I have found lately that I talk an awful lot.
I was at art night last night with some friends and some new friends, and afterward I realized that I had said a whole lot.
When I'm getting to know people, Christians specifically, I find that I speak in great lengths about grand things. Things that have happened in my life, Christian things specifically. I find I don't mind sharing my past, what I have gone through, the cool things I have done and stuff like that.
I also seem to have no problem spouting "Christian" wisdom, or the equivalent of what could pass as such, and at the very least, my opinion in the form of what's wrong with our world.
I have no problem "sounding" wise or pretending that I'm smarter than I actually am. I have no issue with being passionate about social ills of the world, the United States, and formulating solutions that would CLEARLY fix ALL the problems on the planet.
Why do I do that?
When all is said and done, do I really live up to my smack talk?
Or if you prefer "Christian-ease", do I "Walk The Talk?"
I'm not so sure. I know what I am in my head, I know the sins I still struggle with and I know the "BS" that I spout. Not that I do it on purpose, I fully believe the things that I say and what I am passionate about. But I wonder, is it just me, or does everyone feel the same way? Does everyone come off of a conversation feeling like they've just attempted to "BS" their way into heaven?
The Bible tells us at the end of time, that we will give an account for "EVERY idle word." We will have to explain to God everything we meant when we said what we said. How discomforting.
I understand why God speaks in a still small voice, and when I get so loud I run the risk of drowning Him out. Maybe I should be less concerned with sounding good and just let my actions scream.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
A choice
I was sitting in the drive through teller at my bank this afternoon. As she counted the multiple dollar bills I had just given her, (don't get the wrong idea, they were just tips from painting at the zoo the past weekend) a random man with a backpack came wandering up to the drive through and started talking to the lady inside.
I couldn't quite understand what he was asking, but the look on the teller's face was very, well, telling.
She kind of rolled her eyes and smirked. I can only imagine what my face was saying, because she shortly told me, "He wants you to cash his check."
I looked over at the man, who kept mumbling something over and over. Finally I heard him say it, "I'm homeless. They won't cash my check at Publix, and I need the money for the bus."
As the thoughts began racing through my head, I knew that I was faced with a choice. I could cash his check for him, and give him the money, but if the check came back, I would be faced with a $25 fee.
The teller explained this to the man, and the man quickly protested "It won't come back! It's a money order! My dad sent it to me! I have a letter. . ."
The man continued to babble on, as I knew that shortly the teller would be done with my transaction and I'd drive away, to leave this man cashless.
I rolled down my window and asked him to see the money order. "I'll give you two dollars to cash it. I'm homeless. I need the money to get to where I'm staying tonight."
I looked at the money order in my hands. It was only made out for $20. Less then my check bounce fee.
I didn't even have the time to pray about it. I just had to make a decision.
"I'll cash his check." I said to the teller, who looked a little incredulous.
As she finished the transaction, I looked at the man and told him, "You don't have to pay me two dollars. I'm doing this because I believe in Jesus and I know He loves you."
What a stupid thing to say. Seriously, I couldn't come up with something better? I'm horrible at sharing the gospel.
Nevertheless, the man told me he believed in Jesus too. I couldn't really think of anything else to say.
"I just need the money to get to my church. I owe them $15. Thank you so much."
I grabbed the wad of dollar bills on my passenger seat that I had reserved for myself from the tips. I gave it to the man and told him that I wanted him to pay his church back. Then I suddenly felt very convicted, because if I had acted earlier, I could have given him more cash.
The teller gave me my deposit slips and that was that. I told the man, "God Bless you," to which he returned.
I drove off feeling like I wished I could do more. Why is it never enough?
I couldn't quite understand what he was asking, but the look on the teller's face was very, well, telling.
She kind of rolled her eyes and smirked. I can only imagine what my face was saying, because she shortly told me, "He wants you to cash his check."
I looked over at the man, who kept mumbling something over and over. Finally I heard him say it, "I'm homeless. They won't cash my check at Publix, and I need the money for the bus."
As the thoughts began racing through my head, I knew that I was faced with a choice. I could cash his check for him, and give him the money, but if the check came back, I would be faced with a $25 fee.
The teller explained this to the man, and the man quickly protested "It won't come back! It's a money order! My dad sent it to me! I have a letter. . ."
The man continued to babble on, as I knew that shortly the teller would be done with my transaction and I'd drive away, to leave this man cashless.
