|
|
My hands drift softly over the
keyboard and sing their siren song, a sweep whisper which lulls me to wakefulness,
holding my eyes open as if with sharp-nailed fingers. My eyes burn softly, a familiar sensation,
and I measure my breathing to keep from waking my roommate on the other side of
the room. I miss this, this ability to
close my eyes and just let my fingers flow outward, effortlessly weaving a
tapestry of words. Sometimes I wonder
why I stopped writing, and I think it was hubris. I lost myself in my eyes, and I lost sight of
the rest of me, of the rest of the world as I stared like Narcissus into soft
orbs of dark brown which glowed of their own accord, entrancing me. But this time I need to close my eyes. This time around, I need to see.
That was something that came to me
the other day, which I have been meaning to put into words so that I could
share it. I was in church, and the
pastor began praying. Of course, the
entire congregation closed their eyes, closed themselves off to the outside
world, lulled into a sense of religious passion by the low lights and soft
music and warm lullaby of Mark’s voice.
They closed their eyes, and I left mine open. Or, maybe I closed them and then opened them
back up. I guess that I’m less susceptible
to low lights and soft music, or maybe I’m just more jaded. The reason doesn’t matter, but my thoughts
do.
I looked around, and I whispered in
my mind, “All these people, sitting around with their eyes closed, staring into
darkness, blind to the world around them.
They are closed off and unseeing, and here I sit, observing them. Here I sit, seeing when they are blind.” And, yet, something didn’t feel right. The contrary point wiggled into my head. “But they do see, dear friend,” it cooed
gently and lovingly. “They see something
that you don’t, something so beautiful, and it’s right there, on the backs of
their eyelids. Close your eyes, child,
and see if you can see it, too, on the back of your own eyelids.” And I did.
And I did.
You see, that’s why we close our
eyes, I realised. When we pray, we close
out the world, and there, in the darkness, we see so much light, so much
beauty. It’s like fireworks on our
eyelids and in our hearts, warming us and keeping us warm, and in those
moments, we know that only from Him can peace come, can grace come, can love
truly come. Speaking of those abstracts,
I should speak of another matter which has been often on my heart as of late. There is a man, his name is John or JK, and I
want anyone who reads this to pray for him.
He is a college evangelist, and I have seen him here at FSU a number of
times since the beginning of the academic year last semester. He was my first encounter with such people,
and I saw him again today.
The thing about John is that he is
an honest man, a good man, a Godly man.
I need only look into his eyes to see a peculiar light, which I know to
be the light of God within him, and it confuses me, I guess. This man is very kind and warm when you are a
Christian and are kind to him, but when he is surrounded by a crowd of what he
sees as heathen enemies, he becomes dark and angry, screaming at them about God’s
hatred. It is not that he is wrong; God
will condemn those who abuse the gift that is their life and do not wholly and
truly repent. However, his message
should be that of James in 1 James, that God is love, and that we, as
Christians, are love. He claimed that
Christ’s message was to love merely other Christians, which, so far as I can
tell through textual parallels, is not the case, and yet how can I show these
parallels to this man who will not listen?
And, yet, how can I not rise up against him, who is, in some ways, a
friend? He is mislead, I believe, but he
wishes to do right. And, furthermore, he
will not listen, so what am I to do?
I know what Christ tells me. I am to love him and to pray for him and to
teach him if I can. And I do, and I
am. Perhaps I was led to this man for a
reason; perhaps I can show him the side of God that is love so that I may
temper him. Perhaps many things will
happen, but I must be driven to movement first.
And, thus, pray for me, too. Pray
that I may be the Lord’s instrument in Guatemala, that I may dig out the
infection like a sharp-bladed scalpel guided by the skilled hand of a
physician, or, in this case, a Physician.
Funny how we capitalise regular words when they apply to God, eh? Well, at least I think it’s funny.
I love any who reads this. I don’t care who they are. I pray to the Lord that He may show me my
path.
| | |
| Break the power,
break free,
silver shackles falling
open—
case closed—
dive deep,
deep blue,
into a deep,
deep blue,
into a sea—
I’m always so alone,
even when,
oh God—
blue like the sky,
into a sea,
a sea of stars,
but they burn
so
bright,
but they burn
me,
but they
bright,
but
me
alone.
