"Midnight" Part 7

And this is how it ends.

Or rather, how it begins. 

---

The room is cold. 

I grope through the dim blackness to my right for the floor lap. I bump it, feel for the switch, and allow a mellow glow to penetrate the meager apartment space. I wearily walk over to the window, pull back the curtains, and stare down into the dimly-lit, foggy world below.

My home is nothing extravagant. I live in the big city, but not in luxury. It's a humble, studio apartment which means there's a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room all shoved into one small space. The bathroom, thankfully, owns a door.

I sleep on the couch in the middle of the room. It's a foldout couch, but I'll admit on most nights I'm too lazy to haul the bed out from its comfortable hiding place. There's a long, stubby coffee table in front of the couch and a television in front of the table, nestled against the wall. The window is to the left of the television, and the kitchen is to the right. The bathroom is opposite the kitchen.

I remove my wet coat and hang it on a hook nailed into the bathroom door. I slip my sopping wet Nikes off and place them beneath the sink in the bathroom. I lay my soggy socks beside the shoes after which I immediately crinkle my nose and turn away.

Wet, pruned, smelly feet—go figure.

I lay the rest of my damp clothes across the toilet seat and quickly take a warm shower. Afterward, I pull on a white t-shirt and jersey shorts and collapse on the couch. 

It's been a long night. 

My phone beeps. I had forgotten it when I went out.

I lazily pick it up and flip open the black face. I have one missed call from a little past midnight—a few minutes after I had left.

It was her.

I freeze.

It's difficult to describe moments like this. Your limbs become rigid, but everything else begins to race. Your heart begins to pound away behind the cage inside your chest. Your mind is now fully alert and sprinting past approximately fifty-three and a half assumptions of why this person has called—expecting the worst, no doubt. You begin to sweat and slowly find the courage to move.

I clear the screen and my phone beeps once again—one new voicemail. My nerves shift into overdrive. I haven't heard from her in over a month. 

I glance wide-eyed out the window as pieces of our last conversation begin to surface. In short, things were complicated, feelings were awkward, but she didn't want to shut the door on our friendship.

So, she shut the window.

It's a different sort of pain standing outside the window of a person's life. You shove your face against the glass and peer inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of this person you were once so close to. 

And finally you do.

You see her laughing as she enters the room with other friends. They sit down and begin to talk with each other about their day and how things are going. They share stories, and they smile. They hug, and they laugh. They cry, but most of all, they love each other. You watch, disconnected and untouched, as she begins to grow and change in life, knowing that you were there, once. Perhaps you'll be blessed with a glance from her, but it’s nothing more than that. She finally leaves the room, and you're left outside standing with your face pressed against the glass like a peeping tom, wondering how you fell from grace.

It's a sickening, confusing, humiliating feeling. 

I glance at my phone as it begins to automatically dial my voicemail. I slowly press 

it against my ear. A female computer voice sprightly informs me that I have one, unheard voice message.

A few seconds of eternity later, I hear her.

I know it's late, but we need to talk. Call me back when you get this.

I listen to it about three times over, just to be sure. In the middle of the fourth repetition, I purposefully shut my phone and begin to turn it over in my hands. I pause and glance at the numbers on the clock hanging above the television.

6:32 a.m. She's asleep. Even if she's not, now is not the time. I'll call her back later today.

After about five minutes I set my phone on the table. I slowly push myself up from the couch and switch off the floor lamp behind me. A pale darkness invades the room once again as I lay down on the couch, pulling the covers up to my shoulders.

I stare at the ceiling. My body is tired and aching, but my mind and heart are wide awake. I'm nervous. I'm hopeful. Questions race. I don't think I'll ever fall asleep.

Midnight lasts so long on these nights when you can't forget.

I shift onto my left side and stare out the window. The atmosphere outside is turning gray. I hear cars honking in the distance. The world is waking up.

And somewhere behind it all, the sun is beginning to shine.

"Midnight" Part 6

These stairs and I tend to embrace a love and hate relationship. 

First floor. The steps are cold and indifferent. This building is fairly new, and the steel blocks show no mercy.

What I love about stairs: your steps are visually and dimensionally defined.

What I hate about stairs: with each step, you must defy gravity. Not that defying gravity in and of itself is a bad thing, per se, but defying gravity approximately 150 times in succession tends to wear out a person’s legs. 

And my legs are ready to give up the ghost.

Second floor. I grunt as I trip, catch the rail, and then haul myself up, around, and continue upward.

I saw a musician perform Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” once on a talk show. I enjoyed it not because I thought the guy was a great musician or that I like the song, but because he messed up quite a few times while performing it. Come to think of it, he messed up nearly the entire song, but it was still fun to watch.

It paints a stunningly accurate picture of our lives—so many of us are trying to climb this stairway to heaven, and we screw up entirely. 

Third floor. I pause. I’ve only climbed three flights and my knees are ready to give out. 

Some of us, however, don’t merely stumble over a step or two, but it feels like we tumble down and backward, end over end, until finally crashing into a broken heap at the bottom of these unforgiving steps. It was never intentional for most people, but it happened anyway. And the saddest part is that, of the few who actually pick themselves up, they take one look skyward, they see the distance, and they decide that it’s not worth the climb.

They’d be more comfortable at the bottom where there’s no longer a chance of falling down. 

But if they knew what was waiting at the top of the stairs, would they remain on the bottom floor?

Fourth floor. I wince. My right leg begins to cramp. I glance out the window to my right. The fog is still thickening. The streetlights below carry halos above their tired heads.

But the average person isn’t blessed with knowing the end of his story. For many, it seems like they fizzle out and fade into a tired, old memory—worn out and void of life. For others, they exit the stage in the midst of the play, just when things are getting good. A few, however, live wonderful lives, and they see their end coming. Perhaps there are some changes they would make, but for the most part, life is good.

Fifth floor. I’m out of breath now, two floors left. I pause and glance over the railing toward the bottom. From here, five stories is a long drop.

Why do people fall in love? Think about it. If love is supposed to be such a good thing, why isn’t it something more along the lines of ‘I’ve flown into love!’ or ‘I’ve climbed into love!’?  A verb that sounds uplifting. Isn’t falling, like falling down the stairs, usually a bad thing? 

Take, for instance, the devil. He rebels against God, gets thrown out of heaven, and falls to earth. Hell is considered to be in a rather southerly direction. Falling on your face was never a good thing. 

And falling five stories wouldn’t feel too good, either.

But, then again, who ever intends to fall in the first place? Who, unless they’re suicidal or crazy, determines to fall down five flights of stairs and land on their face?

I guess that’s why it’s called falling in love—it’s almost always never intentional. Your heart trips head over feet for someone and there’s nothing your head can do to stop it. 

But falling in love seems to only hurt when you fall in love alone.

Sixth floor. I purse my lips and begin the final push.

Climbing is a different story altogether. Ascending up to or over something is usually a good thing. 

Take, for instance, Jesus Christ. He rose from the dead after dying to save the world. People overcome terrible situations. You raise money, you rise to the occasion, or you lift a burden. All of this upward vocabulary sounds so positive. 

But it also sounds like a lot of work. It sounds intentional.

After all, when you fall, you lift yourself up. But it’s nice when you don't have to lift yourself up alone.

Seventh floor. I sigh in relief. I don’t care to look back. I’ve seen the view so many times before. I habitually turn right, walk three doors down, and stop in front of the door on the left. I dig through the change in my right pocket and feel for the key. I put it in the lock and turn it halfway to the right.

