Forced Family

We sit. In silence. We don't talk, it's just our presence.

Occasionally the "father" will speak; light conversation though. But only to the son, only father to son. Never to the "daughter", never "father" to "daughter."

The minutes pass, still the absence of vocalization. But the sound of the "father's" breath, the son sipping his water, the "daughter" quietly typing.

Anyone else would find this peculiar, eerie even; it's normal for this . . . family. We sit, no lingual communication.

However, it used not to be this way. Yet now this sort of thing has become comfortable, in a way. No need to express feelings or thoughts. Not that we simply know what they are, we just choose not to acknowledge them. Those tricky emotions and "issues" in this . . . family are ignored almost; no one admits to that either though.

The silence continues. Only broken by the "daughter"; she utters not one word, it's not needed anyway, and leaves. The father and son remain though, still comfortable in the still quiet, more comfortable now actually.

this is a poem my friend wrote, he says he's isnt finished with it yet, but i love it so far:

Her lovely morning elegance, she wears.
As she looks for him at the top of the stairs .
The glistening sound, of the flowing swears.
At the World, to his girl, to people that don't care.
To the search, at the hurt ,to the people that don't share. His pain
But in between the hate and quarrels of men
We find that its always been
We find the things that were always there
We find the things that are truly fair

Near the fireplace he sprawls across the floor
Waiting for a sudtle knock, at his door
It never comes what has he become a sad excuse for love
Alone in his shell he says aloud
He’s just a face in the crowd
But that girl, was the entire world, to him

Her lovely morning elegance she wears
As she looks for him at the top of the stairs
She walks away he looks away
theres so much left for him to say
Now she’s just a Polaroid on my wall
Always begging me to call

She sits alone in the shade on a grassy plane
Humming a simple tune just to keep her sane
Since yesterday shes been in a daze
But falling is just a temporary state of mind
if we just look around we find
That between the confessions and blinded sins
We find whats always been
We find the things that were always there
We find that things are truly fair

-NOEL K

Used To Be

I smell like flowers today
like the ones he used to bring you

my eyes look vividly blue in the sunlight
like he used to tell you they did

my skin in warm as I lay in the grass
like when he would hug you and his
heat would linger on you

my cheeks flush under the light of the sun
like they used to when he kissed you

my hair is straight and soft today
like he used to say he liked it so he
could run his fingers through it

I shutter happily when a cool breeze rolls over
like you used to when he would smile

at you and kiss your neck

my tummy flutters like a butterfly that flies over my face
like it used to when he would hold your
hand

I smile trying to just enjoy today
like you used to when being with him
was enough

i whisper 'i love you' to the air

like he used to say to you when he

thought you were asleep

i let go of the flower petals clenched in my fists

and they flutter away from me

forgetting me

and i desperately yearning to forget them

just like he did

just like he did

just like you

i smell like flowers today

Anonymous Poem

"once on a yellow piece of paper,

he wrote a poem

and he called it "chops"

because that was the name of his dog.

and that's what it was about

and his teacher gave him an A

and a gold star

and his mother hung it on he door

and read it to his aunts

that was the year father tracy

took all the kids to the zoo

and let them sing on the bus

that was the year his little sister was born

with tiny toenails and no hair

and his mother and father kissed a lot

and the girl around the corner sent him a

valentine signed with a row of x's

and he had to ask his father what the x's meant

and his father always tucked him in at night

and was always there to do it

once on a piece of white paper with blue lines

he wrote a poem called "autumn"

because that was the name of the season

and that's what it was all about

and his teacher gave him an A

and asked him to write more clearly

and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because of its new paint

and the kids told him

that father tracy smoked cigars

and left butts on the pews

and sometimes they would burn holes

that was the year his sister got glasses

with thick lenses and black frames

and the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see santa claus

and the kids told him why

his mother and father kissed a lot

and his father never tucked him in at night

and got mad

when he cried for him to do it

once on a piece of paper torn from his notebook

he wrote a poem

called "innocence; a question"

because that was the question about his girl

and that's what is was all about

and his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look

and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because he never showed her

that was the year that father tracy died

and he forgot how the end

of apostle's creed went

and he caught his sister

making out on the back porch

and his mother and father never kissed

or even talked

and the girl around the corner

wore too much makeup

that made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway

because that was the thing to do

and at three a.m he tucked himself into bed

his father snoring soundly

that's why on the back of a brown paper bag

he tried another poem

and he called it "absolutely nothing"

because that's what it was really about

and he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist

and he hung it on that bathroom door

because he didn't think

he could reach the kitchen"

an anonymous poem from the book "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky

for everyone who has ever felt forgotten

for everyone who has ever felt unloved

for everyone who has ever felt like they just aren't good enough

for everyone who cries out for help when no one is there

for everyone that God loves

Lemons

Here is a simile for you: Life is like a lemon.

