Wrinkles and Scars

I've come to realize that all the effort and hard work in the world will not always get you what is wanted. Unfortunately, as many adults say, "That's life." The interesting thing though is that along this journey of dedication and utter focus there is a brief moment when the destination isn't the goal anymore. The travel becomes the goal. The travel makes the memories. Along the way the goal's appearance slowly turns vivid and the blur fades. The curtain is pulled and the effort no longer seems necessary, but we keep going. We keep up the work. Why? Because as the goal diminishes we begin to work purely for the reward of independence. The reward of a journey. Think about it. When we age and grow wiser we don't convey that our rewarded goals were achieved with the number we define ourself with. We convey that our rewarded goals were achieved with the wrinkles on our bodies and the scars on our hearts. We don't compare ages. We compare stories. 

A Single Streetlamp

Chances are a tricky thing. They symbolize hope, but the reason behind the doomed first chance is undeniable. Chances are like paper; crumbled once but usable. I think that hope can be an interesting concept. A single streetlamp in a stormy night. Lonely but strong. Unique and independent. No other lamp can reproduce the same streams of light or touch the same ground. Its wondrous in its beauty. And right there, waiting in that storm is the vehicle. Second chances are hard. Sometimes they aren't fair and usually we regret giving them, but there are the few who deserve them. Those people get into the car and drive it all the way home - determined and fearless. Thats how chances should be in my opinion. When Spring eventually occurs look around and be inspired by those chances. New birds' nests, blooming buds, and a greening grass. These are the chances worth the risk - these are the chances I hope to give.

Sex

Sex. Why are people so ashamed to be open about sex? Its just sex. Well sometimes its not, sometimes its about intimacy. If you really think about it, sex is awkward. All these buildings so close, right beside one another and within each structure are lives. Different lives. One house may have two people having sex and the next house is an old man watching. Sometimes, when you really think about it, sex is awkward. Its funny too. Sex is everywhere these days, so accepted by the media. But here we are being degraded by our actions. Funny. Maybe people should be more open to who they are and what they and everyone else does. Sex. Its not weird, its not unnatural, its just sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.... Sex.

Shattering Seconds

Sometimes being yourself is hard. Sometimes we don't even know who we are. Sometimes we just want to hide it. I'm tired of people always offering up opinions of who they think I am, especially when I don't know. For a shattering second, I know - then it disappears and I'm in a maze of frozen frost. I think the key is taking risks. Commit to something, connect with someone, or even conquer your dreams. Taking baby steps may seem like basic advice, but maybe its the only way to find ourself. Maybe its the only way we can take these risks. Hopefully as we continue along this path we can make our way to an abundance of shattering seconds. An abundance of knowing. Knowing who we are. Sometimes I watch paint drip down my canvas and just wait for it to create itself, but sometimes I pick up my paint brush and create my imagination.

Stained

We celebrate birth. We celebrate death. Do we ever really celebrate whats in between or do we let it pass us by? Each day another domino filled with worry and stress, tumbling down. We work for money. We work for friendship. We work, but do we ever live? The tense faces and still-humored jokes only bring more curiosity. Another day will go by, tired and weary eyed and I'll be left another year older. Aged with dripping beauty. Is this life? Pushing through the challenges life offers? Perhaps. Sometimes it feels like this. Other times, for a brief second I smile, without intention and hope washes over my stained body. I wish I knew how to live.

Understand

His chattering mouth moves but no words come out. Sometimes words breeze through me and I'm at a loss of understanding. I used to be a good listener. I used to listen to everyone. I knew their pains, their heartaches, their wild tales, and some things that better be left unspoken. But now I sit here thinking about how words have become a wind. They've shifted from an abstract unity to nothing at all. Maybe I've spent too much time listening and not enough speaking. Maybe I've become accustomed to dealing with others' problems and mishandling my own. Maybe I'm just not me anymore. Maybe. Perhaps thats why writing works efficiently for me. No speaking, just thinking. Each word, every phrase, all the sounds combine to create a thought - a thought that must have been thought of. Too much thinking. Maybe the answer is simple. Maybe his words have turned to a deathly gust because I don't care anymore. Because he's boring. Because he complains too much. Because he doesn't understand me.

Red and Falling

What does growing up feel like? What does it look like? Is it maturing from a child to an adult or is it a physical development? People always tell me I'm not a grown up but what is it? How do we identify this maturity? I have a job, budget my lifestyle, hold solid relationships (sometimes), and put up with immature people. Sounds pretty grown up. But I'm not. I'm somewhere in the middle, finding my way like a fallen leaf in the stage between green and brown - a bold red. Prehaps growing up is like a colour spectrum; bright and vivid. You begin with green, flourishing under your parents' foundation and as you pull away from your roots the journey begins. Orange and yellow; the awkward teenage years. Red; the transition from leaving your past, supported life and finding your own. Ember; againg from a youthful being to a worn and wise individual. And finally brown; the wrinkles and tired fingers set in, a life has been lived. Maybe my life isn't about the objective terms of immature or mature, its about the shift from one colour to the next. We're all just falling leaves, twirling to a brittle fate.