It's almost over. I sigh as I push the door open and step into the darkened space.

"Midnight" Part 5

I love it when the heavens meet the earth.

26th street, I yawn. Clouds are beginning to gather around my feet, carefully searching out the shadowy corners of the city. Lights stretch out and sounds dampen as the morning dwindles on. I enjoy fog as much as rain, almost as much as newly fallen snow, but not quite as much as pizza on a Saturday night with a few friends and a movie.

Yes, one could say that as far as material things go, pizza is my first love.

But my memory is like this fog. 

Imagine a lamp—the old-fashion, kerosene lamp used before the invention of the light bulb—being carried through a fog at night. It's not blinding, but pleasantly dim, swaying slowly this way and that, suspended and relaxed as it wanders through the milky atmosphere. It doesn't ignite the world around it, but the world around it can see it coming. 

Like a fog, I have trouble remembering things clearly. I know—it's a funny thing to hear from a young man of only twenty-three. In fact, when you think about it, it's ridiculous. For me, though, it seems true enough—unless my measurement of how clearly memories should surface is slightly lacking.

Memories, I believe, require more than just a picture in your head. Perhaps that's why I find them difficult to conjure correctly. I think memories should incorporate not only images and the senses but also emotion.

And there's the difficult part—replaying emotion.

25th street. A few cars rumble past, passing through street puddles like an early morning stretch. 

Of course a person can easily attach a scrolling marquee to an image in their head, flashing, 'This is where I felt betrayed,' and then attempt to recreate the feeling of betrayal. But what weight is carried when an emotion is just a title in your head? Where is the connection to the heart?

A cat mournfully sings from a passing alleyway. I glance left as two green eyes follow me from behind someone else's trash.

She, however, isn't foggy at all. I remember everything—every image, every sound, every sense, and I feel every emotion from the night she did not say goodbye.

24th street. One more block. 

Some might mistake my brokenness for romance—like a Hollywood love story. It's not so shallow. There wasn't a flirtatious first date and a first kiss after our serendipitous meeting, nor was there a second date followed by a heated night of passionate, guilt-free sex where the stars fell in line and the heavens declared that this is a good idea, so now it's time to move in with each other before we finally decide to marry and seal the deal with a ceremonial kiss. But then, for some unexplainable, unjustifiable reason, she decides that it's better that we 'just be friends' and breaks my heart into a million pieces, leaving me to cope with the pain, alone, while she flaunters off with someone new.

No, this is more gut-wrenching and complex. 

It's about a broken friendship.

23rd street. Flustered and exhausted, I cross the street. The effort of walking fifty city blocks is nothing compared to struggling through a few vivid memories.

My apartment building is at the end of the street. The fog is beginning to thicken. Street lights trail into the night as the plunk, plunk, plunk from a draining gutter echoes somewhere in the distance. My body is tired, but my mind is racing. 

Replaying heartbreak is a dangerous game. It's like shouting at an angry man or diving through loose snow in the mountains. Something's going to collapse. Memories begin to flood over like a river after rain. Assumptions well up from deep within confused situations and without warning an avalanche of misconceptions erupts into devastating, heart-wrenching, emotional pain.  

An old man, bent and tired, shuffles past on my left. I don't say anything. He mumbles reminders to himself.

Don't forget the cat food. Poor kitty looks so hungry.

Someone intelligent and wiser than me once said that assumptions are the termites of relationships.

This collapsing framework is full of them.

Droplets begin to form and trail down the silver surfaces of dimming street-lamps.

I love fog, but not in relationships, and especially not in memories. Even in painful situations, I want to remember how I felt. I don't want to become numb. It makes me think that my heart is growing cold, or even worse, turning to stone.

A heart of ice is infinitely easier to melt than a heart of stone. 

And I fear the day when I don't feel it anymore. I fear the day when her image is as numb and indifferent as my hands on this wet and chilly night.

I stop at 806, 23rd street and gaze upward. I can hardly see my seventh story window through the fog. I slowly climb the steps toward the entrance and squeeze past the glass door.

No mail. I don't know why I check. It's passing 5 a.m.. Habit, I guess. The elevator is out of order. I forgot about that. I glance toward the foot of the stairs…

…the seven stories of stairs.

Perfect.

It's going to be a long climb up

For the Sake of Beauty...Part Dos.

We all do dumb things. Some of us hold firecrackers too long. Some of us attempt the atomic challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings (and wake up with regret). Some of us pet the cat the wrong direction (and wake up scarred). And some of us even try to skate off rooftops and end up parkouring the concrete with our faces.

A few weeks ago, I did a very dumb and very foolish thing...

I left angry.

The story goes something like this: My friend (who shall remain nameless...again...because that's what you do in blogs) and I were having dinner and some margaritas with a couple before I had to catch a flight back home. Now, there have been a few times that I've drug my feet and have been late for a flight. Once was because I was in the middle of a serious conversation with the same friend, and I didn't want to leave it unfinished. 

I blame the other two occasions on ridiculously long TSA lines (45 mins plus). 

Granted, I work for the airlines, so it wasn't that difficult to catch another flight...even if it was the next morning. 

But that's beside the point. 

So anyway, I was kind-of dragging my feet (but not by much). She reminded me that it was time to leave, and what I remember saying was, "Alright, let's go," and then her saying, "Okay, well let me use the bathroom first."

Another five minutes.

Then, we finally hit the road. The airport's only like...ten minutes away. Cut-off time for checking in bags (I had a bag) was in five.

Psh, we can make it, I thought.

And then, out of nowhere, she says, "You always do this!"

We've had this argument once before.

The last time I missed my flight, I had to stay overnight on her couch, so she had to come back to pick me up. She was upset then because she felt like I didn't appreciate her time and potential plans. It seemed like, to her, that I missed my flights on purpose...just so I could hang out with her a little longer.

Which may have been a subconscious truth...because as you may have guessed (especially if you've read part one)...I'm crazy about the girl.

And that, of course, complicates everything.

But! ...it wasn't a deliberate, conscious decision. 

Anyway, I tried to explain that I didn't miss flights on purpose. I only missed that one flight so I could finish, what I thought, was a very important conversation. 

I know. I know. You're probably thinking, "Sean! You missed a flight...just so you could finish talking?!"

Yup. 

I fly for free. Different priorities. 

Sue me. 

Anyway, we got over it (I thought) and moved on.

But then, here I am, and she's arguing the exact same thing she did almost a month before. 

I think the part that ticked me off the most was that she said, "You do this all the time!" when I had, in fact, only done it once. 

(I fly through DFW a lot)

I'm a stickler for accuracy...and for not being wrong, of course.

I know. Petty. 

I let her vent for a little bit as we drove to the airport...but right as we drove beneath the barrier arm and entered the airport...something snapped. All I could feel was this blame, shame, and misunderstanding literally pouring out of her mouth and over me...wave after wave...and I wasn't going to have it any more!

"You make me feel like shit!" is all I remember saying. And I don't cuss often...despite what you've heard. And there was something about love thrown in my tirade somewhere, but I'm pretty sure it was covered up by all the excrement. 

But there is something I remember very well. 

She pulled up to the drop-off point. Now, you have to understand that every time before, I've left her with a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a see you soon, a call me when you make it home. 

This time, regardless of what was said, all I know is that I grabbed my bags, slammed the door before she could finish talking, and walked away angry. 