When most people first hear this they probably think of the phrase "when life gives you lemons, made lemonade," but that is not at all what I am talking about.

Lately I have noticed that about 90% to 105% of people's lives are not perfect; and I began to think of life like a Lemon.

You see, lemons are pretty, bright, yellow, happy looking. Fun to roll around and play with. Yet . . . when you actually bite into it, it is sour, bitter; and you no longer want it, it is not so pretty anymore either. And after that first bite, you can never make it the same, never make it the same again.

Basically what I am trying to get across is that many people, including members of my own family, strive to make life look easy, perfect, pretty. They make it seem as though their life is all flowers and lemon-scented candles. However . . . when you go deeper, get to really know them, it's not so pretty and perfect anymore. Issues, problems, and baggage from hurtful memories make their life sour, bitter, not so pretty and easy. And after that first "bite" into that deep, sour flesh of that sunshine-yellow lemon, that life can never be the same, never be repaired.

Also some Lemons have thicker peels than others. Some split open at the slightest poke or prod. While others have to be pried open with your sharpest kitchen knife to get to that rancid juice. The peel of some people differs; some people are just better at hiding their flaws than others.

But what you just have to remember, even to simply make it through the day, that if life gives you lemons, make lemonade (with lots of sugar).

P.S. I know I haven't been posting a lot very often, so I'm going to start trying to put things up a bit more. :)

Personality?

What changes people? It is obvious that all of our personalities evolve and develop over time, but what affects how we "turn out." Obviously our family and how we grow up does, but what about when you are finally old enough to decide, have opinions, and ultimately choose who you want to be? Is it planned from the beginning? or do we get to choose on our very own? Do people choose for us without us even realizing it?

Another thing is some never seem to stop changing. For example: friends from elementary to middle school, and then from middle to high school (especially boys). I've noticed that some people just continually change, whether they are fakes and flakes or just haven't truly found who they are yet, I'm not sure. Some people seem to know exactly who they want to be, who they are, and who they are going to be. However others seem completely lost, trying to fit in or going against the flow; they never find their "niche" or are quite sure who they'll be in life. And then there is the very few amount of people who don't exactly fit it into either group.

A good question is do we get to choose. Is it like going to the store and choosing to buy the floral dress over the sweatpants? Or is it like being named when you're born, you don't have any say in it? I doubt that many people just sit and think about what their personality is going to be like. So what happens that makes us the way we are? What causes us to dress the way we like to, to listen to our favorite music, to act the way we do? Could it be some higher power, that knows everything..... or could it just be like the flip of a coin, totally random and unexplained?

"I always wanted to be somebody, but i should have been more specific." -Lily Tomlin

Light From A-far

I look at the little light. It goes on, then off, on, off. What if I was a light; blinking on then off, on, off.

No.

I would not like to be a light. Sure I would be able to help people see in the dark, to light their rooms, streets, and other worldly things. But just a light is not for me.

No.

W would want to be a star.

Yes! a star.

Way, way, far up there. Among billions and trillions of other stars. I would twinkle and shine and people would look up at me and say, "Oh! What a pretty star." And they would see all of my brothers and sister too, helping me softly light the night skies around the whole universe.

Yes.

A star is what I want to be.

A star.