I rolled down my window and asked him to see the money order. "I'll give you two dollars to cash it. I'm homeless. I need the money to get to where I'm staying tonight."
I looked at the money order in my hands. It was only made out for $20. Less then my check bounce fee.
I didn't even have the time to pray about it. I just had to make a decision.
"I'll cash his check." I said to the teller, who looked a little incredulous.
As she finished the transaction, I looked at the man and told him, "You don't have to pay me two dollars. I'm doing this because I believe in Jesus and I know He loves you."
What a stupid thing to say. Seriously, I couldn't come up with something better? I'm horrible at sharing the gospel.
Nevertheless, the man told me he believed in Jesus too. I couldn't really think of anything else to say.
"I just need the money to get to my church. I owe them $15. Thank you so much."
I grabbed the wad of dollar bills on my passenger seat that I had reserved for myself from the tips. I gave it to the man and told him that I wanted him to pay his church back. Then I suddenly felt very convicted, because if I had acted earlier, I could have given him more cash.
The teller gave me my deposit slips and that was that. I told the man, "God Bless you," to which he returned.
I drove off feeling like I wished I could do more. Why is it never enough?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Art is not a crime.
But repressing it very well may be.
Someone told me recently I should write more because they love reading my blogs. I didn't realize I was being followed. But anyway.
So I recently had someone ask me to do a painting. Not too unusual, at least lately. I have people who want me to do art for them all the time. Shortly after someone discovers my hidden talent, they immediately push me to "un-hide" it by asking me to draw or paint them something. I usually have a hard time saying no, and I've recently discovered (consequently, by the person who also told me they love my writings,) that I, and I quote, "I am valuable."
As I sit and ponder that, almost as if to re-assure this point in my brain, someone calls me and asks me if I'd be able to do a speed painting. Wishing I could charge an amount equal to the value I feel, I probably won't, simply because I hate asking for money.
I'm slowly getting to the point, so please hang in there. Streams of thoughts happen so much faster when they're being thought, you know?
Anyway, so I'm considering what I should paint for this event, and I wonder, what is it that makes my art valuable? Or anyone's art, for that matter? Some people would argue that it is the demand of that artwork. Picasso's paintings were worth OH SO MUCH more after he died.
However comforting that may be to artists out there, knowing their art will be more appreciated after they're gone, I'd argue that the value of the art is directionally proportionate to the story behind it.
Take this painting: "Fighting the Tide"
To those people who don't know the story behind it, it kinda just looks like a guy standing over a girl with waves splashing all around him. But to me, the artist, it represents so much more. It tells a story, about how the guy is Jesus, and the girl is me, and it is apparent that Jesus is standing over me, protecting me from the rushing water that was meant to crush me.
For people who have experienced a feeling like this in their lives, I would say that this painting might be more valuable to them then someone who has never had this experience.
So along those lines, I was wondering, how many stories are out there? How many artists are repressing their feelings because they are afraid that they aren't good enough to express their experiences in art?
Art is deep rooted in passion and experience, after all. When I paint, I literally pour myself out onto the canvas, which is why an art critique can NEVER tell me what that painting is worth, because he will NEVER know.
I remember many paintings that have stemmed from anger rage and pain. I know how many times I've painted rather than hurt myself. If I had chosen not to paint, to express my feelings, could something worse have happened? What if I had bottled all that rage and pain inside rather than reveal it to the world? I suspect that it possibly could have bubbled over into something more foul. I've had people tell me that my artwork is dark. I admit, yes. Some of my art is scary. Even for me. And some of my art is bloody. How much darker a person would I be if I had chosen not to paint those paintings?
And so here is my point. Art is not a crime. But if I were to have repressed those passions, would I have committed a crime? Maybe not something illegal per se, but a crime against God? A Sin against myself or another human?
I can tell you honestly, that I most certainly know the answer to that. Because the answer is yes. The times I have repressed my feelings and my urge to paint therein, I have committed a sin, whether it was against myself or someone else.
So, I guess, when I'm asked at the event that I'll be speed painting at what inspires me, I'll have to tell them the truth. The truth is that art is inside each of us, regardless of what form it takes. Some of us can look at the world and see how beautiful it is, and capture that with a photograph. Some of us make up lyrics in our heads that make us feel better, and turn it into a song. Some of us can feel the rhythm of the world at large and turn it into music. And some of us can put our feelings into color and produce a painting.
Whatever the art is, feel it. Express it. Because not doing so may be a crime.
