I played Portia, and he played Arragon.
And dumb ass picked the silver casket.
-Professor Harold Hill, The Music Man (via quote-book)
Hmph. Very strange day. Complete with firefall hype crap blah-ness. Mixed with a little Indian camera guy WHO IS ALWAYS STANDING IN MY WAY. Seriously though—he is a wall separating me from all that is good—all that I should believe in. He’s torn it all apart and I feel like I’ll never get myself back. I really really dislike him for that. And I really don’t know how forgiveness can be reached. So. The wall it is, I suppose.
On a lighter note…
I always knew there was something different about you—something admirable. And all I know is that I look forward to seeing you, every day. All I know is—you make me feel restless. You make me feel like there’s more to me than what I am showing. You make me feel as vast and unsearchable as the universe—and I like that. You make me want to surrender.
I think I like you.
Cold water, rush, gushes
over my warm skin
A cold water rage.
Hope is a prayer easily spoken
but it is not like anything useful
in such a time as this.
It is not like a coat in cold weather
or a wet suit in the ocean.
It is merely a vague idea,
a thin layer of air
a whisper too soft to hear
a thought too large to know—useless
in such a time as this.
You fall asleep and the sheets
feel nothing like hope because
hope is nothing like a blanket in the cold,
in the darkness.
It’s nothing you can wrap around,
cocooning in the shell of you.
It will never protect you from the sting,
the bite of cold water reality
spitting in your face.
It is more like the knowledge
that after winter comes spring
and the buds will bloom again
the sun will melt the ice off you
like a layer of skin.
Hope is assumption of safety,
the illusion of a rescue boat as you drift
in out, under the waves.
It is the outstretched hand that you
as you’re losing your grip, slipping
off the cliff.
Hope is not a reality.
It is nothing to touch, to taste.
It is only like the imagined comfort
of land after a long day at sea
of a river meandering through the desert.
Hope was never mine to hold—useless
in such a time as this.
For months it seems
But mine only brushes your soft surface
And somehow it leaves me listless” —Jason Mraz - 0% Interest (via perksofbeingme)
There’s distance in the air and I cannot make it leave
I wave my arms’ round about me and blow with all my might
I cannot sense you close, though I know you’re always here
But the comfort of you near is what I long for
When I can’t feel you, I have learned to reach out just the same
When I can’t hear you, I know you still hear everyword I pray
And I want you more than I want to live another day
And as I wait for you maybe I’m made more faithful
And it all seems so helpless and I have no plans. I’m a plane in the sunset with nowhere to land. And all I see it could never make me happy. And all my sandcastles spend their time collapsing. Let me know that You hear me. Let me know Your touch. Let me know that you love me. Let that be enough.
I’ve been withdrawing for everyone lately. I will get angry at you for the smallest things. I will lose my temper over internet access. I will throw things around my room. I will go to your class but I will not be silenced. You change the movie time on me and I will cancel the plans.
There is an old anger that is coming to light. An anger that only knows darkness. An anger that will not accept anyone, anything. So I feel best when I’m in solitude. Because I will push you to the edge.
I’m not silent anymore and it’s about to hurt everyone I know. So I chose solitude. I chose to let it hurt me instead.
I’m not sure I’m going to make it.
I just want to know You’ll be there when everyone walks away. I just want to know You’ll be there, even if I don’t believe every word they say. I just want to know You’ll stay with me, in the night, when I’m afraid. If I curse Your name. If I scream and cry and yell. I just want to know You’ll hold my hand in the fog, in the loneliness.
I just want to know that Your love is unconditional despite all the conditions I’ve been a slave to here. I just want to know that You’ll love me anyways.
How can I know. How can I feel. All emotion has been thrown away and shoved in my face. Don’t shove it in my face. Please, don’t shove it in my face. Tell me it’s okay to act this way—to shout and scream and cry and yell. Instead of study and analyze and interpret and translate.
I’m done with not feeling. Not caring. And I’m tired of knowing all about God, this majestic being. I want to know about the lover of my soul, instead. About the man who cradles my heart and head to rest each night. About the soft whispers in my ear to stay strong. No. I don’t want to know Him. I want to FEEL Him. Pulse through my vanes, intoxicate every once of me until I slip off into a sweet slumber of peace. I want to feel Him. I don’t want to know Him anymore.
Knowing has turned me numb. I don’t want to know Him anymore.