Well, okay.

I laugh because in my mind there is always hope, so that is my normal attitude towards a brand new fresh year. It is a fresh new start. Everything is fresh. Like newly fallen snow. It is incredibly tempting to not to go to bed at all. That would be magically delicious, wouldn’t it?

God, it’s so clear now that you are all that I have. I have no fear now you are all that I have. Snow Patrol’s Eyes Open has been such a sweet, warm hugging friend. Like a good cup of tea. Not coffee, a good cup of coffee is far too sacred (no offense Snow Patrol). I wouldn’t mind owning another Snow Patrol album. This entry reminds me of 'media streaming' we learned in seventh grade--it was a new technology back then. I remember everything about that day--having to share computers because they had an insufficient amount at at Walcott Middle School. Mrs. Toppler, who was so stereotypical librarian, and I remember a severe dislike for her for it. Because, if anyone has had a share of stereotypical librarians, it would be a me. A year in that beautiful cage. A cage is too harsh a word. A year in that... Library, what can I say I call them how I see them. Anyways, that is besides the point, I have gotten distracted. Media Streaming. Mrs. Toppler. Seventh grade. This entry reminds me of media streaming because it is a constant flow of thoughts exploded without thinking. And because it is such a thin streaming of light from inside out, it is everything. When there is only a pinprick of light streaming from lack of internet connection at a rural middle school, it was and always will be everything. Therefore, everything I am right now is upon this pages program of Mac’s iWork. With sole-y 348 words.

I know what you learn-- which senses you remember and in which order. They say smell is your longest memory companion. But I don’t care what the hell those experts say, they have no idea the pain I feel when I hear the song “if I saw you in heaven” because of memories of too young people dying too young. And I don’t care what the mother those experts say, because they have no idea the inspiration the song “christmas tv” gives me to dance and hold hands with someone. And I honestly could not care less what those monkey experts say, because every time I hear Tom Brokraw's voice, I am back in the front room of my house, eating homemade macaroni and cheese with unfrozen frozen vegetables mingled within, watching the Nightly News with my brother and my sister.

I could not tell you why.

Except that the best advice I was ever given, is to trust that core emotion within you. Not the fleeting ones of anger, or lust, or superficial sadness. No no no no no no. NOT that emotion. If you feel like you can hardly characterize those nonsensical butterflies emotions. No.

I am talking about GUTfeeling. The one deep insides you that stirs when something is right. That is how I always knew God was real before I even had ANY encounter with Him. He was there because in my deepest GUT, he HAD to be there because nothing made sense if he wasn’t. NOTHING. So when I hear the middle-aged Tom Brokaw deliver any sort of news about foreign affairs, or bombs in a car in a land not my own, I am eating hot, cheese-covered food.

And that in itself, is perfect isn’t? The knowledge that anything MAY happen but it MAY not happen. That truth is everything and it is nothing. What can you get from black and white, right? Wrong--you can get lots from black and white but you can’t get EVERYTHING. Maybe gray, but only if you play your hand with a straight face while doing a cartwheel with synchronized swimmers.

I feel cloud-light. Like every limb is perfect and at one with my Father, the most high king.

Good night, Moon.

Envelop

My feet are stagnant on the manicured square of land, the tips of my muddy toes are facing the edge of the twisted, gnarled forest. The dividing line between this artificial perfect and the wild, untrustworthy woods, curves with the hills for miles on either side of me. The thickening air is descending and replacing this summer morning’s fabricated calm; with each breath, my lungs intake water within the humidity. To the right, far above the horizon, the sky is a blur gray as the clouds expand within themselves.

My right foot begins the trespassing within the savage, moving timber. The trees’ local birds squawk as they circle overhead; further past them, the sky begins to wheel around tinges of ashen greens and grays.
A thorn bush clasps hold of my arm, I free my bleeding limb and quicken my pace. The ground in front of me thrashes with movement, I swerve to the left and begin running.

Minutes pass of splintered bare feet pressing into the woods’ harsh earth and various tree limbs strike my face as I hurtle myself further into the grasping nature.

Without warning, a small rectangular clearing appears in the center of the dense jungle-like woods. I enter it and spiral around to discover that there is no trace of where I came, just a hemming of wild, dark growth.

The heavy air stoops again, I sit in the bed-sized, moss-covered glade. Fatigue fills my muscles, so I relax to my side on the velvety canopy.

Horizontally, looking at the surrounding weeds, twigs, and grass, I imagine them growing supernaturally fast and enveloping my body within this hedge. Dead, broken leaves would thrust their way into my mouth and soaked dirt would fill my eye sockets.

If I stayed here, this would happen.
If I stayed here, we would both be in the ground.

While we are on the topic...

Love hits you on the forehead.

All the while frantically shouting: "I'm RIGHT here! and I've always been RIGHT here!"

While quickly scampering up some retro, neon arrows that point in every direction.

They flicker and blink on, a buzz of electricity sounds and continues ringing. They are scattered.

Because "RIGHT here" can be found just about anywhere.

Love hits you on the forehead.

With the hammer-stamp reading: "Good GOD, finally!"

While arranging the mixed emotions in your cranium,

so they are in a chaotic order,

a mechanical system which-only-makes-sense-to Love.

Love hits you on the forehead.

While setting an alarm, the fickle machine explodes off

"BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEP!"

So Love grabs the thing, hits you with it,

and slam dunks the time-teller in the nearest waste bin.

Love hit her on the forehead.

She's still standing there surrounded by the inorganic source of energy humming,

with the permanent indication blaring: "Good GOD, finally!"

I might be "RIGHT here" rubbing my bruised brow.