundle of muscle and nerves? even more than all that, would she say that her heart is frail and weak from wear and tear? would she list all the times her heart was not up to the task, was not not ready to fight, was too weary to work, was simply not enough? would she say that her heart is but a heart?

would she have the same words to utter to my heart which i graciously gave to hers? would she see that my heart is just a foolish heart, as any heart is liable to be? would she know that the words from my heart to hers are nonsense, drivel, rubbish, nothing but silly blabbering? would she understand that my heart is no real judge of a heart, as no human heart is? having that, then, would she hint that my heart's banter is but? would she mention that my heart is perhaps mistaken and deluded? would she declare that my heart needs work, that my heart, having eyes for everything around it, needs a hard look inward, that my heart needs to grow more than just a bit before looking outward? would she remind me that my foolish heart's adoration of her heart or any other is truly and deeply misplaced? would she then guide my heart in the proper direction? she would, wouldn't she?

i would prefer to not fall into a black hole

too often now i find myself writing the essay of evil. it gathers strength slowly; each word that place builds momentum. sadly, the movement of my essay is no longer a pondering glacier. it falls quickly and suddenly into a deep hole. that is where i am. i cannot exist this way for much longer. i do not know how deep this abyss is, but that is simply because it is not one which anyone has any desire to explore. A black hole welcomes visitors readily.

it's about time i built myself a spaceship.

dream for yourself a robin's egg blue. a clean-colored dream might make your day lighter. seek that not known; aim to erase something to make it plain. have some hope in a easy-going fellow. each man might in a pinch relieve you from a jam. do not be hobbled by what would fetter someone who wants better. take leave in ease to know that every pedal will be pressed by another.

but would you keep thinking the thought that trouble treks thither to that location whither the keep of things kept for their importance then the notion will clap you up in shackles of pangs of panic wherefore the sensation will become of the trembling of tectonics that deliver quivers of your stomach for tightness is the condition displayed up and over and through and whenever you tread with your right foot you will catch a bit of the ground with your right foot because you deigned to place security in the thought locked material instead and thus you suffer wretchedness in all particulars of you not just your right foot

so then dream a dream of an easy shade. slowly sink down knowing that you can put your hand back and land safely even if you fall through thorns. live a life that is just a life.

a few more crummy words

when i try to write something, i can only think over and over to myself that i can think of nothing to write. each topic that i encounter i reject as it leads closer and closer to the obvious conclusion that there is no longer anything where previously flowed a fount of freedom that gushed down through me until i could satisfied with a few crummy words put down on a page. and even now, to look back upon those crummy words, i am hit with the conclusion that they are in fact just a bunch of crummy words and that perhaps my fount is still flowing as before while i have simply puckered up my lips to a previously unnoticed sour scent or bitter taste. this is like how i have once again decided that i do not enjoy drinking tap water. maybe that's why.

maybe i no longer have hope. when i read crummy words now, i can catch a faint feeling of hope in things to come; i believe that i had once ambition and desire, and those things drove my hands to a keyboard to put down nonsense steeped in fickle feelings. when did i ever have a want so strong so as to not feel ashamed in broadcasting it? there must have been some great goal worth achieving that i put a great deal of stock into; a goal that could move mountains, or at least organize my thoughts. if this is the case, then i think to myself, 'alas, i am finished for i no longer dream; i am lost to the drudgery of routine without change.' i must then find something to seek.

it could also be that i am too busy. there is a great list of tasks that i must accomplish, and on the column right from this list is a list of dates or times for each task at which time the respective task must be completed. this list is the bane of my existence. though i believe that i work more efficiently and effectively under pressure, i prefer to have time to think and mull over my options when taking any course of action. this dislike is worsened greatly when the task is to me of trivial importance. such tasks include any and all actions related to academics; perhaps a better way to phrase the situation would be to say that all the tasks that have any sort of serious impact on my well-being or on my future are the tasks that i abhor. this is most likely related to my lack of hope. hope comes to me when i do not have any reason to hope; when i have tried hard and put forth an appreciable amount of effort, my hope turns to complacency and from there one can only fall down.

instead of saying that i am too busy, i should say that i am too distracted. my words come to me when i have had time to ruminate over events and ideas in my life that spark emotional reaction. if i must always worry about schoolwork or dread the thought of having more to do, then i will never have the presence of mind to relax and think. my mind will ever be moving from the present to the coming future which soon becomes the present. i think it a cruel mistake to make two meanings of the word 'present' to be what has already come and is going and a gift. there is no great gift in the present because there can be no hope in what has already come.

having taken the time now to force myself to think, i am beginning to regret the time spent here. the more i ponder why i have no ability to write creatively, the more i delve into what i find most depressing about my life. i do not enjoy dwelling on saddening things, as this gets me sad (logically so... but i believe that there are those who enjoy dwelling on saddening things and enjoy being unhappy. a most masochistic paradox.) this would mean that my plan to provoke creative writing through thought has backfired, leaving me with less hope and more depression, and no creative writing. i can only conclude that there is not enough hope to be had in my life. a sort of self-perpetuating hopelessness. peachy.

what a terrible way to end this post.