Some of you might blame it on the two 'ritas. Some might just call me an asshole (which I was). Some of you might pull the double-punch and blame both. But regardless, as the minutes passed, as I got my boarding pass, as I made it through security with my bags, as I found my seat on the plane, as we taxied away from the gate, as I sent her a quick text saying, "On. Love you," as a hasty, makeshift patch to what I had just done...as I wrote out an even longer apology...regret began to flood my chest.

You know the feeling.

That painful ache of realization that you just did something you couldn't erase...and that in your selfishness, you said things you could never, ever take back. 

An hour and a half later, I made it safely to the ground, but I went home in silence and fell asleep.

And then I woke up. And for whatever reason, the only thing I could sense was that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake in leaving like that. What if that had been our last meeting? What if, God forbid, I never saw her after that?

But even more importantly, if I loved her as much as I said I did, if I loved Christ as much as I claim, why would I even allow myself to touch the surface of such heartless words and careless exits...no matter the reason?

            "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger..."

                                                                                          -Ephesians 4:2

I heard that verse many times growing up. But what surprised me more was what the rest of it said:

       "Therefore, laying aside falsehood, speak truth each one of you with his neighbor, for we are members of one another. Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity. He who steals must steal no longer; but rather he must labor, performing with his own hands what is good, so that he will have something to share with one who has need. Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear. Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, by whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you. -Ephesians 4:25-32 

In a matter of less than five minutes, I became the antithesis of that entire passage. And no matter what she had said...none of it was her fault, and she didn't deserve to be spoken to in such a manner. 

In those few moments, what did I steal? What did I tear down in her instead of build up? And what does that say about my "love" for her and about our friendship?

Instead of focusing on the beauty of who God has created her to be, instead of listening to her and trying to see the situation(s) from her point of view, instead of approaching her concerns with a humble heart, instead of trying to understand, I lashed out in some selfish, adolescent rant in an attempt to prove myself right.

And I never could have been more wrong.

So, like before, to her, though I can't say it enough, I say, "Thank you for your friendship, for your patience, and I apologize for how I've treated you."

And to everyone else, never let your pride be so important that you tear someone down, especially someone you love. 

And never leave angry. 

"Midnight" Part 4

I haven't seen the stars in almost two years.

30th street, I sigh. I lift my eyes and gaze upward into a cloud-covered blackness carried by city lights and sounds. I probably look lost and foolish walking down the sidewalk with my head craned back, staring toward a dismal heaven. Big cities aren't meant for stargazing. It's one of the many sacrifices, I guess. I lost a sense of 

beauty when I moved here.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the city. The lights, the sounds, the speed; It's a sensory symphony of modern man. There's always something going on, even at 3 a.m.

Especially at 3 a.m.

But I come from a natural place—nothing like this chaotically organized, colossal maze of concrete and steel. There are mountains and trees where I'm from. Springtime is explosive—a proverbial picture of God speaking. Summer is thick and full of activity. Autumn is Earth splashing paint across the hillside. Winter is pure. The stars are infinite.

It's true. I counted, once. 

But as I grew older, I ceased to see the beauty. It's like staring at the same point for too long without blinking. The center blackens until all that remains is the outer-rim.

Try it sometime. 

In the end, I needed to blink. I needed to experience the world outside my own. I didn't want to fade through life like everybody else. So, I moved here. 

A week afterward, I met her.

29th street. A low rumble of thunder penetrates from somewhere far above. A few drops of dying rain struggle toward the earth.

Actually, I ran into her…literally. 

It was just outside of a convenient store on a Sunday afternoon around 2:30. She was carrying chocolate, and I was jogging around the corner. She was wearing glasses, and I was wearing headphones.  She was putting change in her purse, and I was looking the other way. Not on purpose, of course. I thought I heard a dog barking behind me. We converged in front of the double-glass doors outside of the store and tumbled over each other onto the city-stained sidewalk.

We were best friends after that.

28th street, I glance upward. The clouds are beginning to break.

However, somewhere between me helping her up from the littered concrete and my most recent birthday, like these worn-out Nike sneakers, everything fell apart. 

Or something fell apart, and the rest followed.

In fact, it reminds me of Jenga, the game where you stack the wooden blocks into a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa and then slide individual blocks out one by one until it collapses into a laughable mess that the loser is left privileged to clean up. Or it reminds me of this homeless man stretched out across the bus stop bench. Perhaps he had an organized, happy life once-upon-a-time, a life that made sense. But one by one, pieces were shoved out of place until the whole of it came crashing down and left him lying here in a cluttered pile of unintentional, circumstantial consequence.

27th street. The traffic light flickers sporadically above me.

Whatever it reminds me of, my heart is a suffering heap of flesh and emotion, and I'm the loser left to clean up.

And I have no idea where to begin

"Midnight" Part 3

My toes feel like raisins.

You remember, like those Sun-Maid raisins in the small, red box your mother gave you when you were a kid. You wanted a snack, which meant you wanted cookies, which meant your mother gave you raisins. Mothers tend to do that—replace the good stuff with healthy stuff only grown-ups like. They refuse to understand.

Actually, my toes feel like prunes. Raisins are too small.

I never did like prunes.

45th street, I pause. I glance left down Jackson Ave. for Mr. Jackson Ave., but he seems to have stumbled off after some other destiny. I sulk beneath the traffic-light and wander on.

The street is empty like a Sunday morning drive. A few pieces of paper melt inside collecting rain puddles, drowning information no one cares to read. The dark buildings tower over me like empty monologues asking questions, but like usual, I don't answer. 

Dominating structures never care to listen...

...but if walls could tell stories, I'd be the first in line to hear them speak.

44th Street. I kick a lonely beer bottle toward the curb. I watch as it skips over the edge and plunks into the stream. It clinks off the bottom and bobbles down the street behind me toward a nearby storm drain.

That one's on me, I mumble as it quietly slips between the iron teeth.

Do you drink? She asks me as I trip across 44th street.

Not anymore, I reply indifferently.

Why not? She tilts her head, faking concern, allowing those deep, curious eyes to make up for it.

It never helps, I state, matter-of-factly. I still wake up with me.

She fades into a passing street-lamp as I approach 43rd street.

Flashbacks are like forgotten songs. You're in some random place and out of nowhere this recognizable tune catches your attention. You gravitate toward it because it's familiar, and then you remember why.  Every thought, every feeling, and every image attached to that song invades your mind like a foggy introduction. After a few seconds, the uncertainties clear and the wounds are re-opening. 

And like a madman, you willingly continue to listen. 

Like a madman, you willingly continue to hurt. 

Like a madman, you willingly continue to play back your rejection again, and again, and again, until finally...

32nd street.

I stop. I glance up at the elevated sign and turn around. The rain has let up for now. A few lazy drops embrace the sidewalk as they tumble down from tired rooftops. A worn-out yellow taxicab drenched in mud and midnight passengers wanders around the corner and passes by without a second thought. 

Time flies when you're having flashbacks.

Actually, it doesn't. I just got lucky. Time saunters off for a stiff drink when pain is involved.       

31st street, I say in habitual fashion as I continue to walk. A black cat watches me from across the street.

That's right. You stay put, kitty. I've had enough tonight.

"Midnight" Part 2

Everyone has a breaking point.

I never did like that phrase. It conjures up an illusion that we're acting, wearing ill-fitted masks and employing facades we never reveal until it's absolutely unintentional. Does that make sense? A breaking point—an unintentional breaking point.

If you say it slow enough, it seems to make sense. 

Maybe.

The rain isn't letting up, and I'm far from getting dry. The next store is a good two blocks away, and I'm miserable.

