Tonight, instead of observing and complaining and ranting, I shall merely sit and listen.
My window is open and the wind is whispering lovely things to the leaves who whisper back.
Are they sharing secrets?
Singing songs?
Telling stories?
I do not know.
It is a blustery night.
21.10.09
and oh, I do remember.
Memories are the records of guilt, happiness, and sorrow, the things which we often wish we need not bear. They haunt and they prod.
Even the best of memories haunt me, taunting me, reminding me of all I cannot have, of what was taken from me. But yet they remind me to smile, and make me hope for those days again.
They give me a smile when I feel as if I never could.
And they make me miss days long past.
Sigh.
Even the best of memories haunt me, taunting me, reminding me of all I cannot have, of what was taken from me. But yet they remind me to smile, and make me hope for those days again.
They give me a smile when I feel as if I never could.
And they make me miss days long past.
Sigh.
19.10.09
Like I said, I spend a lot of my time thinking like Elizabeth Bennett.
For months I’ve been criticizing these two people from afar, pointing out their egos to anyone who might listen, finding their faults with perfect accuracy.
Until tonight.
Tonight, I saw them humble. I saw them from afar, their egos nowhere in sight. Now the only one visible is mine. And it hurts. My pride. My stupid pride. And I wonder: if I had never seen them this way, would I change at all? Would my view of them soften because of a heart that has learned to love? It hurts even more to know that no, it wouldn’t.
I need more love. More compassion. I pray that I’ll have it, but not near enough.
But they can’t know. I can’t tell them. That would be weird, that would be odd. You see, I’ve actually spoken to only one of them. Twice. Maybe three times. And I think, “Who am I to encourage you, to thank you for humbling me? I hardly know you.”
Oh wait.
There’s my pride again, fearing for my reputation. Fearing the ruin I do not seek.
Ow. Humility hurts.
I am so sorry.
I said so anyway… But I don’t think it will ever matter. Unless…
For months I’ve been criticizing these two people from afar, pointing out their egos to anyone who might listen, finding their faults with perfect accuracy.
Until tonight.
Tonight, I saw them humble. I saw them from afar, their egos nowhere in sight. Now the only one visible is mine. And it hurts. My pride. My stupid pride. And I wonder: if I had never seen them this way, would I change at all? Would my view of them soften because of a heart that has learned to love? It hurts even more to know that no, it wouldn’t.
I need more love. More compassion. I pray that I’ll have it, but not near enough.
But they can’t know. I can’t tell them. That would be weird, that would be odd. You see, I’ve actually spoken to only one of them. Twice. Maybe three times. And I think, “Who am I to encourage you, to thank you for humbling me? I hardly know you.”
Oh wait.
There’s my pride again, fearing for my reputation. Fearing the ruin I do not seek.
Ow. Humility hurts.
I am so sorry.
I said so anyway… But I don’t think it will ever matter. Unless…
17.10.09
and I'll remember you when the world forgets your name
A friend of a friend is a POW.
He’s currently behind held somewhere in the Middle East.
He’s been there since July, and the months have been passing too quickly. His name? PFC Bowe Bergdahl. I check their blog every day, hoping for news of a young man I never knew, and probably never will. But he deserves to come home. He’s a soldier who is willing to give his life for his country.
Bill Clinton worked to save two journalists only months ago. I’m not about to discuss politics—this isn’t the place and I don’t have enough patience. But what about the soldier who left all he knew to serve his country? What about him?
Is anyone looking for him? Is anyone working to rescue him, save him from a certain death? And what hurts is that I know that if he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon. That’s how terrorists operate.
In my heart, I know that the Army is looking for him. I know that because despite the wrong things the military and government may be guilty of, one thing remains: no man is left behind. I feel like it is just so unfair that someone with such apparently great power would stop with two journalists. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad they were saved. I just hope that someone is looking for this young man too.
And I pray that when they do, it won’t be too late.
He’s currently behind held somewhere in the Middle East.
He’s been there since July, and the months have been passing too quickly. His name? PFC Bowe Bergdahl. I check their blog every day, hoping for news of a young man I never knew, and probably never will. But he deserves to come home. He’s a soldier who is willing to give his life for his country.
Bill Clinton worked to save two journalists only months ago. I’m not about to discuss politics—this isn’t the place and I don’t have enough patience. But what about the soldier who left all he knew to serve his country? What about him?
Is anyone looking for him? Is anyone working to rescue him, save him from a certain death? And what hurts is that I know that if he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon. That’s how terrorists operate.
In my heart, I know that the Army is looking for him. I know that because despite the wrong things the military and government may be guilty of, one thing remains: no man is left behind. I feel like it is just so unfair that someone with such apparently great power would stop with two journalists. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad they were saved. I just hope that someone is looking for this young man too.
And I pray that when they do, it won’t be too late.
16.10.09
Sometimes I wonder if I’m heartless.
I go about and I hear the stories of heartbreak and tears—the girl whose boyfriend broke up with her, the man whose wife left him, the child who ran away just to be free. The world apologizes and cries for these people without caring about the details, all which spell out the truth.
The girl never left her boyfriend alone, calling every ten minutes, crying when he didn’t reply to her text within five seconds.
The man cheated on his wife—just once, of course, and he didn’t mean to.
The child was rebellious towards his parents who asked no more of him than to do his chores and go to school.
But it’s never the details that matter. Why shouldn’t we feel sorry for them, the ask? They are victims, they say.
I don’t see it that way. I don’t feel sorry for people who get themselves into trouble and don’t even feel sorry for their own actions that got them there. A mistake is one thing; and arrogant heart is another.