The Button and the Stone

The girls came in that morning as they did every Sunday morning; staggered at first, a flowing main crowd, and then the few last stranglers of class. Peanut stood at the door this morning with a jar. The jar held two types of things: a bunch of pretty, sparkly, stones, and a bunch of buttons. As each girl came through the door, Peanut would greet them, ask how they were, and then ask them to select either a beautiful stone or a button from the jar. She noticed that most of her students chose the lovely stones, yet some did pick the buttons. At last all of the girls had arrived and were seated in a semi-circle as usual. Peanut, instead of taking her normal seat in front, she stood between two little tables with cloth over them. The girls all wondered what the covered table was for. Peanut then proceeded to tell the girls that the ones who had chosen the buttons get the special something under this table (as she pointed to one table) and the girls who had taken a colorful stone got the something special under that table (and she pointed to the other table). Some of the girls looked at their buttons in dismay, maybe their something special wouldn't be a great as what the girls withe the stones would get. Peanut removed the cloth to the first table: teeny heart-shaped boxes of chocolates lay on the table. Peanut then invited all of the girls with the buttons up to each take a box. Next, she removed the cloth for the second table: little cups sat on the table . . . filled with corn flakes. All of the girls with the stones had to come and take a cup of corn flakes from the table. Peanut then proceeded with her lesson, which was just this:

Although you choose something pretty, it doesn't mean that the outcome will be. And just because the thing you chose isn't very beautiful or lovely does not mean that the outcome will be unattractive. As you've seen here, after you have chosen you cannot take it back. Hence: every single decision will affect you as well as everyone else for the rest of your and their lives. For example: if you drink and drive (what an over-used example this is anyway) and you kill someone; not only does it affect the person you killed but it affects their family for the rest of their lives as well as you, for you have to live with that. As far as decisions go, you need to think, for no matter what the decision is, it will have an affect. So from now on, think about your stone and your button: which one do you want.

And with that lesson, Peanut gave each of the girls a stone if they chose a button and a button if they had chosen a stone. She told them to carry both their stone and button everywhere. And to think about which one they want in the very end. Do you want the stone but have the corn flakes, or do you want the button and the box of chocolates?

Just a Snippet, Just for You to Know.

Alright, so here's one of the things about me: when I write, I usually write with more than one purpose in mind. I don't start with just one point to get across; just one emotion to communicate. Also, one thing I try to do is write so that each person gets something different out of it. For example, when someone reads a book they may just read it, while others pick it apart for the deeper meaning and in the end have a different feeling of what they just read than the other person. I guess what I'm trying to say is that you may understand perfectly what I am saying, it may take you a while to think it over, or you may just think that I'm insane. Or you could just find your own meaning and brand-spanking-new opinions in what you've read. Basically when I write I want you to find your own meaning in it. So just asking: what does my writing mean to you? Just each little snippet, what does each one, or just one, mean to you? How do you interpret it? Pick it apart? Dissect it? How do you feel about it? Like in your soul? Cause this is Soul Candy after all. . . :)

Silence

Silence. It's something you don't come by very often these days. Everywhere I go there is always noise, whether it's talking, the clicking of someone texting, or the most popular: music. Yes, I do love music with almost everything within me, but there is a limit. Silence is a good thing. It gives you a chance to actually think clearly. I now some people who constantly have to have noise, which is usually always music. I also must admit that I am slightly guilty of perpetually playing music, even when its only background music.

I have heard of people saying that they need background music, but is this true?? NO! You do not need it. Silence is a gift, and we should actually listen to it. God made the Earth that way; He didn't put constant music or obnoxious sounds everywhere, so should we? We should appreciate the Silence, listen to it. I know that sounds a bit, well . . . stupid: "listen to the silence" but it is possible.

For example, when I'm at the beach, or even just outside, I hate music. I would much rather just listen to the Earth; the wind especially. In general just the "silence" of Earth though. Or even just at night. After everyone is asleep, instead of getting on FB, just listen. I think that the Silence of night is the best kind of silence. Everything is asleep, nothing moves, it's just . . . quiet. And I love it. I'm pretty sure if you tried it then you would like it too. It's actually refreshing in a way, just to sit back, relax, with nothing going on, blaring in your ear, or preoccupying your mind. Just the quiet, the Silence.

So just try it. Turn off everything: the phone, the computer, the tv, even the music. And just listen, think, or just go about your normal day, your chores, your work, school, your hobbies, etc, etc. Or maybe just start a little at a time. It could just be a bit everyday; just a few moments of complete silence. Maybe meditate, pray, or do your devotion. Just do it in silence. It may even open your eyes to new ways of thinking, as I know it has done for me.