46th street, I mutter, never close enough.

I hate chocolate. No, I actually like chocolate, I just hate the memories. Actually, I love the memories. I just hate that they are, in fact, only memories. So why am I stumbling through this rain shower at 2 a.m. trying to find a store with chocolate that ignites memories I hate to replay?

Good question. Breaking point.

And my breaking point was her, and she loved chocolate.

And this rain is making me cold, reminding me of her.

A black cat skittered across the street, losing its hind legs in a stream by the curb and then its body in a trashcan. That seems to happen more often—black cats crossing my path. I've never been the superstitious type, but with all my bad luck lately, I may join the club. But it wasn't bad luck I was having; it was just me. That's what hurts the most: knowing that you are the bad luck. You are, in fact, her black cat. And like Trash-Can-Kitty, you're soaked and stumbling through the filthiest, lowest point of your life.

And you're alone.

47th street , I read as I pass beneath the sign and glance for cars. I think the store 

is on 48th, but in this weather, I'm not so sure.

I really don't know what happened. I never saw the array of dominoes that fell against me, finally knocking me through my own breaking point. I've always considered myself strong. I guess that was my greatest weakness and ultimate downfall.

It's like tumbling into the ring with a Ninja, believing yourself to be a natural master of Kung-Fu, when you are, in fact, just a 135 pound weakling containing no experience with round-house kicks whatsoever except for the one that's soon-to-be introducing itself to your well-manicured face.

What's our measurement of "strong" anyway?

And what does "strong" describe, emotionally speaking, except that we conceal our feelings better than others? I've always heard it said that bottling emotion is a bad habit that soon leads to explosive situations.

Then again, 'A fool vents all his feelings, but a wise man holds them back.' That's a proverb, I think.

The lonely traffic light blinks incessantly red as I pass underneath. 

I love colors in the rain. They're saturated and much more vibrant than on ordinary days. They're rich with life, even lonely traffic lights. Perhaps that's another reason why I love rain so much. Perhaps I have the potential to be vibrant and colorful in the rain instead of ordinary. Perhaps that's why I'm walking in the rain. I guess I just need to find some color first. 

And when I do, I guess I just need to light up and flash a bit.

48th street, I sigh. There isn't a gas station or an open store. There isn't even a closed store. I turn a few circles, as if it would help, but it doesn't. There's still no store.

How inconvenient.

I slowly make my way back from where I came. Back home. Home is a studio apartment in a seven-story building on 23rd street. 

Twenty-five blocks, I scold myself. My feet begin to ache. I could keep walking in hopes of finding another store, but twenty-five blocks is my breaking point for tonight. 

The rain is letting up a little. Small rivers begin to rush against the curb toward thirsty storm drains. A few pieces of trash float along like lost ships at sea, carried wherever the current desires.

It reminds me of being a kid. I remember folding paper ships and sending them to their doom at the hands of curbside waterways. Then again, I didn't think like that as a child. It was terribly fun to chase the boats as they bobbed and twisted in the murky-brown water. Eventually, they would either sink or disappear into the gaping mouth of a storm drain, lost to whatever monsters lurk beneath our feet. I lived in a smaller town then. It was nothing like the big city.

I feel like that now. A boat tossed in the rain, rushing out of control toward a deep, dark hole in the ground along with all the other trash.

And for all I know, this ship has already slipped over the edge

In the morning...

It's too easy to fall into the routine. 

And don't get me wrong...routines are nice. They can keep us focused, keep us directed, keep us on track. 

But when it comes to creativity...when it comes to some strange version of "originality" and spontanious creation...sometimes you just need to quietly climb out of the box and stumble into whatever's lying on the outside. 

Will you find it by taking a new route to work?

Will you find it by saying hello to someone you wouldn't normally say hello to?

Will you find it in a kiss, rather than a hug?

Will you find it in the morning, rather than in the evening after a day's work has worn everything out?

Personally, I never write in the morning. 

I sleep. I wake up. I check Facebook. I shower. I rush to work.

Unless I've had a bizarre dream, I never take the time to write in the morning, even though all the other professional writers say I should.  

But today I have, and it feels nice. 

It feels refreshing. 

And I might just give myself more time to do it tomorrow. 

Shake yourself up a bit and take a look around. 

And if you find the time, tell me what you find. 

"Midnight"

This is a short story I wrote a little over five years ago. Some of you may have read it before, but in an attempt to jump-start this "writing more often" kick, I'll revisit my past for a little while. 

This story was written in seven parts, so over the next seven weeks, I'll post each subsequent part on Monday. Hopefully, in the midst of all this, I'll get into the habit of writing and posting other things throughout the week as well. 

We'll see. 

But for now,

"Midnight"

I

It's raining.

 

Scattered drops of water entangle the street-lamps with reflections of a heavenly nature, but darkness still remains. I wander alone, doused in a heavy rubber raincoat, faded yellow and torn in two places near the chest---a metaphor, no doubt. I left my rain boots in the apartment, so my feet slosh around inside my worn-out Nike sneakers. I'll get a new pair someday. Perhaps the streams are what carry me as I splash across the street toward an empty colored wall of an old abandoned building. I can never tell anymore. An emptiness, empty as this alleyway I stumble through, envelopes the outer rim of a heart I no longer feel.

Don't ask me that again, I mutter. It’s over now. 

I never did enjoy wandering thoughts---especially at midnight.

But it wasn't midnight. It was briefly after 2 a.m., and I still hadn't found an open convenient store with the chocolate candy I was looking for. I've tried three already.

How inconvenient.

It was on mornings like this that I found myself questioning who I was --- the inner core --- the solid foundation of what I thought was reliable, because I've come to find that it isn't so reliable after all.

A tall man in a dark raincoat topped with a hood has been following me for the past three blocks. Not unusual, especially in the big city, even more-so downtown. A couple of those gruesome detective movies begin to scroll across my imagination as I round a corner. I'm tempted to run and find an empty doorway to cower in, but everyone knows that the people who try to run and hide always end up dead. I figure I'm screwed either way. If this guy is really after me, I don't think my tired legs can carry me far enough fast enough to do me any good. But he isn't out to kill me, yet. I cross 45th street and he turns right onto Jackson Avenue, tripping over the curb and almost splattering himself onto the sidewalk.

I love rain. It carries with it an emotional sense of intelligence. I know cheesy, right? Intelligent rain. But think about it. Every time it rains, people are compelled to do at least one of three things: sleep, read a book, or watch a movie. Alright, I take that back, rain actually makes you lazy. But the person reading the book must feel at least a nudge of intelligence before they fall asleep by the window. As for me, rain brings memories. 

It never fails.

Mostly.

The first memory is usually of a person, or if I'm really awake, of a few people. It's usually their faces followed by a feeling of regret for not keeping in contact, or for letting them go. Depressing, I know. But every once in a while there's a rare face that ignites feelings of joy and sweet nostalgia. Or, if I'm lucky, it’s a face that I hope to see tomorrow. But those are rare these days because I live alone now. I live in a big city far away from the people that remind me of rain --- in a good way, at least.

From now on I'll probably think of Mr. Jackson Avenue who followed me for three blocks and smile. 

We can all use a laugh at someone else's expense every once in a while.

My Own Catch-22

I've sat in the dark for too long. 

There's a part of me that hates social media. Privacy aside (or lack thereof), it's a constant reminder of everything I don't like about people. 

Or better yet, it's a constant reminder of everything I don't like about myself. 

Yet, I'm addicted.