Someone told me recently I should write more because they love reading my blogs. I didn't realize I was being followed. But anyway.
So I recently had someone ask me to do a painting. Not too unusual, at least lately. I have people who want me to do art for them all the time. Shortly after someone discovers my hidden talent, they immediately push me to "un-hide" it by asking me to draw or paint them something. I usually have a hard time saying no, and I've recently discovered (consequently, by the person who also told me they love my writings,) that I, and I quote, "I am valuable."
As I sit and ponder that, almost as if to re-assure this point in my brain, someone calls me and asks me if I'd be able to do a speed painting. Wishing I could charge an amount equal to the value I feel, I probably won't, simply because I hate asking for money.
I'm slowly getting to the point, so please hang in there. Streams of thoughts happen so much faster when they're being thought, you know?
Anyway, so I'm considering what I should paint for this event, and I wonder, what is it that makes my art valuable? Or anyone's art, for that matter? Some people would argue that it is the demand of that artwork. Picasso's paintings were worth OH SO MUCH more after he died.
However comforting that may be to artists out there, knowing their art will be more appreciated after they're gone, I'd argue that the value of the art is directionally proportionate to the story behind it.
Take this painting: "Fighting the Tide"
To those people who don't know the story behind it, it kinda just looks like a guy standing over a girl with waves splashing all around him. But to me, the artist, it represents so much more. It tells a story, about how the guy is Jesus, and the girl is me, and it is apparent that Jesus is standing over me, protecting me from the rushing water that was meant to crush me.
For people who have experienced a feeling like this in their lives, I would say that this painting might be more valuable to them then someone who has never had this experience.
So along those lines, I was wondering, how many stories are out there? How many artists are repressing their feelings because they are afraid that they aren't good enough to express their experiences in art?
Art is deep rooted in passion and experience, after all. When I paint, I literally pour myself out onto the canvas, which is why an art critique can NEVER tell me what that painting is worth, because he will NEVER know.
I remember many paintings that have stemmed from anger rage and pain. I know how many times I've painted rather than hurt myself. If I had chosen not to paint, to express my feelings, could something worse have happened? What if I had bottled all that rage and pain inside rather than reveal it to the world? I suspect that it possibly could have bubbled over into something more foul. I've had people tell me that my artwork is dark. I admit, yes. Some of my art is scary. Even for me. And some of my art is bloody. How much darker a person would I be if I had chosen not to paint those paintings?
And so here is my point. Art is not a crime. But if I were to have repressed those passions, would I have committed a crime? Maybe not something illegal per se, but a crime against God? A Sin against myself or another human?
I can tell you honestly, that I most certainly know the answer to that. Because the answer is yes. The times I have repressed my feelings and my urge to paint therein, I have committed a sin, whether it was against myself or someone else.
So, I guess, when I'm asked at the event that I'll be speed painting at what inspires me, I'll have to tell them the truth. The truth is that art is inside each of us, regardless of what form it takes. Some of us can look at the world and see how beautiful it is, and capture that with a photograph. Some of us make up lyrics in our heads that make us feel better, and turn it into a song. Some of us can feel the rhythm of the world at large and turn it into music. And some of us can put our feelings into color and produce a painting.
Whatever the art is, feel it. Express it. Because not doing so may be a crime.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Ant and The Grasshopper
My Dad sent me this in an email, and though I am usually slow to push a political email, I lol'ed at this one. I thought it was very interesting.
Two Different Versions! Two
Different Morals!
OLD VERSION: The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer
long, building his house and laying up supplies for the winter.
The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances
and plays the summer away.
Come winter, the ant is warm and well fed.
The grasshopper has no food or shelter, so he dies out in the
cold.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Be responsible for yourself!
________________________________
MODERN VERSION:
The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer long,
building his house and laying up supplies for the winter.
The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances
and plays the summer away.
Come winter, the shivering grasshopper calls a press conference
and demands to know why the ant should be allowed to be warm and well
fed while others are cold and starving.
CBS, NBC , PBS, CNN, and ABC show up to provide pictures of the
shivering grasshopper next to a video of the ant in his comfortable home
with a table filled with food. America is stunned by the sharp contrast.
How can this be, that in a country of such wealth, this poor grasshopper is allowed to suffer so?
Kermit the Frog appears on Oprah with the grasshopper, and everybody cries when they sing, 'It's Not Easy Being Green.'
