26 02 2011

These are all the words that are thrilling me this evening. Some of them are my own, most are not.

Guys, listen.

Sometimes the earth shakes and people fall and it doesn’t seem right to have sunshine on those days.

I want to cover myself in filth and shit. Not to mention, there is something enchanting about the silky curvature of a woman’s neck. Maybe I’m tired of not letting voices of kindness and truth tag team against condemnation while the voice of joy distracts the referee. You can even let your shoulders touch their shoulders if they say it’s ok! There’s a word for someone who has a new mini crisis every day, but then, magically, a new lesson is learned and they walk away a better and more inspirational person. I want to throw my weakness at the world. That word is liar. I know that your hands have never known a woman, and this is not your chance, but it’s close! My plans for this evening included much more exciting company than my journal and a beer. I’m beginning to embrace the differences between loneliness and solitude. I cannot wait to find God in precisely those places I have been told He has long ago forsaken. I remember what it looks like to see the razor and choose to deny myself the one guarantee to feel something, anything at all. I am proud of that decision. And for once, maybe I’m tired of letting the things I feel like I deserve and should get, prevent me from going and giving those things to others.  All I need for you to do is stand there, smile, and let the women steal the photograph. It feels like stepping into life. Free of charge.

In the utensil drawer of life, aren’t we all just looking for a little spoon?


Courage to last into the night

8 02 2011

When I first began Project Rest it was formatted around the assumption, learned via a tapestry of life woven with threads of loneliness and dyed in various shades of anxiety, that peace was fleeting, ephemeral, gone almost before I even realized it was there. It seemed only natural to assume that all of my days when self-confidence and assurance were the dominant themes could be neatly contained within a bulleted list—hell, the memory of an entire day in which I lived free of the shackles of insecurity felt like a very distant thing, somehow wrapped up in the (irretrievably lost?) innocence of youth.

I now have a new reality to share, and share, and share again. In fact, in the last few days I have repeatedly found myself in the very strange position of having to force myself to stop talking and allow the person I’m sitting across from to get any words into the conversation at all. That’s ridiculous! and so foreign to my typical style of relating. What could possibly make me so gabby?

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