my daily description of what it is like to ride through life with the windows down
what i didn’t learn in youth group
I learned a lot at that little church turned giant. I had some good teachers and I learned some good lessons.
No one ever told me, however, how tricky doing the right thing is. That thin line is blurred so badly that it’s almost invisible. In some places there isn’t even a line anymore. The right and wrong things overlap each other and you can’t just choose a side, you have to navigate the field like it’s full of land mines. Sometimes in order to win the war, you just have to take the best possible route even if it means going through enemy territory. It’s all one fantastic mess out here.
Love is literally the only fail-safe. I think if you break a rule in order to love someone more, you’ve made the right move.
Love is often good because it is the lesser of two evils.
the spearmint sting
of brushing my teeth
after the day’s last drag.
The burn of a painful
My mind has been an absolute train wreck for the past few weeks.
Not a regular car wreck, but a train wreck.
My mind knows exactly which tracks to follow. My mind is attached to those tracks. Yet my mind is always trying to be free.
Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.
Yes. Yes yes yes. - Henry Miller, Sexus (via liquidnight)
I have an old friend (not old as in aged, old as in she’s been around my life for quite a while) who really thinks I’m cool. I mean really thinks that I hung the moon. Thinks I have life by the horns. Thinks that every cliche meaning- “man, she’s got her shit together” -is true about me.
I’ve told her a million times that those things are not necessarily true. Instead of me grabbing life by the horns, I think life has grabbed me by the (metaphorical) balls. She thinks I am invincible and courageous and strong and powerful and wise. And sometimes she reads my journal and is confused by the person writing in it because, as she sees it, that is not me.
I’m not really sure who is more correct. Maybe I’m just a wuss who puts on a brave face, but is actually an insecure weeping little girl. Or maybe I’m a lioness who feigns weakness in order to surprise her victims.
Maybe she can’t really see the coward in me because she has a veil over her eyes that makes me look strong.
Or maybe I can’t really see the viking in me because I mistakenly convince myself I’m not one.
It takes a silly kind of confidence for one to admit he is a fool or a child. Not the same kind that it takes to grow up or wise up. Unless it is used as the first step to that process. But oftentimes in the however-many-step-to-recovery system; we spend far too long admitting, almost gleefully, that we have a problem. In fact, more often than not, that admission once repeated becomes more of a mantra than a muttered mistake. We start to find comfort in the confession of our dirty deeds. We begin to take pride in the acknowledgment of our flawed identity. We cease to change and we accept our shortcomings, claiming eventually that this is just who we are.
I am a selfish writer in that what I write for others usually ends up being for myself. This prose is my for instance.
war and peace, to be quite trite
Sometimes I feel like the things I need to say are too big to write down. Like a pen can’t really capture a thought; like a sentence can’t really say what I feel.
And then I remember these silly little words are all I have.
My mind has been tangled up in war recently. I have this inner struggle between being repulsed by war and being in love with soldiers. Peace is the thing my soul cries out for, while my mind is aware that war will never end. I hate that war exists, but I love that there are soldiers who fight in my place.
“And even if the wars didn’t keep coming like glaciers, there would still be plain old death.” K.V. Slaughter-house 5
I should probably just go to bed. As an old fool I used to know once said, “The only kind of thinking people do this late at night is stinkin’ thinkin’.”