If you haven't noticed yet, I can be a pretty cynical person.  And if you ask enough of my friends, I have the bad habit, despite my best intentions, of being an asshole.  

But what's that have to do with anything?

Well, be it words or music (or the occasional tree-sketch), I love to write (or at least the idea of it). And anything written, in my own, general opinion, isn't worth anything unless it's shared with someone else. Granted, I understand that many people write journals and diaries and poetry and songs for themselves alone. 

And that's fine.

But I've always been under the impression that if you have any sort of talent when it comes to putting something on a page, be it words, art, or musical notes, then you should share it with someone else. Not for the sake of attention, or money, or fame (although those can be some perky benefits), but for the sake of connection with others and inspiration for others in the midst of a broken world. 

And in this age of social media, lack of opportunity for artistic exposure is no excuse. 

As for myself, I've done my best to refrain from sharing too many of my creations for the simple fact that I believe deep down that the expression of these creations isn't good enough. 

But good enough for what? A record deal? A book deal? Fame? Fortune? Attention? Respect?

Heck, I don't even write enough for any of that. 

Or...is it just not good enough to be remembered for?

Like most people, I don't want to be remembered for something shitty (if I can be so blunt). And like most amateur (or aspiring) artists, I think that's what our general impression of our own work is. 

One big fat turd. 

Which, I'll be honest, most of it is.

But they're our turds. And they're still important. And those little nuggets of our own creation, which many times stink and function about as well as a sloth in a horse-race, eventually turn into something more:

beauty, inspiration, and significance for someone else.  

So, thanks to time alone and to certain friends, I'm going to try and come out of my proverbial closet and write a little more often.

And sing more often.

And create more often.

And most importantly...share more often.

Some of it might inspire. Some of it might not. But I hope that all of it gets us somewhere eventually.

Even if it's just a few laughs. 

It's a great big world out there, and we've all experienced it differently. 

Let's share it with each other.

For the Sake of Beauty...

Just because something is beautiful, doesn't mean it's right. And just because something is right, doesn't mean it's beautiful.

It's strange to think that a year ago today, I was still going to college in Texas. Change is inevitable...and change can come on so quickly. One day you're enjoying the company of friends and not worrying about all the bills or the hours or the prospect of "responsibility," even though you know you're preparing for it.  You're still learning, and a sheet of paper with red ink is infinitely safer and much more forgiving than experience and hindsight.

You follow?

I've lived most of my life knowing what I enjoy, and I've pursued that flippant feeling of happiness (even if unintentionally). Were I honest with you, and for those who know me, my general disposition is a mellow one. I'm not easily excitable (I don't think), a trait that has come in handy in my profession (the airlines). And even if I am excited...unless it crosses some sort of intangible threshold, it doesn't show. I look about as excited as a sloth relaxing in the sun...even though on the inside there's a 10 year old boy running around, anxious to see what's next.

But in the pursuit of that feeling, I've found nothing but failure. My life isn't what I hoped it would be 10 years ago. I'm almost 30. I haven't written the Book. I haven't recorded the Album. I haven't gotten the Girl. I haven't started the Family. And thanks to Facebook, that all encompassing, seeing eye, I get to see where I've fallen short compared to my peers. I'd like to think it's because I'm following in the footsteps God has laid out for me, but at times, I'm not so sure.

But I'm not complaining...honestly. Because I've learned that what is beautiful isn't always right.

The pictures in my head, the dreams, to me, are beautiful. But for now, for this season, they're not right for me.  Should I still pursue writing and music and love and growth? Most definitely. But in just the last week, I've learned a very important lesson about myself: I focus too much on what I don't have...and not enough on what I do have.

And I've got a very beautiful friend to thank for that.

The story goes something like this: I met a girl six months ago and my heart leapt at the sight of her. She was wearing a red dress, smiling, and had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen.

She also asked me about the guitar I was carrying. Score.

And then, over the next six months as I got to know her, all that beauty was seemingly diminished by who I thought she was.

When I was in school, they'd give us these comparison charts using intersecting circles. You know the ones I'm talking about?

They're also called Venn or set diagrams (thanks, Wikipedia).

For about the first five months, in my head, the circles of our Venn diagram were miles a part. They always say you have to have stuff in common for a relationship to work, right? Well, if our circles did intersect, it was only on a very basic level (we work for the same company...we breathe oxygen...we both still have 10 fingers and toes...you know...the basic stuff). But everything else "they" tell you you'll need in a relationship just wasn't there.

I could go into more detail, but the point is, deep down...I really liked this girl. 

And deep down, she really annoyed the hell out of me.

And I know I annoyed the hell out of her, too.

Because of our differences, I could never see a relationship working out...even though there was, initially, something mutual there. And because I liked her so much, and because it conflicted with everything I wanted in a girl, I tried my hardest to put it off...to emphasize that I just wanted a friendship...to keep my heart as distant as possible so I didn't end up making some sort of mistake and find us 3 years down the road with intersecting knives in our skulls.

Seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life.  

And then, about a week ago, something changed.

I was working out of a different city, assisting with the management of an airport going through a rough transition. I was going to have some time off over the weekend, so I invited her out for a visit. She had lived in the same city a few years ago, knew some friends she hadn't seen in awhile, and it was near the beach.

I know, right? Perfect setup.

And then, of course, everything went wrong. I won't bore you with all the details (there are pages of them), but all of our plans fell through. Her return flights overbooked, and we ended up making a last minute drive 600 miles back home so she could make it to work in time.

I think it was on that drive where everything changed. For 6 months, all I could see about this girl was everything she didn't have. All I could focus on was how she didn't fit inside the box I had created inside my head. I never really saw her for who she really is. And as those miles rolled by, as I thought back on the last 6 months and what I really knew about this girl, and as she sang and danced at the top of her lungs to cheesy country songs to keep herself awake...

...I realized that who she really is, outside of my own selfish expectations, is pretty amazing.

Who she is, is someone who makes me think outside the box. Who she is, is someone who won't put up with my bullshit. Who she is, is someone who loves to laugh and have a good time. She's not ashamed to be goofy. She's not afraid to sing at the top of her lungs off-key even if she doesn't remember all the words. She cares about the well-being of her friends. She loves her family and wants one of her own. She loves God and is faithful to her church. She's adventurous. She loves to travel. She doesn't like drama and she wants her friendships to last.  She's creative and can come up with the craziest doodles at the drop of a hat. She loves conversation...even if it's about frozen grapes. She loves camping and the outdoors.

And who in their right mind wouldn't want to be a part of all that?

It took a crazy weekend and a random road trip for me to realize that I had been looking in the wrong place all along: at myself.

I know it's cliché, but God does work in mysterious, wonderful ways. I'd love to be able to tell you that I shared all this with her and that we're now pursuing a friggin' amazing relationship.

But we aren't.

I shared my feelings with her (most of them, anyway, but not as eloquently as above) and explained that if she wanted to pursue a relationship, I wanted to as well.

But she doesn't.

And you know what? That's alright. Because despite my revelation, we are still very different, very hard-headed people who might be better off as just friends. At the end of the day, I care more about her happiness...our mutual happiness...and our friendship than my loneliness.

And because, at the end of the day, what is right isn't always beautiful.

Not yet, at least.

But God is here faithfully finishing our stories. And though she and I may never be together, I know that our friendship, and this season, will serve to lead us in the direction we need to go.

Even if it isn't in the same direction.

So to her, I want to say thank you. And I'm sorry for judging you so quickly.