I challenge you.

To the Silence.

New Things

There is something that I love about New Things. Not necessarily things as in Christmas presents and birthday gifts, but things like rearranging my room for a new feeling, new pictures I've taken, a new day to wake up to, a new rain after a dry spell. I'm not sure what it really is but something about New Things always gives me a good feeling; for example in the morning I enjoy trying a new type of tea.

However there are many Old Things that I like more that New Things. Like old houses, old worn-out wood, old books, and old music.

There seems to be something about all of theses old, usually antique items, that I

absolutely love. I might be the feel of the worn texture or maybe that old slightly musty smell. Yet it could be the fact that every Old Thing has a story; it has been places, seen things, be used over, and over, and over again; it has been loved. Old Things intrigue me, draw me in. I want to know more about them, as if they could actually talk.

I do still enjoy New Things though. I guess it's more the fact that these things have their own journey to make; most of them already being used, worn, and loved. For example: the camera I got but only a year ago already shows the scars and scratches of use. But I love my camera; the memories it has brought me. Yes it is only a Material Thing, and I suppose this could look like I am contradicting my earlier post, but I'm not. I am simply saying that I like the feel of Old and New things, in a sense of their story, there use. Not just for the having and owning something. Nor to be obsessive with something or overly protective of a piece of plastic, metal, or wood.

Old things can be more than that, or at least that what it seems to me. And New things are just waiting to become Old things.

Everything grows Old eventually

Simple Things

Holding hands, warm chocolate chip cookies, sunny warm days with a slight breeze. Simple things are what always make my day.

Lately I have noticed that for some people simple little things don't seem to matter. Or maybe it's just that their Simple Things are different from what other's think. Like for someone a new broom or a clean desk; a diet coke or a shag carpet; smooth wood or just a smile. In all actuality, I have no idea where I'm going with this. I guess I have just noticed all of the teeny, tiny, little, simple things that make me smile inside are. So that's really all I have to say; this one will just be short and sweet. And that's another thing I like: short and sweet thoughts.

Vain

Vanity:

-noun

1) excessive pride in one's appearance, qualities, abilities, achievements, etc.; character or quality of being vain; conceit

2) something about which one is vain

3) lack of real value; hollowness; worthlessness: the vanity of a selfish life

4) something worthless, trivial, or pointless

Origin:

1200–50; ME vanite <>vānitās, equiv. to vān- (see vain ) +-itās- -ity

Synonyms:

egotism, complacency, vainglory, ostentation. See pride. 4.emptiness, sham, unreality, folly, triviality, futility.

Antonyms:

humility

Now that you know as much about Vanity as I do, I shall add on my two cents (an expression which I have never fully understood). Anywho, "Vanity" is a thing that you cannot go one single day with out stumbling across it. "Beautiful" celebrities, models, and everyday people obsess daily in front of the mirror. (Of course I too must admit to spending a bit of my time most mornings looking into my own reflection as I cover 'blemishes' and 'fix' my hair.) But why do we all do this? One of the conclusions I have come to is this . . . people care way too much what others think of them. Whether it's a pride thing (see synonyms above) or not, most everyone cares what someone else thinks whether they want to or not. And yet again I ask: WHY? Why do people care what other people think of them??? Not like it truly matters in most cases. Yes of course I do understand that it will matter in job interviews and such, yet on a regular day-to-day basis no one should give a rat's pa-tootie what some judgmental "friend" has to say about the way they look, dress, or their self-worth for that matter. And the thing is . . . if GOD made us exactly the way we are, then why do we insist on changing that just to please some earthly mold or trend. (Yet again I must admit to following fashion "trends" at risk of being horribly labeled a hypocrite. Of course we are not all perfect.)

Complements are also a Vanity-related subject. Personally, when someone tells me I'm "pretty" in the sense of looks, I either try to deflect it or just quietly accept the complement. Why you ask? I do not like to be vain. There is something about wallowing in my own self-worth that makes me want to hurl. (Lovely choice of words right?) I simply don't like it. I know when someone tells me this, it usually is a genuine complement , but I just don't really enjoy hearing it. Unlike some girls, and even guys on occasion, will either prompt the complement to receive even more look-related approvals; that or they completely deny it, saying things like, "no, I'm so ugly, and I am ssssoooo fat like ohmygosh." or "stop lying! I am not pretty at all!" Although I'm not exactly sure why some people do that, it kind of . . . pisses me off. Because they are obviously attractive if they are receiving a comment like that, so why deny it. Of course trying to get more is just plain stupid too, not to mention extremely Vain. As are mirrors.

