Jars

April 28, 2013

contemplate

I know these are my prime years, the time in my life I will always look back on and reminisce thinking, “those good old days.” These are the days of going through fire and coming out stronger, being broken and then re-pieced to become something new. It’s an age of change. There are days spent drooped over work long after the sun has dropped past the horizon, then walking home in night’s brisk chill while under the cover of its starry spread. Slowly, because at that hour there is no need for urgency. Then there are those evenings spent shirking responsibility, trading “have to’s” for “want to’s.” Midnight is as young as we are and we don’t want to say goodbye, so we’ll all go to the greasiest joints in town because they’re still open and dirt cheap. And nothing tastes better at that hour when you’re with friends.

To me, every conversation past midnight takes down another wall. The later it gets the more those barriers fall. And I love it, be it a group setting or one-on-one. Because of my major I am not allowed this opportunity very often, so when I start to get pieces of his or her story it’s added to a jar in my heart. I’m a hoarder by nature so he/she can rest assured nothing is thrown out or missed.

In a perfect world these precious moments I treasure will be equally valued by the person I spent time with. My stories will be added to their hearts and he/she will allow me past the barriers that fell even in daylight. I will be a little more significant to him or her.

But because this is not a perfect world I am well acquainted with disappointment. The disappointment has changed from being a complete deterrence to a fork in the road. Ah, me.

The day I can dance like Ross, Chandler, and Joey did together in Ross’s apartment while eating will be the day I realize I am in the company of people who keep jars in their hearts too, and that one of them has my name on it.

Quip

April 22, 2013

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

These days

April 21, 2013

Ripping the page off the calendar to reveal a fresh new day has frankly become increasingly difficult. Waking up with the same burdens I thought would dissipate with sleep is taking its toll. Hearing words like “don’t be stressed” is like telling a drowning man not to flail, like a prince telling a pauper not to beg. I’m not drowning. But my vessel does seem to have sprung leaks.

And the hardest part of it all is that I forgot that my tumults are too rough and violent for friends to weather with me. My friends are paper cut friends, not ER quarantine friends. The good days just don’t seem to translate into more mortar and bricks. I hate the question “How are you” from insincere mouths because one wrong slip and they’ll stop you because it was way more than they asked for.

Perhaps these are the words and concerns of an insecure attention-seeker. I admit they are.

But that doesn’t mean I’m any less hurt.

Advice

April 14, 2013

“You have to take a step back to jump, don’t you?”

Yes, I do. But that only works if your foot got caught in a gutter. As of right now that step back is like my foot fell into an abyss and I’m falling backwards into it. So my feet aren’t planted anymore so there will be no jumping, and if there is it’ll have to wait until I’ve completed the crash landing. It’ll have to be one giant leap to get out.

I feel those thoughts come sidling in again. Those dark thoughts no one could possibly know about. The ones made of pitch that suffocate and extinguish. Because I am a master of disguise and to me you don’t really care unless you notice.

God, where is your faithfulness now?

I wish the world was as accepting a place as is the shelter of my parents.

I’m so tired. And I’m not even trying to hide it anymore. So if you ever called me your friend I will shun you and chase you away with my sharp words and silence. You deserve none of it, but then again I think you do. Because you would wonder why I bear arms and bare teeth and raise fortresses if you were a friend. Friends would be bothered by the distance, wouldn’t they? Am I expecting too much, for people to care?

No. I’m not. So I will apologize later. I can’t take my life now that my parents have safeguarded it with a “we love you” and confirmation of significance to them. I can’t do that to them. But I will suffer silently.

God?

I will go before Him because I must. Because no one else can help me now. But how much of my heart can I offer?

“Christians don’t have those thoughts,” someone once said to me. But I am and I do. And it haunts my footfalls.