And to everyone else: don't get so caught up in what you think your life (and relationships) should look like and miss all the beauty that's actually there.

Thrown By the Father

Dear Anonymous Reader,

There's a verse in the bible that speaks of Jesus as the author of our faith. Like most, I envision Him sitting before a book that is my life, and I immediately know that such an image is as far from the truth as anyone can get.

Because it isn't about me. I don't have my own book. I don't believe He sits there in whatever infinite study Heaven contains and writes a book dedicated to my life alone.

But then again, He's God. Maybe He has the time (C.S. Lewis thought so).

Instead, if we're still using the book metaphor, I see Him sitting before a massive book, something so titanic in scope that even the words written within its pages couldn't describe just how mind numbingly big it is. It contains every life, every interaction, every piece of that infinite puzzle that makes up eternal history.

And there, on page seven billion and twenty-seven, somewhere in the margin, is a blotch of ink. It's a liquidy, iron, charcoal-black drop, and it's slightly smeared, as if His hand brushed over it while finishing a sentence on the opposite page.

I mean, could God do that? From whatever pen He uses (I imagine one of those old, feathery fountain pens that you have to dip into the inkwell every few sentences), could some stray, divine, story-creating ink randomly find its way into the outlying margins; a genuine, seemingly misplaced speck of writing material?

(Now, I understand some of you are already pouncing on this page theologically (I am, too), spitting accusations of how that isn't how God directs our steps. Then again, I don't care. They're my thoughts and my virtual paper, so hush up and let me finish.)

And if so, can that splotch of black turn into a person's life? Could it be my life? Could there be millions of these splotches riddled throughout the book that is God's story of His creation: those of us long dead, those of us dying, and those of us yet to come?

Have I been thrown by the Father into the margins? And if so, and even if I'm smeared by His hand, even if I'm separated from the rest of the story, from the paragraphs of all those lives intertwined, does that mean I'm just as seemingly insignificant?

Or does He purposefully place these blotches of ink? Is He still working, even when I don't understand it all? Is He still writing me in, somewhere, even when I feel thrown to the side? Are the words that have created me, breathed life into me, taking shape inside the margins, even though I appear accidental?

Thrown by the Father. Those words hammer themselves through my prefrontal cortex like an obstinate drummer. So many of us find ourselves thrown by the Father into lives that, at the time, don't make any sense whatsoever. We're abused, confused, misplaced, and alone. We struggle not through existence, but for existence. In a society that's constantly changing, we wonder where, and if ever, we fit in.

Thrown by the Father: the question of relevance.

Thrown by the Father: the question of purpose.

Thrown by the Father: our question of love.

In the same way, I see a man hanging on a tree. From his hand, nailed tightly to the bruised wood, a drop of blood falls. It lands in the margins below, but its purpose is overwhelming and undeniably eternal.

That drop in the margin begins to take shape.

And sometimes, I wonder if it's me.

Sincerely,

-Sean

For Sale: Relational Monkeys

Dear Anonymous Reader,

Let's face it...I'm awesome. I mean, look at me: I've got the car, the hair, and I can play guitar.

I mean really, who wouldn't want to be me?

Right.

I was playing guitar last night...alone. So I shot up some Facebook and noticed there was an open mic going on downtown. What's better than playing guitar alone? Sitting at a bar playing guitar in front of people, heck yeah! 'Cause who wouldn't want to partake in this acoustical, melodic awesomeness?

Right.

Truth is, I'm pretty shallow. I sit at home and watch a show about cars because it's more entertaining than folding clothes (although, I guess I could fold clothes while I watch the show), and it's a heck of a lot easier than writing a story...or anything at all, really.

Painting the kitchen is a lot of work...and it's dark outside, so that's out of the question.

I'm pretty sure I'm not tired enough to sleep just yet.

Not that any of that makes me shallow...it's just a general statement followed up by my own interpretation of laziness.

Not that I'm lazy or anything. I work at a job, yo.

Aw, look at the kitty

Anyway, I've come to learn that many people are probably more prideful than they give themselves credit for. And by many, I mean me...'cause I'm the most important person in my life.

Which is bad...right?

Or wait, maybe not. How does that verse go? "Love your neighbor?"

Oh wait, that's right, it finishes up with "...as yourself."

So I've gotta know how much I love myself to know how much I should love you.

Which, I've gotta say, I love me a lot. Again, just look at my car and fancy hair. And maybe my shoes.

So if I love me that much and I'm supposed to love you that much...then I must really suck at life. I'll make sure I've got food...and wheels...and attention...and a job...and a place to sleep...and a shower...and maybe some socks...

But what about my neighbor? In fact, who is my neighbor? Or better yet...am I neighborly...regardless of who it is?

Or am I just someone that likes to talk a lot?

*reads previous paragraphs*

Ah.

Sincerely,

-Sean

Ages ago, before dinosaurs and women...

Dear Anonymous Reader,

It's easy to talk about imagination.

It's even easier to imaginate...as it were.

It's so easy, in fact, that I'm doing it right now.

(now scroll fancy pictures of an Oregon coast, a fast car, a ranch full of trees and rivers, and some girl that actually enjoys putting up with my nonsense who I call my wife)

Then imagine none of that being good enough for no reason at all.

Finding myself lost on the tail end of summer isn't anything new. It's quite easy, in fact. So simple, that if you were to ask me how I felt at any particular moment, you'd be bound to a chair amidst dull conversation about the size of the universe and how God seems to enjoy watching us try to "figure it all out."

And then I'd tell you how much I enjoy pizza.

Of all the things to worry about, my lack of direction isn't one of them.

Really.

I have enough sense to know that with a year of school left, I have no need to worry about what's after that. Some might find it a foolish conclusion.

"You need a plan!" most yell from the scaffolding above my apartment.

Well no crap, Sherlock. I've got a plan.

However, I'm fully away that a year from now, that plan will most likely look a little bit (or a lotta bit) different.

Why?

Because every year before, it always has been.

It's not to say I'm flippant or unsure of myself. It's just to say that I'm unsure and flippant about who I think I am, what I think I want, and where I believe God is taking me.

Roughly five years ago (my insincere apologies to all unbelievers and general "religion is ridiculous" nay sayers out there) God, after years of "searching," gave me a couple of simple, fairly straight forward directions.

"Finish school," was the first. The second isn't really important to anyone else, but it had nothing to do with women, children, a car, Oregon, or even the songs I so desperately thought should have made me famous by now (not that those aren't important, but there's nothing worse than a big head itching for fame).

So for the last 5 years, I've been doing just that: school. I take my time with it, obviously, since I've been going off and on for about 7 years now, but I guess I'm not in as much a rush as most everyone else. I don't have this vision of a career with kids and a wife and a house and a car and a dog that loves to jump when I come home and a perpetual Christmas with family.

Although I do enjoy the idea of it all.

Truthfully, I'm just sitting here watching an entertaining car show, enjoying how goofy things look from a couch and two spread out bottles of beer (yup, I enjoy a drink or two now and then).

I never thought, 5 years ago, that I'd be in the position I'm in. Single, still unsure of a definite career direction (sorry dad), and more interested in the circumference of the universe than how I'm going to retire well off enough to own a boat, a plane, annnnd a nice house with horses and mountains in the background (cause Lord knows that's what I think I want at this point).

In the end, and maybe this is what's most important, I just want to know, and then do, what He wants me to.

And you know what? I suck at it.