Have you ever even thought about not using a mirror for a week? Or maybe even just a day? Probably not. The very thought of not being able to "check for imperfections" before you go out into public is like a nightmare for most. However I do know of a women, and a wonderful blessing and joy she is to know, that gave up trying to conform and follow trends; she stopped with all the makeup, the ever so expensive hair, and simply lived with out caring what people thought. And I absolutely adore her for that. So why doesn't everyone do this? Well probably the same I think of every time: we are scared to. Scared to no be able to see what we look like. Scared to not be able to "fix" ourselves. (Even though nothing was truly 'wrong' with us in the first place.) Scared of what other people will think.

I guess what I am trying to say, without ranting and rambling on for ever and ever and ever (even though I know I could), is that looks and image is not everything. Just looking the prettiest isn't everything. Just because the world says you have to be one way doesn't mean you have to. Vain. Vanity. Being yourself. Choose wisely. I know I did.

ambivalence

First of all, I strongly debated putting this up. In the end, I decided that I should. It needed to be seen my others, and I just felt a kind of force telling me that I should; so I did, obviously. From my point of view, this could mean something different for each individual who reads it; as in you will interpret it or take it differently than the next person. Or you may just not even understand it. Any who . . . here it goes:

sit and wait. tortured by the thoughts. i wonder, i dream . . . yet they're more like night-mares: twisted images race through of what might . . . what could . . . what may very well come out of this.

i worry. anxiety consumes every part of me. this new emotion masks all of my others: the happiness, the joy . . . the love. i worry, thinking of what could happen.

should i talk? should i bring it up? should i ask about it? or maybe . . . maybe i'm overreacting. it could be nothing, maybe it isn't. yet am i in denial now? trying to push this . . . this . . . "issue" away. hide it from myself as if it's only a bit of dust. turn it into nothing when it could be one of the biggest problems.

waiting . . . again . . . now that familiar numbness has overcome all. i feel indifferent now. most all emotions faded away: drowned out by the numb. i know it is still there though. drifting below the surface . . . waiting to pop out again when i'm least prepared to face it.

nightmares. the nightmares are back. wreaking destruction in my sleeping mind. yet it's different . . . there is no noise. i see the wicked dream, but no one speaks. it's all . . feeling. i feel the anxiety. i feel the worry. i feel the love, lost and wasted for not being accepted. i feel anger. i feel sorrow. and fear.

i need to tell. to ask. to know. but . . . what if it goes wrong? i'll wait; it can wait. so for now, i push all of this away, deeper than i've ever pushed anything that troubles me. and i smile: hiding this from everyone . . . even myself. hiding it from him

Listening Spirit

~I walk through the park, admiring the still green trees as well as the bold orange and red trees, turning color in the early November days.

I listen: it's quiet, yet loud; I hear the soft breeze as it wisps through the willows. I squint at the sun through the shade of an oak, it is like I can almost hear that huge day-star whispering warmth onto my skin. My bare feet make a soft padding on the old jaded sidewalk, and dulcet crunches as I move onto the leaf-scattered grass. I near the playground now: the festive shrieks of children drift to me across the early autumn air.

Singing. I hear singing now. Broken from my inner trance of thought, I turn to look for the sound. It is that of a man: he sits atop a utility box, a cane in his hand. He sings; a spontaneous song, like something I have never heard before. I recognize bits of it . . . from hymns, the rest seems to be from parts of his heart. He sings on, loudly, then softer. I sit on a swing; I listen to his song, savoring the melody that reverberates from his lungs. I close my eyes, imagining his story through what I can hear.

Now I move on, making my way through the playground, already remembering the Singing Man. I hear a beep, and then another. I turn my head slightly to look upon a business man. He sits at a bench, a good distance away from the sounds of where the children cavort. His grey and balding head tells of years of work. Yet another beep makes its way into the open, and at that point the man removes a small something from his ear and seemingly turns it off; he utters a word that would be better off not being repeated. He sits; still and thoughtful, or maybe wanting to forget his thoughts, who knows? I feel a feeling of trouble from the way he slouches, sighs.

