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It’s time. It’s time to step forward, and to a certain extent, forget.

I struggled to tell Lynn in the car last night what I know is true. We are so similar. Does anything change? I am learning to listen, yet again. It needed to happen.

“Overbearing” + “Intense” + “Spastic” + “Mellow” + “Chill” + “Calm” + “Nurturing” + “Cool” + “Silly” + “Kind” = ? So be it.

Strangely calm, divinely blessed, often wrong; never forget. Where do we trace our roots? I tried to learn about my ancestry recently, taking to my mom. “I’m allowed to do this?!” Yes. If I was “born this way” I can be whatever I want. We hardly remember and we rarely teach, but there is an undeniable strength in knowing where you came from. John the Baptist only cried out, blessing God, after both his parents had agreed upon his name. “John” means “graced/blessed by God”. How much is in a name?

I can be so unsure all the live-long day, but what about my roots? Do they stay strong?

We talk about each flavor of nonsense so much, in its’ time. We unravel and disassemble to build bigger and greater, and I wonder what the world could be like slow. I want to be slow like that. I’ve got this enormous space of the rest of my life looking back at me, and if this love must be over, I will go slowly into the open arms of the future. Why not? I will say what I say as it all passes away; and does that make me ridiculous if I speak, knowing that all things end? I thought this would not end, and maybe I will live to see that untrue. But the discomfort in being unasked goes hand-in-hand with misunderstanding the point, and even if just saying so is wrong, I want better. It is not even a thing, still. Like a child, it feels like a stillborn heartbeat never brought to fruition, and I need to keep going. It’s a mystery to me, but the discomfort gets so big and the space so wide that the joy seems wasted and the truth denied. I guess I’ll keep walking then. May as well anyways. At least I’ll walk with a purpose.

“What is the point?” In that question, I see a purpose. It isn’t angry, or cynical, or shy, or maniacal. It just recognizes the question mark, and for me, struggles not to know. I have no idea. If I am happy here, why should I ever have more? My ideas are many but few. I just want to live a life I can be proud of.

Former classmates, treated like strangers. Former teachers, un-greeted. Former friends, like a ghost in your contacts list. And yet, former thoughts, aloft on the breeze. It isn’t a waste not to know, it’s just honesty? Where do I stand? Somewhere in the middle of not knowing. I know where I stand, but it doesn’t have a name.

I dream so much bigger awake. The dreams that last just do. I could do anything with my life, sure. But I don’t want to resist the waves of reality as the tide comes to shore. It should not be any different. It is. Why would I surrender to an unknowable knowing? I have such a better time alone, without my ego. I cannot possess the future. I will kiss it goodbye and see if it returns. The words that most haunt me haunt me during the day. Fragile, beautiful memories and the handprints they leave in the sand. If I’m flighty for moving on, would you spew that same venom if you felt it? Right. I’ll wear the crazy crown, and you can resume that duty as I leave. You’ll ask for it back anyways. It was just a photo-shoot; an artistic purpose in “portraying” the deranged. Your mouth will smirk and your eyes will leak. And you will tip the crown to me in a wordless goodbye. I will look back, watching. If you see a person you know, and say nothing, not greeting them, making impartial eye contact, do they become offended? You’ve simply seen one another. You stared at me, yes? Then you ought to say hello. But you do not, and you simply look back, your gaze unbroken, unflustered, but watching. I look down, somehow awkward. Will you not greet me, when you’ve forgotten my name? A little smile like a piece candy; that will be my gift to you. Ashamed, you look down and keep walking. It is your fault that we both cannot remember? I may recognize you, you and I both, but should we be so embarrassed to forget? Is living truly so painful that we must punish ourselves for merely participating? Is life such a bitter being to be around? An old school teacher, is she really so cruel? I don’t think so. I will find out.

The word we wear are a necklace of bones around our neck, it is mutually ours. See how we have conquered idiocy at the bone! See how we forgot and renamed reality, as we had always done so before? It is possible to transcend the words? It is possible to accept the bone necklace, and yet, greet the other elders, each passing before you with their own set of bones? I will tip my knowledge to you. You will return the gaze; the best curtsy we could imagine. So much and so little of jargon. Will we forget?

Oh dear God, I hope so. Let’s heap the words onto their own pine box into the ground. They burn on their own anyways, whenever we lift our eyes. Let’s light the whole thing on fire, allowing it to happen. We will call it “spontaneous combustion” because we do not hold the match. But we looked the other way, yes? The bonfire of dreams.

