This night.

Now Listening to: Josh Garrels

"Hold on to my hand... it'll meet us like a dream... Call out our names... Walking where we heard the sound... Tomorrow mountain we will climb, tonight the stars and fire shines in our eyes..."

This time now has come. This time now has come. The pressure presses on and my soul and body are one. i'm so frustrated in the sense of a common anger of my fellow man. One question: How do i fix the problem? A brigade of questions follow: Am i supposed to fix it? Where is my divine voice telling me exactly what to do? What is the problem? What is the real problem.

This night has come from fire and from light. My pent up aggression of an incomplete man starts to throw rocks at the man in the mirror of my soul. The word 'why' becomes the hate of my own intellect. My thoughts merely seem to be stumbling blocks that prohibit me to walk. This night has left like the sight from the blind and words from the deaf. Tell me. Oh, please tell me. A letter sent upon the waves of the world wide web, only to be a simple unread journal entry of my hate for the selfishness of my life. Tell me this letter is not just letters.

Am i supposed to be here? Does it matter that i am. An e-mail in the middle of the morn telling me that it was only time before his mother passed away. An e-mail tearing my optimism apart and leaving only a desolate boy in a shroud of shrapnel. Tell me now. Answer me in my weakest moment. What does everyone need? What is everyone yearning for in their life? Then, how does that apply to my 30,000 dollars of debt and my want to provide this community a life without worry or struggle? Have i just made a temple of my worries and left all others to find their own Jesus Christ in the crap of their life? i think with thoughts that i don't understand, only to realize that i don't comprehend my own thoughts and the problem is still the problem that is bothering me.

Wants. Desires. Our inhibitions to change the world, be remembered, and make a mark in the scoreboard of history. Are our wants a thing of holy instincts, or merely a man-made obsession? Look up to the moon, wait for that silent man to yell the answers, watch the smoke rise from their lips like smoke from bullet wounds, search the smoke for the words of wisdom given from the lunar-lit clouds that are smeared across the canvas of midnight. The answer are to be found, are they not? But, on this night, they are not seen or percieved in the smallet sense of an easy mission in the life of a being. i throw it into the sky only to watch it fall back down. The thoughts have only tied themselves into a bigger knot, and i... have only come to the conclusion...

This night. This night has come.

shalom.

Scared of a purpose hidden in a promised land.

Now listening to: Josh Garrels

Dog, you ever been afraid of something, but not even really sure that you were afraid of it? Does that make sense? You ever feel like you were promised to be made a huge tool for the world, but, for some odd reason, it... just... didn't... happen. You're waiting. You think, "well, maybe i gotta get my life 'together'"? That doesn't change life or give some epiphany to your minute existing blip of a life. You quit. The tests come in. Same results. The Nasdaq has nothing on your "spiritual" life. Waves. Riding waves up and down as if you were running through the prairies of heaven and hell, and the low valleys of hell are so abundant, you just wondering, "where in hell are those peaks i've heard others speak of?"
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As i was running through this land, i was lost-- coming upon random hills reaching for heaven, but i was easily getting lost as i ascended. How did i get to that one hill? Where was it at? Where are the other hills? Continue running. No hills... for hours... for days... for weeks... for months... for years... Why am i still running? Dreams surround me. Dreams that i do not understand. Dreams of death, war, healing, sabotage, revolution, life, friends, family, fear, and hope. Dreams penetrate my thoughts. Are they the map to where i am supposed to run? If so, how do i read these maps?
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i stop. Look up. i see heaven. Do you see it? "Look up there," i say to myself. It's definitely there. i look back down and in front of me is this wall. Where did it come from? You tell me. It's everywhere. Take a brick and pick through the red rock of your hinderence. Pull more and more to find out what is on the other side. Bricks topple on you and you fall under the burden of weight. As a whole big enough for me to fit in gapes open, i step through. What is this place? Oh... I know... I've heard stories of it. The promised land. How did i get here? i do not know. It is a land so different from behind the toppled kingdom of red rock. It is not an easier land, the grass is not greener, but there is this peace, this shalom saturating in my body like a bath of water soaks in to dirty clothes. The view pierces my viens like nails to hard wood. It hurts to see that i can only walk if i open up my feelings, my thoughts, my words, and my actions. i merely have to open them up to the purpose of my life. "What is the purpose of my life?" i did not expect an answer to be given. My purpose is a grace. A love. An adoration. A stummbling truth. A power. A presence blessed upon me all my life. A person dying, yet, oh so living. For me. I let the view pierce me. To the left. To the right. With every movement of my eyes scanning this landscape and with every shaky step put in front of me.
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Then,


I start running.
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shalom.

Writing.

I try to write. I never really understood why. Am I doing it to be heard? I don't believe so. I think I'm "just doing it", whatever that means. Am I doing it for therapy? No. I mean, writing opposed to other things is not going to fix me more. Am I throwing down my point, so nobody can have the last word on me? Maybe, but I doubt it, because I would love to converse about these sorts of things that pop up in the sparks between the cell-thingies in my brain. Why do I love to write? I just read something saying writing is, "human nature... connecting us to our own insights and to a higher and deeper level of inner guidance."
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I always hated English class. I don't know why, but it just made the stomach uneasy and the heart hard. I don't like someone telling how to communicate in a language I have used all my life. Can a teacher, who has never hung out with my friends, my family, or my life, tell me how to communicate? I would write something. The teacher would say, "No. That is wrong. Do it like this." What?!? I don't talk like that to people. Why would I write like that, then?
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It wasn't until my senior year of college, about half a year ago, when I realized my passion for writing. Voice. We all have a voice. We all have that one thing to say into the abyss of our fellow man (and woman). Whether it be a book, a song, a speech, a sentence, or a word. We were all giving a way to communicate, somehow, to others.
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Why do I write? What compels me to write? Family. Could I tell you how much I love my family? No. I love them much more than words on a paper, but in a way that my life and my voice can portray. Friends. The people placed in my life, for the mere fact that love may teach me a lesson of grace and "coincidences". Pain. I have hurt and so have you. Have we all talked about it? No. Have self-help books fixed all our problems? No. Ideas, parables, descriptions, and/or voice are ingnitors to the clock work ticking in our cut hearts.
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Why do I write? I don't. I try to write.

shalom.