Walking onward , I come back to the cracked sidewalk. The wind spills over me, whipping my hair every-which-way. I think; blocking out the other noises of the world. I think about the Singing Man and the Business Man, but I cannot hear; too deep in my own thoughts I seem to have fallen. I don't hear. I come to the cross-walk and walk on without looking, not realizing where I am. A car, I don't hear, therefore I never looked. Of course nobody noticed, they don't see me. And as the sun moves behind a patch of cotton-clouds, I disappear momentarily. Now I walk along again, listening, roaming here, with no one able to see me, or rather, my spirit. But I am there, listening as a spirit~

now that we're all on the same page....

"Now that we're all on the same page..."

A phrase commonly used in resolved arguments and confusing conversations. It is used when whoever is talking is now understanding the same thing, therefore they are all on the same "page". Yet a good point has been brought to my attention when I myself used that very phrase: we may both be on the same page, but maybe not the same book. We may all be on the same page but each and everyones' life is a different book.

Everyone sees things differently. And it may be that just because "we are both on page 72" it does not mean that we are looking in the same book. Some people's Life Book's are very small, maybe even Flimsy; yet there are the small Hand-backed books too. Other's are huge, fat books with quite a lot of stuff in it; of course there are, not so seldom, the big books with mainly Fluff and very few real things in them. Some people's books are the same their entire lives, while others may find the Need to Edit theirs on a "regular" basis.

Now of course it is not a bad thing if your Book is big or small; what matters is what you have in it. What is in your book? Morals? Life Lessons? Tips? Memories?

Everyone's book is completely, totally, and wonderfully unique. And that, my dear friend, is how GOD intended it to be. He was, and is, the One who wrote, and is helping us to write, out Books. And because GOD made each and everyone one of use different and unique in our own way, all of our books will and are very different.

So even if we are all on page 13 of our Life Books, we all see the very same situation a bit differently from the next person would.

Just as GOD intended.

So God created man in his own image,

in the image of God he created him;

male and female he created them.

God blessed them and said to them, "Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the ground."

Then God said, "I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food." And it was so.

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good

Genesis 1:27-31

Idea credit to Noel Kennon

Perfect

I am not perfect. Obviously. I have, however, had people tell me that I am. This annoyed me profusely.

Why?

Because I am not perfect. In anyway. At all. And I am extremely happy that way. Many people strive for perfection; some even go to extreme lengths to even graze what we humans call Perfect. We, as a species, tend to find beauty in seemingly perfect things.

But . . . what is Perfection?

Is it the Best?

Is it the least tainted?

Is it the most expensive?

Or is it what each individual finds to be "perfect" in their own eyes?

Some people may find Perfection in shiny art, some in personal values, some even in food.

For me: I find "perfect" to be in old things, in (what others usually think) ugly things, and odd things. I use the word things because Perfection in my mind can be absolutely anything, except . . . a person.

People were not meant to be perfect. We were made a certain way, and that way is imperfect. In God's eyes, we are Perfect the way he created us. So why strive for what We think is Perfection?

In a way, it can be useless; causing us to be consumed with Image, Vanity, and being The Best (which does not truly exist). Is it really necessary?

No; we don't need to be perfect, for The Perfect One died so that we don't have to be. He was the Only perfect One.

Perfection: for God and God alone

Imperfection: it's what makes us human

Candles

~The candles make circular patterns on the ceiling. The shadows quiver as the flames flicker. The smell of the spiced, melted wax seeps into me. I watch the shadows as they dance across my dark room. Even though they are on the other side of the room, on top of my dresser, I can feel their warmth; or maybe it's just my imagination.

I roll over, my back to the candles. The flickering shadows still being cast on my wall i now face. I raise my hand from beneath the covers, making faint shadow-puppets on the wall. I notice how the yellowish light makes shivering patterns on my hand as well. I gaze at the trembling patterns, mesmerized by the artistic shapes cast by those inanimate objects. I slip my arm back under the sheets, knowing that I need to sleep, its late.