There must be some use, but it hasn’t arrived. Will it declare itself with gilded livery and purple? Or will it look more like the beggar child pick-pocket who steals on the street, always diminishing? They say the enemy steals. If it steals from the rich and gives to the poor, can we yet call it God? If he makes himself known differently to all, what is so offensive about not knowing? Trust? Being small. Oh, the classic common denominator, ego? Well then. The purpose has been defined.

“I don’t know what you are talking about”. Yes, that makes us both. Will you struggle to decode it, or will you listen? That is the aching question. It may be nobler to shoot your mouth off, Hamlet, but then again, y’all killed on another in an epic, dynastic bloodbath. So much for nobility. Was that the point?

Lord of the Flies in the rich and famous, just look at OJ Simpson. Can I say that now? My skin is still blonde.

Tell me again about Reality. It seems like such a warm and cozy place. It seems so cute and polite, like an English, blue-haired old lady. Would your Reality invite me in for tea? Did she make warm scones, with jam and clotted cream? That sounds lovely. And my realities are dead. I was 12 and they were all gone. I like to be adopted by other peoples’ realities. They make me scones. Just a holiday with an old English Reality. Did you blink?

It’s like knitting using your fingers, this writing. Let me substitute the word. Can I substitute the truth? I don’t know. Ask the politicians. Can I be cynical, and yet, not angry? I don’t know. I’d ask a dead man, but he doesn’t speak. For whatever reason, walking through a cemetery, I still feel less alone. It feels like the peace of having everything checked off your to-do list. Like breathing, and ironically, like Death. A set end. Let’s just see what happens. And yet the truth remains. Old friends, dead friends, sleeping friends, who lives will end. If I make it pretty, does it sting?

The sting vs. the beauty, will either win? No. They will be equally forgotten…

The question isn’t “Do you listen?” It’s “Are you capable of listening?”

Where do they need mothers? I don’t need my own…”

If I am nothing, then you can write me off for what I am. If I am everything, then you can write me off for what I am not.

Seed. Growth. Chain. Cause, and effect. We define our ancestors by what they are to us; they caused us to have the ability to exist; being. “Ancestor” defined: are we talking about lineage, worship, or monkeys? The point is, we owe some gratitude to others for existing, having lived in the past. Do we owe the same debt of gratitude to others, who allow us to exist currently? To farmers? To the men and women and children who make our toothpaste and clothes? They too are pursuing their dreams and goals, in generating enough money to rise into middle class, and provide for their children. Does it matter whose children are provided for? No. So long as they are ours…start over.

Should we have the right to hide things, to keep some things private? I think the better question is whether or not we can.

When two people talk, and the second person agrees with the first, saying “That’s what I meant!”; does the first person deny it? Well then, who is the idiot? If you cannot allow the possibility that you could be equal, but also, equally wrong, and that if another person agrees with you, you are simply right, you are not better, then haven’t you become an idiot? If you education is a joke and your words are a weapon, doesn’t that make you a fool?

Where are all the chill people in the midst of cultural upheavals? They’re probably waiting for the world to collectively figure it out, and enjoying their lives in the process.

The urge to “stay out of it” is only cowardice when most people hold the same opinion on the stakes of not getting involved.

I think that it must be such a blessing to take a vow of silence. You can wordlessly communicate, and simply appreciate life. The only people who would not value a celibate life and a question-less mind are those who are so uncomfortable imagining otherwise that they seek to condemn it.

Jesus wasn’t a people pleaser. He just pissed off the right people, in order that he might choose to die. Put that in your social etiquette pipe and smoke it.

Travel is the pursuit of “What else”?

Is a question a question if the speaker expects no answer?

If people understand each other through attraction, then are we attracted to people who think like us so that we can produce similar thinking offspring, and thus, maintain our means of thought?

A father just took his little daughter to the window, and pointed out how beautiful it was, to stare at the park they played at, through the glass near where I am sitting. He is teaching her to value little, beautiful things. I think I could sit in the happiness of that moment for the rest of the day.


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I am a teacher-to-be who loves people. I am not afraid of many things. I like to explain my thoughts logically on a very birds-eye view level--I was born thinking that way. I follow Jesus Christ, and I accept only that label to describe my identity--that I am a child of God, as are infinite others, regardless of their other identities. Christ is my one thing.

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