Jesse Jackson stages a demonstration in front of the ant 's house where the news stations film the group singing, 'We shall overcome.' Jesse then has the group kneel down to pray to God for the grasshopper's sake.
Nancy Pelosi & John Kerry exclaim in an interview with Larry King that the ant has gotten rich off the back of the grasshopper, and both call for an immediate tax hike on the ant to make him pay his fair share.
Finally, the EEOC drafts the Economic Equity & Anti-Grasshopper Act retroactive to the beginning of the summer.
The ant is fined for failing to hire a proportionate number of green bugs and, having nothing left to pay his retroactive taxes, his home is confiscated by the government.
The story ends as we see the grasshopper finishing up the last bits of the ant's food while the government house he is in, which just happens to be the ant's old house, crumbles around him because he doesn't maintain it.
The ant has disappeared in the snow.
The grasshopper is found dead in a drug related incident and the house, now abandoned, is taken over by a gang of spiders who terrorize the once peaceful neighborhood.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Be VERY careful how you vote.
Two Different Versions! Two
Different Morals!
OLD VERSION: The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer
long, building his house and laying up supplies for the winter.
The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances
and plays the summer away.
Come winter, the ant is warm and well fed.
The grasshopper has no food or shelter, so he dies out in the
cold.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Be responsible for yourself!
________________________________
MODERN VERSION:
The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer long,
building his house and laying up supplies for the winter.
The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances
and plays the summer away.
Come winter, the shivering grasshopper calls a press conference
and demands to know why the ant should be allowed to be warm and well
fed while others are cold and starving.
CBS, NBC , PBS, CNN, and ABC show up to provide pictures of the
shivering grasshopper next to a video of the ant in his comfortable home
with a table filled with food. America is stunned by the sharp contrast.
How can this be, that in a country of such wealth, this poor grasshopper is allowed to suffer so?
Kermit the Frog appears on Oprah with the grasshopper, and everybody cries when they sing, 'It's Not Easy Being Green.'
Jesse Jackson stages a demonstration in front of the ant 's house where the news stations film the group singing, 'We shall overcome.' Jesse then has the group kneel down to pray to God for the grasshopper's sake.
Nancy Pelosi & John Kerry exclaim in an interview with Larry King that the ant has gotten rich off the back of the grasshopper, and both call for an immediate tax hike on the ant to make him pay his fair share.
Finally, the EEOC drafts the Economic Equity & Anti-Grasshopper Act retroactive to the beginning of the summer.
The ant is fined for failing to hire a proportionate number of green bugs and, having nothing left to pay his retroactive taxes, his home is confiscated by the government.
The story ends as we see the grasshopper finishing up the last bits of the ant's food while the government house he is in, which just happens to be the ant's old house, crumbles around him because he doesn't maintain it.
The ant has disappeared in the snow.
The grasshopper is found dead in a drug related incident and the house, now abandoned, is taken over by a gang of spiders who terrorize the once peaceful neighborhood.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Be VERY careful how you vote.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The cost usefulness.
I think I only write blogs when I'm angry or depressed. I apologize for that. Maybe one day I'll write something when everything is ok. Who knows.
Anyway, back to the rant.
So I've discovered that I've become awfully comfortable with being used. I wonder if this is something that I've always done, and only recently become aware of it, or if this is a pattern of behavior that I find myself falling into.
Unfortunately, I think that this is something that I almost do on purpose. I find that I'm usually ok with being used, because well, I like to feel useful. I think all humans like to feel useful. If we don't then we feel the opposite, which is useless, and that usually leads to a feeling of, "what's the point?"
If we aren't useful, then there is no purpose, no reason for our being. I believe that this is why some people may kill themselves, because they feel like their is no longer a purpose to their life, so why go on living?
The extreme opposite of this, of course, is being walked on by everyone. Being a people-pleaser to everyone you come into contact with, because you so desire that need to feel useful that you will go to any extreme to be used.
I have lived a good portion of my life teetering between these two extremes. I've gone from feeling used to feeling useless.
I really wish there was a balance. I suppose there is, because you can't have a seesaw without a fulcrum, a point of balance. Where is the proper point that we must exist in to keep two sides of the scale balanced? I suppose if I knew that, I could write a book.
And therein lies the problem. I suppose I like feeling useful, to a point. Then one day, I help someone just one too many times, and they ask for something else, and I feel used. I guess I just wonder, why all of a sudden I go from being useful to used? Where is the breaking point? The point where the seesaw suddenly teeters to the other side, with so much force that it can't be stopped?