Like anyone else, Paul especially, I can't do the simplest things. Don't lie, don't lust, don't be prideful, feed the hungry, visit the orphans and widows, pray without ceasing, etc. etc. etc.

So many natural guidelines that should flow from love of a Creator...but I suck at following even the simplest one.

I mean truthfully, at the end of the day, I many times wonder why I bother. What does it matter? I'm some finite human being. Christianity these days seems to be more egotistical than a harmonious picture of what the Body of Christ should look like. It's all about me, me, and me and does God show Himself in enough convincing ways to be believable or is He just...outdated?

I digress.

God is our refuge and strength, A very present help in trouble.” Psalm 46:1

The verse of the day. Shows up every evening around 11pm, and I find it one of the very few things worth posting on Facebook. Most get lost in Mankind's assumption of what an all-powerful, creative deity should be and do. Our parameters fill books and libraries and tired minds until no one understands what the fuss is all about anymore.

It's just that, after so long, what's been presented just isn't good enough.

And that seems to be my own problem these days. I'm stuck in the rut that nothing's good enough. The girls, the cars, the society, the careers, the writing, the songs, the dreams...

...none of it, even the idea of it, is good enough.

And you know what? None of it is.

But He is.

His Grace, whether you believe it or not, IS good enough, and it makes all the other things He sets before me good enough.

I'm not good enough for anything, really. I can kind of carry a tune, but only so much. I'm not as compassionate as I'd like to think. And I can't cook to save my life.

But His sacrifice...that wasn't only good enough...that was enough.

The proverbial definition of true fulfillment.

And even though, in the midst of life, doubt, death, struggle, success, and almost certain confusion, His grace will always be good enough.

You don't have to believe it for it to be true, or effective, it just is.

And at the end of the day, regardless of where it began, I hope it can end with the knowledge that He is our strength, and He is our very present (not distant) help when we need it most.

And most importantly...to me, anyway, He is our refuge. When all other protection falls away, He remains...felt or not...a hedge over all other things dark and dangerous. And even though I may wander, He values me enough to leave the 99 to bring me back.

To hoist me over His shoulders.

To even break my leg when I can't seem to get it right.

To love me enough to cause me pain for a bigger picture and purpose I cannot see nor understand at this finite point in history.

Even unto death...for what is death but just a door I just can't see behind? Too simple? Maybe.

I imagine a lot of things, but His love isn't one of them. Regardless of what you believe, the one thing I can share with any sense of certainty is that when I'm at the end of whatever rope I'm holding, when belief has long fled from my mind and heart, He's still there watching over everything great, terrible, beautiful, and small...

...and in it all is His purpose.

Sincerely,

-Sean

Change

Dear Anonymous Reader,

It's cliche, I know, but everything changes. Everyone leaves. And somehow, even you leave yourself at some point.

It might have a bit of cheese mixed in, but someday, if you're lucky, you'll wake up and realize that the person you were five years ago is no long around.

For some of us, this is a good thing. For the jerk in high school who managed to find a heart; for the lazy kid who somehow manages to run a family; for the less ambitious who somehow found a dream, despite the cheesy songs of "you're perfect the way you are," we all hope something about us changes.

Otherwise (and to be perfectly frank), what the hell are we doing here?

Many people graduated from college yesterday. Some I'll see again, but most I won't. I'll only manage a few lines over the next few years through the miracle of Facebook, but otherwise, truth be told, their season in my life is over.

And surprisingly enough, that's alright.

The Sean from five years ago would have been slightly heartbroken. But after this long, after seeing so many people leave and move on, it's understood that nothing lasts forever, regardless of how we feel.

That whole "circle of life" thing.

If we allow it to, such change will give us room for the new seasons, the new people, and the new experiences we have waiting for us.

Congrats, College Grads. I'll join you one of these days.

But as you can tell, I'm in no hurry.

Sincerely,

-Sean

If You're Right and You Know It (clap your hands!)

Dear Anonymous Reader,

I've got one of those story telling personalities that has to start at the beginning.

The very beginning.

                 The, "Two hundred years before I was born," beginning.

It's not that I necessarily like to hear myself talk as much as I just like for there to be substantial context for the story I'm telling...and the ultimate point I'm trying to make.

Because it's all about the story.

Yes, yes, you have the point of the story, the capstone, and such impatient types would love for you to skip to the end like any lazy chap (too much Top Gear) could "reading" a book (cheaters), but the entire point itself is wrapped up into the very story you're telling (or skipping).

(guilty)

We've become an impatient, cheap society.

Well, wait, that's not right. We've always been an impatient, cheap society, and to tell that story, I've got to go back roughly 7,000 years.

You see, there was this guy, Moses, and he was out shepherding sheep one day when...

Just kidding. I won't bore you (myself included) with such things this early in the morning (or late in the evening, whichever you prefer).

The easiest way I can make this point without delving into thousands of years of biblical history is this:

And He died on the cross so that you might live.

That's the point. The entire history of the bible, the entire message of the gospel, is wrapped up (basically) into that sentence right there.

But how'd He get there? one might ask. And who is He anyway? Why did He have to die? Why the cross? Where'd He come from and where'd He go? Was it even necessary? Is it even true?

What's the point?

There's always more to the point than just "the point." There's more to me than my desire to provide lengthy explanations that very well may put you to sleep. And there's more to being right than the profound knowledge that I'm more than likely wrong.

A lot.

But I see my story...the sides you don't. Even when the story's written on my face in lines and figures, expressions of surprise, gratitude, regret, happiness, or anger, there's more to it than just your interpretation and postmortem assumptions of why it is I do what I do (or did).

And I've been around long enough to know that even when I know for sure why you do what you do, most of the time, I don't really know jack squat.

Regardless of who you are.

All I can tell you is that I know I'm right, for now, even though I know I'm more than likely wrong.

And that's okay.

And if you find yourself in the same position, that's alright, too. We've all had to experience the rude awaking of realizing we're wrong.

"Every man’s way is right in his own eyes, but the LORD weighs the hearts." -Proverbs 21:2

There are days when I have no idea where my heart is. In fact, I could probably say that most days I have no clue where it is and which way it's going. Accordingly:

"The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick; who can understand it? -Jeremiah 17:9

Therefore, I know only to do this:

“...looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” -Hebrews 12:2

The entire point is that I'm not the point.

He is.

And there's a long, incredible story at my fingertips that tells me about it, and it's still being written.

I'm hardly right, despite my confidence and my stories, but He is. And if you don't know Him, just take a look and make an attempt to see Him not as some grand figure stapled to a religion, but as a living being allowing His creation to get to know Him in creative ways.

And if you really give it a go, despite the outcome, you'll be in for and a part of an amazing ride and fascinating story.

Sincerely,

-Sean

In Pursuit of Women (To ask or not to ask?) Part 6

Dear Anonymous Reader,

It's been a few days (or weeks...maybe)...seems I'm not procrastinating as much as I used to (except for that English paper...it's been procrastinated like a mo-fo).

At any rate, these next few "In Pursuit of Women" installments may not be in the particular order in which they occurred. I can think of at least 5 girls I liked throughout high school, but for the life of me, remembering the exact order or grade when I liked them is sketchy.

Not that you really care about those details anyway, but there ya have it.

This next girl is significant because she's the first girl I asked out...who I didn't really think I wanted to go out with.

Heck, I probably didn't even really like her all that much.

Yeah, how often does that happen?

We were both in band, and from early on in whatever school year it was (maybe Freshman year), I could tell there seemed to be some sort of interest on her part. I honestly don't remember much aside from the fact that I enjoyed the attention, but like with most all girls, she didn't fit what I thought I was looking for.

