wearing thin

My home isn't mine anymore and my wonderwall is breaking and I'm walking blindly through darkness and I want to cry but it doesn't work anymore. There's nothing left.

Splendored.

The other night, in my blanket fort, I was reading the book of Psalms.
Out of nowhere, I realized why I'm here.
Why we all exist.

As a daughter of Christ, it is my duty to love people. To show love, speak love, express love for other people. Even if some of us don't believe it, we're all children of God. What father likes to see his kids fight and argue and persecute and hurt each other? What king enjoys watching his people destroy each other and tear each other apart?
By loving others we are loving Him.
It's simple.
Love each other.
Buy someone coffee when they only have two dollars on them. Let your friend borrow your red lipstick when she feels worthless. Carry ibuprofen, and don't be stingy with your t-shirts.
Just love people.
When I think of all the people I love, I see a messy, dishevled, long list of names.
Some of these people have always been there and reciprocated the love.
Some of them have broken my heart.
Some of them hate me.
Love the people that hate you.
It's really all you can do for them.
So often, someone comes to mind and they're literally full of hate. Stitched together with lies and overflowing with zeal to hurt other people.
Love them.
They're the ones that need it the most.
Love your mom, love your neighbor, love your sunday school teacher, love the creepy kid in your french class, love your lunch ladies, love your grandma, love your best friend's little brother, love yourself.
What better way is there to pass our time here on earth, than to simply love each other?

puddle-jumping

"I'm sorry."
My absolute least favourite combination of words of all time.
What the hell does that even mean?
The phrase is so overused and so abused, that it's value has become literally meaningless.
"I'm sorry." is what people say when they don't remotely care about your situation.
And "I'm sorry." is what people say when everything that's happened has left them utterly heartbroken and they want more than anything to be able to turn back time and make things better.
The thing about "I'm sorry." is half the time, people don't even mean it. They say "I'm sorry." when they weren't really listening at all but they could tell by your tone that you're sad so they think they're supposed to sympathize. No, people. No. That is not how it works. "I'm sorry." should be the most sincere thing we ever tell each other.

Someone answer this: When will we all begin to mean what say?

For you I will.

You knew I was sad. I'm not usually sad, but I was then, and you knew that. My grandma died. And my boyfriend didn't love me. And academics were gray. I came to you. You told me to lose my mind. To go crazy. Because, you said, I needed to. "Lose your mind. I'll help you find it again when you're ready." So I did. I didn't even realize that I did. It was a gradual thing, you know. Then one day I was officially a mess. I came to you. You told me what you know about me. I remember. Funny how best friends know me better than I know myself. Which is exactly how it should be. "Love you, Lex. Go be you."
Okay.
For you I will.

If the sun sets you free, you'll be free indeed.

Last night, I dreamt that someone told me the sun was bigger than the earth. I was shocked. Apparently, my subconscience doesn't believe that it's possible for anything to be bigger than the earth.
I woke up shocked that in my dream I was shocked.
Of course the sun is bigger than the earth.
That's common knowledge.

Which got me thinking:
It's really not common knowledge.
There are probably thousands of people that barely know the sun. They don't know that it's lightyears away from where they are. Or that it supplies vitamin D and causes skin cancer. They're completely unaware that it's simply a burning ball of fire.
All they know is that they see it everyday. It keeps them warm everyday. And it kind of hurts when they look at with their eyes opened all the way.

Ancient Egyptians used to worship the sun.
Sounds silly, yeah?
Not at all.
If you had never been taught any other forms of hope or faith, you would probably worship the sun as well.
The one thing that you see every single day.
The one thing that brings warmth and light to your life every single day.

What if the sun wasn't bigger than the earth?
What if it was smaller?
There would be no daylight. Or sunburn. Or sunglasses. Or growth.

The earth would be cold, dark, gray, and empty. Mostly cold.
We always take advantage of the sun.
Nowhere does it say, "Every day no matter what, the sun will rise."
But for some reason, we still believe that it will.

Put on my worried shoes.

Broken. A state, seemingly sad, but none the less inquisitive. How did I get here? Maybe on a sail boat called September. It's always treated me well before. Surely this time would be the same. Everything is new. The people I've heard about for years finally drift into view. They're from out of town. They're from where it is always snowing and always sunny. At the same time. The feelings, like something is missing. Because something is. The one who taught love has passed. So I take all that I know, and tuck it away. I can't forget. I must not forget anything. It rained once. Never enough. How dreary is it that there can never be enough? I worry. It's new. I've never really worried before. Never known how. It's one of those matters, similar to crying, that can't be taught or explained. It simply happens. Inspiration is overflowing, but the trouble seems to be in captivating it. All I can do is dream, and wait for the leaves to fall. I put on my worry shoes. They're yellow. Golden. Goldenrod. My worry shoes are goldenrod, like the crayon. Soon, I'll meet a monster and we'll fall in love and October will come and I'll be free again. As for now, I'll rest until my mind has settled. Only to wake up again and let it roam recklessly through memory and hope.

It's 12:01 am.

I'm laying in bed backwards, and I finally know what "feeling" means.
Flashbacks stampede and crush me. In the car. Singing. Coffee. No left turns. Cut through a parking lot. Dog in the back seat. It happened. Why didn't I care then?
The memories, they come in with the tears. Somehow, I've accidentally developed the habit of pulling my hair out. Sick, right? Sick. Cancer. Can. Cer. Intimidating. Not really. Forever, I've heard about it. It's ever-present.
"Maybe someday one of you will grow up and become a doctor and discover a cure for cancer."
"Age seven, and he's beating cancer."
Oh yeah, Cancer. That things they have on Grey's Anatomy. That thing they make lemonade stands for. That thing that killed Audrey Hepburn and Patrick Swayze, and is now killing her. That Cancer. The cancer that Andrew McMahon and Rick Payne defeated. It's puzzling. Cancer. I'm a cancer. Astrology. Being born on July 17th makes me a cancer. What the hell? Stop, Lex.
Another one. A phone call. She's happy. Lots to say. Both of us. Christmastime. All I wanted was for her to stop talking. What kind of grand-daughter am I? Now every word she speaks, I catalog into the pits of my heart. The "Her Last Words" file. The thing is, they don't tell me stuff. Nothing, really. So maybe she's not dying. Maybe she's going home soon. Maybe I'm being negative. Maybe. Maybe we'll beat this. Maybe nothing grey can stay.