It’s not only the dramatic tales I turn a cold heart toward. It’s the people I know who cry out for attention through their actions, the people who dress a certain way to gain popularity, the people who cling and who leech upon the arms of others. Anyone and everyone. I don’t even find dogs cute, or at least not most. I put my dog outside and while others nearly mourn for her suffering,
I see that she is a dog, that will be alright for an hour on her own. I can seem to find fault in an instant, and it kills me because this is not who I ever wanted to be.
I see it in my mother. I must have learned it from her, aside from the fact that it’s likely my own sin nature.
I know she learned it from her mother too, but not because her mother was the same way. Her mother… She’s a nut job.
But that’s a story for another time.
I go about and I hear the stories of heartbreak and tears—the girl whose boyfriend broke up with her, the man whose wife left him, the child who ran away just to be free. The world apologizes and cries for these people without caring about the details, all which spell out the truth.
The girl never left her boyfriend alone, calling every ten minutes, crying when he didn’t reply to her text within five seconds.
The man cheated on his wife—just once, of course, and he didn’t mean to.
The child was rebellious towards his parents who asked no more of him than to do his chores and go to school.
But it’s never the details that matter. Why shouldn’t we feel sorry for them, the ask? They are victims, they say.
I don’t see it that way. I don’t feel sorry for people who get themselves into trouble and don’t even feel sorry for their own actions that got them there. A mistake is one thing; and arrogant heart is another.
It’s not only the dramatic tales I turn a cold heart toward. It’s the people I know who cry out for attention through their actions, the people who dress a certain way to gain popularity, the people who cling and who leech upon the arms of others. Anyone and everyone. I don’t even find dogs cute, or at least not most. I put my dog outside and while others nearly mourn for her suffering,
I see that she is a dog, that will be alright for an hour on her own. I can seem to find fault in an instant, and it kills me because this is not who I ever wanted to be.
I see it in my mother. I must have learned it from her, aside from the fact that it’s likely my own sin nature.
I know she learned it from her mother too, but not because her mother was the same way. Her mother… She’s a nut job.
But that’s a story for another time.
14.10.09
and why are we so?
It continually amazes me to find that grown adults can act like such children, whining, complaining, obsessing in anger over silly things like a TV show.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’m cool with different opinions, proper debates, and heck, even obsessing over a TV show.
But when you’re calling people names, whining about how the producers aren’t listening to you but are instead running the show the way they want and also for the masses, which happens to not be you? Come on. Really?
The Internet is a strange place. We go about our lives acting in submission to etiquette and propriety, at least to some degree, manners held high in order to avoid offense. But on the Internet, beneath a cloak of anonymity and delayed responses, we can say whatever we like, do whatever we want. This is when the curtain is drawn, and despite the anonymous disguise, the truth is revealed and who we are is displayed.
The Internet may not be the real world, but it’s as real as it can get. We are untouchable, hidden from view, and we are who we are. It’s where a geek becomes an authority figure. It’s where the sweetest person you know turns into a jerk.
Exposed is one’s priorities, desires, and mind to those who never asked for it, but instead must deal with the anarchy of an unreal world.
The Internet is far too strange.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’m cool with different opinions, proper debates, and heck, even obsessing over a TV show.
But when you’re calling people names, whining about how the producers aren’t listening to you but are instead running the show the way they want and also for the masses, which happens to not be you? Come on. Really?
The Internet is a strange place. We go about our lives acting in submission to etiquette and propriety, at least to some degree, manners held high in order to avoid offense. But on the Internet, beneath a cloak of anonymity and delayed responses, we can say whatever we like, do whatever we want. This is when the curtain is drawn, and despite the anonymous disguise, the truth is revealed and who we are is displayed.
The Internet may not be the real world, but it’s as real as it can get. We are untouchable, hidden from view, and we are who we are. It’s where a geek becomes an authority figure. It’s where the sweetest person you know turns into a jerk.
Exposed is one’s priorities, desires, and mind to those who never asked for it, but instead must deal with the anarchy of an unreal world.
The Internet is far too strange.
13.10.09
and this thing, oh, it is strange
A long time ago, someone I admired said, “No compromises, no regrets.” And throughout my life, I’ve seen this adage come to life in the most negative manner.
I always see it backwards. It’s like, I’m on a bicycle and I’m riding, I’m riding, and I see it coming. But I’m focusing on how good it feels to have the wind in my face, my hair floating behind me, freedom at my fingertips, I know it’s there, the warning I should heed, and I pass right by it, only to crash into a brick wall. Compromising never has a good ending.
And yet, I still do it. I still say the words I shouldn’t, read what I shouldn’t thinking what I shouldn’t, do what I shouldn’t. Time and time again, it gets me into trouble. It’s inevitable, but nonetheless, I pay attention.
Pride.
That’s what it is.
And I see it in the lives of others too. Do they not realize the compromises they make will affect others? Do they not see it could change their lives, turn them upside down, and toss their dreams out the window? Are we so foolishly ignorant?
Perhaps we are.
No compromises, no regrets.
I always see it backwards. It’s like, I’m on a bicycle and I’m riding, I’m riding, and I see it coming. But I’m focusing on how good it feels to have the wind in my face, my hair floating behind me, freedom at my fingertips, I know it’s there, the warning I should heed, and I pass right by it, only to crash into a brick wall. Compromising never has a good ending.
And yet, I still do it. I still say the words I shouldn’t, read what I shouldn’t thinking what I shouldn’t, do what I shouldn’t. Time and time again, it gets me into trouble. It’s inevitable, but nonetheless, I pay attention.
Pride.
That’s what it is.
And I see it in the lives of others too. Do they not realize the compromises they make will affect others? Do they not see it could change their lives, turn them upside down, and toss their dreams out the window? Are we so foolishly ignorant?
Perhaps we are.
No compromises, no regrets.
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