And, honestly, I think she got on my nerves more than anything.

But that aside, we took a band trip to Corpus Christi later in the year. Most of what happened is fuzzy (aside from the monstrous stick man I made in the sand the next morning), but one night as everyone took a walk on the beach, I think someone told me this girl liked me and that we'd look cute together...or something of the sort. All I really remember is knowing I didn't want to ask her out, but I felt bad, so I did anyway.

And naturally, by this point, she was probably put off by my obvious lack of interest, and so she took the power into her hands and said no

I felt rejected, for a moment, but then I remembered that I didn't really want to go out with her anyway, so I was thankful. If she would have actually said yes, then I more than likely would have found myself in an extremely awkward position the very next day when I woke up and realized I was "dating" some girl I didn't even like.

Awkward for me, and a jerk move for me to pull on her.

My dad gave me some great advice once based on a personal story of his I won't take the time to go into, but it basically goes like this:

"Don't ruin your life just to be polite."

There's a big difference (I hope) in caring for a person vs. knowing they're the sort of person you actually want to spend the rest of your life with. Thanks to our schizophrenic hormones, those lines can sometimes become cloudy...very cloudy.

Figure out what you want, where it counts, and don't worry about anything else until they come around. It's better to live alone learning patience and how to enjoy life than be stuck with someone you can't stand...or who can't stand you.

In short, and in conclusion, don't settle, and don't be the one settled for.

Sincerely,

-Sean

Kony 2012 (Make him...what?)

Dear Anonymous Reader,

Sometimes procrastination is a very good thing.

I'm sure by now most of you have seen or heard of the Kony 2012 (Make Him Famous) viral/social networking movement/trend/fad/whatever-you-feel-like-calling-it. If you haven't, here's a link to Invisible Children's 30 minute vid followed by a short summary:

A non-profit group known as Invisible Children aims at bringing Joseph Kony (war criminal and leader of the L.R.A., a rebel group who desires to see people follow the 10 commandments) to justice in 2012 by "making him famous." Their reasoning is that if everyone in the western world (or world in general) knows who Kony is and what he's done, then people will be forced to do what it takes, to back (or create) whatever policy it takes, to assist the Ugandan Government in bringing him down. So on April 20th, it's I.C.'s hope that thousands (if not millions) of young people across the nation (and the world, if possible) will blanket their cities in posters, t-shirts, and other such merchandise to make Joseph Kony undeniably famous. 

Simple enough?

It's never that simple.

The first night the video aired over vimeo/youtube, I watched Facebook/Twitter lit up like a proverbial Christmas tree as people joined the cause to see justice brought to the people (and especially the children) of Uganda.

So like everyone else, I watched the video. And despite my general skepticism, I was touched and wanted to know more about the issue at hand...as well as the other side of the story.

As a side note (for context of my position, not for boasting), I already give to a couple of charities that run various programs in Africa and Asia. So my interest and position on Invisible Children and their methods didn't suddenly appear in reaction to the hype. 

Needless to say, there's a lot to the "other side of the story" that most that night did not take the time to consider. Emotionally invigorated by talented cinematography, the unintentional mob mentality (my own opinion), and the hope of doing something good for a group of people that need it, a great many signed on to bring Kony down in 2012.

Now before you get ahead of me, I'm not against Invisible Children or their desire to see a war criminal brought to justice. That, without argument, is a very good and necessary goal. I also can't deny that some of the programs I.C. provides, and especially the awareness they raise about issues that would otherwise go unnoticed, are commendable.

I am, however, for this issue, against their desired method. But more than that, I'm against the general population's lack of further research and consideration into the potential repercussions of April 20th.

Some have tried to argue against I.C.'s position by pointing out poor money management, their current lack of financial accountability, and other such fiscal related issues. To Invisible Children's credit, they've addressed these questions with grace and transparency. My problem isn't with how Invisible Children spends the money they're given. They have the right and freedom to do with it what they will.

My problem is with how we spend our money. And is I.C. the proper place at this point?

So far, over half a million "action kits" have been purchased from I.C. since this campaign started. At $30 a pop, that's over $15 million dollars.

That's almost twice what they made for the entire year of 2011.

I.C. freely admits that they're not an aid organization, they're an advocacy group. That's great. People need advocates.

But does I.C. properly reflect the current issues in Uganda (or Africa in general), or do they have their own agenda of good intentions that unintentionally leaves Africans misrepresented and angry?

In my own opinion, spending millions of dollars on "action kits" and littering cities with tomorrows trash ends up being a gross waste of money and proverbial "clanging cymbal."

More-so, when April 21st rolls around, the general population will awake (in the West anyway) to cities littered in red talking about a man they've already heard of online and in the news.

Redundancy at its best.

Thus, millions of tax payer dollars will go to cleaning up the streets (since posters only last so long, especially in the rain), and for the price of redundancy, millions of dollars which could have gone to direct aid and efforts not only in Africa (there are great many other organizations out there) but at home (tax payer dollars which fund local programs) will have been wasted to retell the world something they already know:

Kony sucks.

Meanwhile, the actual voice of the Ugandans go unheard and unassisted because we youth thought it a better idea to pay for chatter about an issue than for actual aid for the many issues they may indeed face.

From a Christian perspective, it's along the lines of telling the world, "There are hungry people! Feed them!" without actually giving the hungry any food.

Dead Faith.

But more importantly, we fail to do the research so that we can understand what we should actually be doing to assist those in need (and do they even need our help in the first place...or are we making matters worse?).

We've merely been told what to do, and like sheep, we blindly follow.

Procrastinate, for once, on this issue, and do the research to see where your money and efforts can best be invested. If you conclude it's with Invisible Children, great. But it's a big world; take the time to look around.

Sincerely,

-Sean

There are a lot of different sources for the information I've posted. This guy, however, has done a lot more research than I have, and has compiled resources here. Please take a look. 

Decidedly Uninspired

Dear Anonymous Reader,

Surprisingly enough, I haven't procrastinated this month as much as I generally do (except for now...not studying for a french test). Obviously, it's been a couple of weeks since I've written anything here. Truth be told, I haven't felt inspired enough (or at all) to write anything seemingly worth while (schoolwork aside...inspired only by deadlines and potential F's).

markjuleen.com

Not quite the inspiration I'm looking for, but kudos nonetheless

But if there's one thing I've learned over the last few years studying literature (while also trying to write some of my own), it's that inspiration (in most instances) has little to do with great works of art. It's the hard work and long hours endured when having to write draft after draft day after day all while experiencing rejection after rejection until finally something clicks (if it ever does) and the ball starts rolling.

The sad, simple truth, however, is that the majority of artists won't ever experience that. They'll live (and die) in obscurity.

Lovely prospects, eh?

So why write...or do anything at all? Because there's hopefully more in it for you than just money (but money would be nice), and all it takes is one divine moment of being in the right place at the right time with the right piece of art to see it realized on a large scale. But if you spend your life not doing anything, then that moment will most definitely never come (and even if it did, you wouldn't have anything to show for it).

So whether you think great works of art come about by this:

legacy.lclark.edu/faculty/jsmiller/objects/idea_bulb.jpg

If you're lucky

Or more realistically by this:

I don't have organizational  issues...honest.

...understanding that most anything significant requires attention, dedication, and overall hard work is the first step to seeing any piece of "creative genius" realized.

The hardest part, though, is getting started.

But more on that later.

Sincerely,

-Sean