I twist onto my back. Sleep does not come easily tonight. Very little is rushing through my mind, as it always happens when i can't seem to catch the Dream Boat. My thoughts move slowly tonight, weaving in and out of each other; organized yet jumbled at the same time. I think calmly, deliberately, now knowing that it is no use to try to sleep quite yet. I go through the day, the "scenes" passing like slides in an old-fashioned picture show. I go on to think of other matters. I think too deeply, I begin to feel those things that I've worked to hard to hide, to conceal from myself. I shudder.

Rolling back over, I now face those captivating candles. The yellow-orange flames, turning blue and almost purple then returning to the yellow light. I wonder what it would be like to be a candle; to be able to give off a spicy yet smooth scent and glow like there's no tomorrow. Then I think of when the candles finally burn to the end of their wicks; and, in a sense, a candle can die too, just like humans are meant to. Yet . . . I savor how the wax columns burn for now, just as I savor every minute of my own life. I know it is sometimes painful, but that is how life is meant to be; we learn from it and are able to live in a better light. With that thought I sleep~

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine; Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine.

Material or Genuine?

Material things. So many of them. Yet why?

Recently, I was talking to a friend of mine; he says, in line of the conversation, "just get your parents to get it for you." Well, at the moment my parents (more or less my mother) are "limiting my expenses." Although never actually using that phrase, that is what they are doing. I have no problem with this; yet my friend replies with "oh, im sorry." Which I found slightly odd. The thing is, most everyone theses days practically rely on material things. But we don't need quite a lot of the stuff in our homes. Yes, it all is pretty to look at and nice to have, but what is its' purpose. We don't need the countless decorations, useless pillows, tv, iPod, computer, 72 pairs of shoes, odd little trinkets we won't throw away, rubber-band balls, scarfs that don't even keep you warm, pretty bowls with wicker balls or wax fruit filling them, 7 bottles of perfume/cologne that never get used, bobble-heads, stupid magazines, candles, little statues or figurines, and it goes on and on and on and on.

The sad part is: some people think that hey NEED this stuff; when, in all actuality and reality, they could easily live with out them. By buying and slowly accumulating so many useless items, we think that we Need these Material objects. However... we don't.

The thing is, with the world going 'round as it does, many lives revolve around Material things. With huge houses that only 2 or 3 people live in and owning 5 cars, people find their worth in material items. It just doesn't make sense to me! Why would you want to be known by how big of a house you have, or b how many designer bags you own? I would much rather be known by how Big of a Heart I have, or how much I can Love the people I Care about. Material things just don't seem to have an appeal of who I project myself to be.

I do admit, to my dismay, that I too have fallen for some of these things. A Hypocrite am I? I should hope not. Although I do admire the new purse I have newly acquired, I know i could have just as well gone without it. I have ended up throwing out, giving away, and selling many of the useless things I owned. Was it hard to do? Well at first yes, as is most everything on the first try, but in the end I was (and am) quite satisfied with my decision to let go of those idiot things that do not matter.

And i challenge you to do the same. Give it up. Anything. You could even simple start with Lent: just give up all (or at least some) of your Material trash. You could find that you can easily go without them, maybe even feel better than with them.

Be someone worth who you Truly are; not what your belongings have made out into.

So with that, I Challenge You.

Joy v.s. Happiness (round one)

Writing has always seemed to being me Joy. Reading as well; although i must admit that I quite enjoy being read to. However, i wonder, is it really Joy that i get from writing (typing would be a better word) down my thoughts and fantasies, or is it Happiness??

i suppose it could be just Happiness, for after a while I no longer feel it; but. . . I do always feel that spark when I'm writing. That feeling never fluctuates, but is it Joy? Many things make me Happy, such as:

1. music
2. bike rides in the fall
3. autumn
4. taking pictures
5. piano

These things are all wonderful, but they don't keep me satisfied forever. That is where the things that bring me Joy come in:

1. sunny days with just enough clouds to gaze at
2. sleepovers with emma
3. going to church
4. loving

To many these may seem like ordinary things, but they bring me immense Joy. I guess in the end, I will just have to find if writing brings me Joy or that oh-so familiar feeling of temporary Happiness. As for now, life will go on, mixing Joy, Sadness, Anger, and Happiness together, sometimes separating them just long enough to decipher the true emotion of what is going on.