And, is that ok? Is it ok to be used like that? If it is, why is it that I am ok with it? And why is it one day I'm suddenly not?
Anyway, this is my dilemma. And when you throw God into the mix, it's even worse.
Jesus was the epitome of being useful. People asked him for things all the time. They cried and clamored and wept, and He just kept on letting them use Him.
They used Him until He was all used up.
This is my example? This is how I'm supposed to live my life? Used until I die?
I guess that is ok. If that is how this must be, then so be it. If God wants me to be useful until I die, then fine.
But why can't He make me ok with it?
And is that fair? Is it fair for people to use other people? Especially people they say they "love", people they call their "family"?
Maybe the truth of all of this, is that I am just upset that I'm more useful to people that they are to me. I just get mad when people use me, when in reality, I just wish they would let me use them more often. This is the condition of the human race. We are so concerned about being useful, only because in the end, we hope that the other person will return the favor, and when they don't, we feel used instead of feeling useful. How utterly disappointing.
Anyway, back to the rant.
So I've discovered that I've become awfully comfortable with being used. I wonder if this is something that I've always done, and only recently become aware of it, or if this is a pattern of behavior that I find myself falling into.
Unfortunately, I think that this is something that I almost do on purpose. I find that I'm usually ok with being used, because well, I like to feel useful. I think all humans like to feel useful. If we don't then we feel the opposite, which is useless, and that usually leads to a feeling of, "what's the point?"
If we aren't useful, then there is no purpose, no reason for our being. I believe that this is why some people may kill themselves, because they feel like their is no longer a purpose to their life, so why go on living?
The extreme opposite of this, of course, is being walked on by everyone. Being a people-pleaser to everyone you come into contact with, because you so desire that need to feel useful that you will go to any extreme to be used.
I have lived a good portion of my life teetering between these two extremes. I've gone from feeling used to feeling useless.
I really wish there was a balance. I suppose there is, because you can't have a seesaw without a fulcrum, a point of balance. Where is the proper point that we must exist in to keep two sides of the scale balanced? I suppose if I knew that, I could write a book.
And therein lies the problem. I suppose I like feeling useful, to a point. Then one day, I help someone just one too many times, and they ask for something else, and I feel used. I guess I just wonder, why all of a sudden I go from being useful to used? Where is the breaking point? The point where the seesaw suddenly teeters to the other side, with so much force that it can't be stopped?
And, is that ok? Is it ok to be used like that? If it is, why is it that I am ok with it? And why is it one day I'm suddenly not?
Anyway, this is my dilemma. And when you throw God into the mix, it's even worse.
Jesus was the epitome of being useful. People asked him for things all the time. They cried and clamored and wept, and He just kept on letting them use Him.
They used Him until He was all used up.
This is my example? This is how I'm supposed to live my life? Used until I die?
I guess that is ok. If that is how this must be, then so be it. If God wants me to be useful until I die, then fine.
But why can't He make me ok with it?
And is that fair? Is it fair for people to use other people? Especially people they say they "love", people they call their "family"?
Maybe the truth of all of this, is that I am just upset that I'm more useful to people that they are to me. I just get mad when people use me, when in reality, I just wish they would let me use them more often. This is the condition of the human race. We are so concerned about being useful, only because in the end, we hope that the other person will return the favor, and when they don't, we feel used instead of feeling useful. How utterly disappointing.
Monday, August 24, 2009
To Live or Die
I now know why God asks us to "Live" for him. Because it is the harder option.
All of us have that question posed to us, by Paul. "For me, To Live is Christ, and to Die is Gain."
If I live, then I must live in Christ, and portray His life here on this broken earth as His ambassadors to the Kingdom of Heaven.
If I die, I get to go to that Kingdom.
Being an ambassador is very hard.
Living in this place is very difficult.
I used to wonder why Christ struggled with death, in the garden. After all, He was perfect. Dying was his sure fire ticket into heaven.
It was not dying that made His sweat drops of blood, rather, it was the difficulty of "living" our sins for us. Living was the difficulty for Christ, and now that we are in Him, we too, have that difficulty.
It is hard for us to go on living, imagining that nobody loves you, or will EVER love you.
It is hard to go on living, thinking you have been forgotten.
It is so difficult to live, knowing that you have been abandoned, and may possibly have to be abandoned again in the future.
All for His glory. All for His will.
We live to die. Die to ourselves.
Do you know how hard that is? Have you tried to Live Death recently?
