Wednesday, December 14, 2005

The UMC ER sucks.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Sleep will not come to me today.
I do not let it.
I do not mean to be dramatic.
I am adjusting to life in ways foreign to my experience.
I speak here, to vent.
First, and foremost, to vent.
You who read this, are reading steam.
This is my epiphany.
This is my emotion.
This is the exhalation of my hopes, my dreams, my fears, my anger, my pain.
This is my steam,
-- opinionated nothings.

Sometimes it helps to vent. Other times it is a delusional and unproductive waste of time. My heart told me to start this blog years ago, because someone out there would smile upon my 'brilliance', and help me hone this 'brilliance' to my heart's content, to allow me to achieve my dreams. Years later, my ego has been stripped of its mask, exposing the fool that lies underneath. Your ego is a thorn of many on a bush that contains the sweetest of fruit.
Why do I not understand? All analogies break down at some point.

What am I really doing when I attempt to write; when I attempt to communicate?
I certainly believe that I am a decent writer. But why can't I hope to accomplish anything through this straightforward communcation?

A grasp of grammar and a rudimentary understanding of prose makes an excellent writer, but such skills are in fact, a dime a dozen. A true writer has the ability to move emotions like flower petals in the wind; a true writer has far more than second-rate analogies and semi-witty-monologues, more than excessive drama, more than an important message. A true writer needs but a few words to engrave a thought into memory as surely as stone. A true writer works with the essence of what already lies within our minds, and brings it to the forefront, forcing our synapses to fire and propogate waves of belief into realization; as different and foreign to one another as doubt and certainty, we achieve unity of thought, a shared understanding forged within the uniqueness of billions of brain cells, reaching across all barriers to allow the very soul to speak and be heard.

A true writer need not write solely to vent, nor to be smart, witty, or simply to write something worthwhile. It's just to share the beauty locked within our minds; the truth of what we are -- of what we should be. This should not be a medium -- it should be a reflection of our lives. All things -- joy, pain, life, and death -- can be described across this channel of flowing spirit. The true writer is the thriving life, a seemingly effortless transformation of energy into beauty.

To write is to speak and to speak is to act, but action is not intent; speech is not intent. This change of structure, this discord of thought and harmony -- this is damage done.
The perplexity created by my mind prevents me from engaging in so many activities, and countless experiences - it truly gnaws at the way I learn, at my perception -- at my recollection. In my own life, the coping mechanism learn'd was to accept it as a worthy trade-off of problems faced by others - but this does not stop me from seeing it as a coping mechanism, nor as a truth. It is one shared by those acutely aware of all successes and failures, who judge harshly, and who unsuccessfully attempt to ignore the questions their hearts desperatly ask of inequality and circumstance, of pain and silence, desire and revulsion -- of motive.
I have observed the human race and its fellows of life on this planet for 26 years -- passively, actively, subconsciously, and intently. I have been given great gifts of understanding, and yet am still in great confusion, not just by my soul's oft-disrupted connection to the world. I have observed when I could not bare to call myself human, lest the overwhelming shame of the crimes committed by humans daily grab hold of my emotion, and I have observed when I believed myself superior, inferior, slower, faster, enlightened, retarded, active, and incapable. I observe now, knowing that I am human and equal ... and tired. Our foolishness, our rationale, our beliefs, our loyalties, our crimes, our justifications, our joys, our addictions, our hopes, our dreams ... Why ? ... I want you to be happy and just. I want you to be free, independent, creative, prosperous, and in good company. I want you to experience luck, love, and adventure. I want you to become wise, and intelligent. I want you to do what is right; to see what you're doing, do it well, and know that it's right. I want you to know that your mind is beautiful, amazing, strong, and capable of so much. I want you to know that your body is beautiful, amazing, healthy, strong, and capable of so much. I want you to revel in your excellence, your uniqueness, and your elegance, from your innocence to your sexuality, from your ignorance to your understanding, from your denial to your acceptance, from your birth to your death. No loathing, no lust, no repression, no degredation, no pedestals, no confusion, no presumptions, no dogma, no fear, no hatred, no suppression, no coercion, no deception; no evil. I want you to be truthful, committed, respectful, peaceful, ambitious, excited, subtle, blatant, healthy, active, and decisive.
I want you to be innocent. I want you to be happy. I want you to live beautifully.

My observance continues. The world moves on, and so do we all, the great celestial dance -- Kingsolver's heavenly bodies in motion, in orbit.

My confusion still humors me. My resolve still clothes me. My desire still fuels me. My love still improves me. God is still with me, and my faith in you always remains. I just want you to make peace with yourself, peace with those whom you've affected, peace with God, and should the opportunity present itself, to make peace with those who've affected you. Live a life worth living. It is all I ask of myself, all I ask of anyone, all I ask of everyone.