Fight the power,
fight the freedom,
freedom of abuse,
black shackles binding
closed—
case open—
fall back,
and sigh,
onto Grey Street,
the colours,
the
gray colours,
gray
hair,
falling down,
stones from the sky—
these stones are
perfect
for skipping,
ripple in still water,
still skies—
it fades
to,
it fades,
it,
gray.
Stop the power,
stop abuse,
abuse of weeping,
of falling,
of,
of,
of—
I can’t,
I can’t—
deep gray
dark,
skipping,
twinkling—
your eyes were like
the stars
light,
stars
bright,
the first stars I see
tonight,
all
of
you,
and—
O death,
where is thy sting:
life alone
among
the dimming stars
burn me,
a sea,
deep Grey,
blue Street,
shackles of the
purest—
colours fade to,
fade to,
colours to,
colours,
blue
(or gray?)—
the power
always
wins. | | |
| Patron saint, are we all lost like you? | | |
| Morality and ethics are full of the word “should.” Moral philosophers and ethicists are very fond of saying what people “should” do. Many will claim that what is right is what happens, and thus what “should” happen is what does happen, meaning that the exploitation of the weak is correct because it is an inescapable fact of life. However, very few people would actually agree with the thought that it is right for their neighbour to pass them by when they lie beaten on the side of the road. It is very easy to remove oneself from a situation and shrug one’s shoulders at the sad goings-on in the world, and it is even easier to say that nothing should be attempted because it will never work. Yet, everyone who says this is correct; the world will never change. The recent degradation of the human moral code is nonexistent because the human moral code has been degraded from the start. However, to simply accept the inevitability of failure is to give in to that degradation. We have something greater in us than just the moral corruption which is so visible. We are something so much greater than that. It is our task as human beings to always, always strive for that something greater even when it is as impossible to reach as the flickering stars.
God, guide us. Lead us. We need You here; we need You now. As this nation weeps, set the stars in our tears so that we may shine and glimmer as You meant us to. Purify us and make us holy. Make us truly instruments of Your peace. We are Yours. | | |
| Why can't I sleep? I need to sleep. I want to sleep. In fact, I'm even able to sleep. But something inside me is restless.
What's new?
I can't sit still. My legs get a'movin', and my head gets a'bobbin', and suddenly I'm screaming Anberlin in my head as tears slam their bodies against my eyes. But they never fall. I walk at a hundred miles an hour, while all the peons around me stumble along at two miles an hour. I've gone, passed them. They look at me and forget me. A child moves slowly past me, and I catch his eye. He stares at me as I pass, his head turning to keep the eye contact. His face is afraid and curious, full of awe and horror. His mother obliviously looks at the shop displays. An adult catches my eye, drops his gaze. Only the children bear to look me in the eye. Only they can keep it up. What do they see when they look into these empty sockets?
Disgust? Hatred?
God only knows.
I'm just TIRED, but I can't SLEEP. Or, actually that's not true. I'm fully able to sleep. Always always ALWAYS able to sleep. I want out. I want my eyes to close. But I don't sleep. I can and want to, but I don't.
Why?
God only knows.
Why do I feel like crying every time I see people? Every time I see them carrying out their petty little lives, unaware of the unending futility of their existence. Their existence and mine, too. There's just one difference.
I know about it.
THAT is what I realised a year ago, I think. I am a spectator. I'm watching this damned country fall to pieces around me, but I can't do a damn thing about it. I could try. Try try try until I die. Oh, the poet within me cries to escape. Not tonight, buddy. Tonight is prose night. Tonight is the night for darkness. The night for darkness. Listen to me. What the heck does that even MEAN? Man, that's what this is. The ramblings of a depressed teenager.
Well, kids, what shall we do? Can we change the world? Honestly, I'm tired of trying.
But I can't sleep. So, what now? I'm tired, but I won't sleep.
Well, I guess that just leaves me one choice. G'night, kiddies. Look for me in the philanthropy section of the encyclopedia. Yeah, the section that's never written. Look there. You'll see an old picture that was never taken surround by outdated words that were never written. Look there. Maybe you'll see yourself one day, too.
Sleep well. I'm guarding your bed tonight. | | |
|