I sometimes wonder if I feel even a fraction of the struggle Christ had in that Garden. If my streaming tears, jewels that will never be set in gold, could ever compare to the tears that He cried.
My blood, that sits so safely in my arteries and veins, will never know the pressure that forces it through the capillaries of my skin.
Yet He keeps calling. He keeps asking me to die. A little bit at a time.
Do this. Give up that. Sell this. Say that. Die here. Die there. And here.
And here.
Die now.
It hurts to die. At least, when you're still living.
Leaving this world will be so easy, but then again, that's the point, isn't it?
And even now, He calls me. He calls me to get up and keep pressing on.
Sometimes, I hate Him for that. But He loves me just the same, and I guess, that is what keeps me moving forward, is the promise that someday, it will all be made new.
So here I go again, to live another day dying.
One day, I won't have to live anymore.
All of us have that question posed to us, by Paul. "For me, To Live is Christ, and to Die is Gain."
If I live, then I must live in Christ, and portray His life here on this broken earth as His ambassadors to the Kingdom of Heaven.
If I die, I get to go to that Kingdom.
Being an ambassador is very hard.
Living in this place is very difficult.
I used to wonder why Christ struggled with death, in the garden. After all, He was perfect. Dying was his sure fire ticket into heaven.
It was not dying that made His sweat drops of blood, rather, it was the difficulty of "living" our sins for us. Living was the difficulty for Christ, and now that we are in Him, we too, have that difficulty.
It is hard for us to go on living, imagining that nobody loves you, or will EVER love you.
It is hard to go on living, thinking you have been forgotten.
It is so difficult to live, knowing that you have been abandoned, and may possibly have to be abandoned again in the future.
All for His glory. All for His will.
We live to die. Die to ourselves.
Do you know how hard that is? Have you tried to Live Death recently?
I sometimes wonder if I feel even a fraction of the struggle Christ had in that Garden. If my streaming tears, jewels that will never be set in gold, could ever compare to the tears that He cried.
My blood, that sits so safely in my arteries and veins, will never know the pressure that forces it through the capillaries of my skin.
Yet He keeps calling. He keeps asking me to die. A little bit at a time.
Do this. Give up that. Sell this. Say that. Die here. Die there. And here.
And here.
Die now.
It hurts to die. At least, when you're still living.
Leaving this world will be so easy, but then again, that's the point, isn't it?
And even now, He calls me. He calls me to get up and keep pressing on.
Sometimes, I hate Him for that. But He loves me just the same, and I guess, that is what keeps me moving forward, is the promise that someday, it will all be made new.
So here I go again, to live another day dying.
One day, I won't have to live anymore.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Outside for the first time
I went outside today, and I saw the sky. I noticed how much bigger it was than me.
Staring at the clouds that enveloped the sun, I never noticed before how small I was. The sky is huge here. Smaller in Bolivia, and not as big as Africa, the sky screams its presence and demands to be seen. I felt like I'd never seen it before.
It is quite a terrifying thought, feeling so small in the sight of the trees. Everything seems so far away, and yet it is so much closer than it has ever been before. How can we exist in a place for so long and never notice the clouds?
The rain falls heavy today. I feel like I've only just felt the first drop of water in my whole life. It feels warm and strange, yet comforting.
I don't know what it means. I feel so weird, like I've only opened my eyes for the very first time. Thought for myself for once.
Even the people I love raise their voices in contrast. I don't want to hear them anymore. I don't want to doubt. I want to believe. I have to believe.
I do believe.
The world looks so different, now that I'm finally outside. Outside of myself for the first time.
Staring at the clouds that enveloped the sun, I never noticed before how small I was. The sky is huge here. Smaller in Bolivia, and not as big as Africa, the sky screams its presence and demands to be seen. I felt like I'd never seen it before.
It is quite a terrifying thought, feeling so small in the sight of the trees. Everything seems so far away, and yet it is so much closer than it has ever been before. How can we exist in a place for so long and never notice the clouds?
The rain falls heavy today. I feel like I've only just felt the first drop of water in my whole life. It feels warm and strange, yet comforting.
I don't know what it means. I feel so weird, like I've only opened my eyes for the very first time. Thought for myself for once.
Even the people I love raise their voices in contrast. I don't want to hear them anymore. I don't want to doubt. I want to believe. I have to believe.
I do believe.
The world looks so different, now that I'm finally outside. Outside of myself for the first time.
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