Nearing the End.

I come close to the end of a year in which I managed to more or less successfully stick to my New Year’s resolution of writing one essay-ish piece and one piece of poetry per week.  I never really took the time to reflect on how the activity has affected my writing, and so now, in an attempt to delay the writing of my impending paper, I write this.  In certain aspects, this resolution was something that I didn’t necessarily need to stick to at all, and yet I somehow found the time to more or less get all of the necessary works produced in a timely fashion.  Looking back on what I used to write, I realized that my perspective grew more and more realistic, my tone not quite as lyrical as before, and my views not quite as naïve as they previously were.  This is the consequence of change; however, I’m not certain that I like the change.  I enjoyed writing the effusive, overly eloquent, labyrinthine pieces about certain people that I used to write, no matter how much of a headache they were to read.   It seemed like my connection to the language was fuller and more fulfilling back then.  Perhaps at the end of the year, I’ll go back and do a reading of all the pieces I wrote this year, and bring out a few of my favorite ones to analyze.  I think I would like doing that, and it might give all of the readers of this blog something to consider and measure their own interpretations against.  But for now, I write, on and on, into the passing eternity of memory.

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Impossibilities.

If I could light a fire with tears,

I promise you I would.

If I could cleanse myself of fears,

I’d do it if I could.

If rain drops flew from earth to sky

and pets lived on, never to die –

it would have happened if they should.

If shards of heart could paint the sun,

would they exist if they could?

If teardrops dried the stormy sea,

would we see as we should?

If deafened voice could mute the cheer

and darkened mind made to see clear,

things could not be just as they would.

Now speckled flecks of wasted blood,

time flows out from veins like mud;

if I did things as best I could,

does that really mean I should?

Shutter Speed.

Since Sunday, I’ve been getting more and more into photography and learning about photography.  I’ve gone to walkable distances, taking pictures of whatever I’ve found interesting enough to freeze into the eternity of a photograph, fiddling with various options comprised of ISO, aperture, and shutter speed.  Today would have been an incredible day to have gone out to take photos, but sadly…the rigors of class beckoned.  And so, I could only walk around campus, gazing wistfully into the beautiful, post-rain, full-bodied, blue sky, wondering what kinds of photos could be created in tandem with the gloriously puffy, cotton-white clouds.  However, upon coming home, the bike ride inspired me to see that there was enough light to create some potentially incredible photos.  And so, I rushed in, greeted my roommate, and walked out to continue the journey of learning about photography.  After coming back, here are two photos that struck me:

DSC_0002 ...After

Now, more or less, they are the same photo, but taken at different shutter speeds.  The brighter photo was taken at 1/4 of a second at an aperture of f/6.3, while the darker photo was taken at 1/30 of a second at an aperture of f/7.1.  Essentially, to create the brighter picture, the camera takes a longer time to take in more light, while the darker photo took in less light.

This got me thinking about my faith; how many times did situations I went through look gloomy and depressing because I hadn’t dwelled enough upon the ultimate source of light, God, and instead shut Him out?  The more that God’s light is taken in by us, the more we see the full picture – that is, the picture of His will being made manifest before us.  It’s about how much time we are willing to devote to receiving His light and how willing we are to be guided to the clarity of His will by that same light.

2 Samuel 22:29: “For you are my lamp, O Lord, and my God lightens my darkness.”

Thinking About the Lord.

I was never good at taking time apart and spending quiet time before God.  I always thought that you should just be able to find a quietness within and just talk to God while taking part in other daily routines.  However, I felt a leading recently to just stroll over to the small park by Pitzer and sit down and read the daily readings and meditate on the Word and what was going on around me.  God really took that time to show me so many amazing things, ranging from turning a gloomy day bright and sunny to really bringing peace in my heart about an issue I was wrestling with the whole week.  I was amazed at how much difference even a physical change of approach brought a new freshness to my relationship with God.  I used to regard it warily, listening to people’s stories of how encouraged they were after they spent quiet time with God, and a bit of a tired, eye-rolling attitude crept up on me.  After taking the time to sit on the bench at the small park and just meditate on God for a small quantity of time, ten or fifteen minutes, I was moved by how much more peace I felt after I finished enjoying God’s presence and creation.  He displayed His strength and comfort, while filling me with awe for the grandeur of His creation and His purpose.  Never before had He made Himself so very close to me, and I realize now the importance of spending quiet time with Him.  I encourage my brothers and sisters to do the same; at least, give it three tries, and if it strikes out, then at least you tried it.  But, it could definitely be a spiritual walk-changing experience.

Dreams Gone By.

Fluttering wings span just short of highlands,

iceborne shards of fast-slicing firebrands.

October leaves drift as melancholy blooms,

leaving behind trace memories it consumes.

A sigh of autumn wind, blowing by the ear

as realization soon hits; it’s almost been a year.

Time spent awake at times felt like a dream –

Yet what dreams came upon unraveling seams?

A blink of an eye is

the flash of a year’s life

Purge.

Elephants stained pink in brittle costume, garland adorned abominations acting as if apathetic to the appalling ambience.  Silent nights weeping over spilled water, thirty cents a gallon until it runneth over or stops shy by quite a lot.  Green screen screaming out of right corner’s view, yellow streak blazing through to the end of sight.  A red cup stands vigil next to the clarifier of windows, screen protecting the blue substance from liquifying into reality.  Ossification of thoughts run rampant from nearly a year’s time of madness, ecstasy, and confusion.  Abandonment reigns supreme amidst the chairs and couches in the dying room.  Living sounds churning from yonder, not sure what’s right when only one is left, pain of aching quality presides within the shoulder.  A breath is drawn in, chest rising, stomach swelling, blink, blink, can’t seem to think.  Two white spray-bottles hard standing fast next to decapitator of autumn melons, discarded after malevolent carvings.  A screen that once displayed now reflects, music to my eyes is silence in my ears upon a cream couch.  Red stocking limply sagging upon a beige flatland, vertically placed if standing straight.  White board turned color board with age and disuse, impossible to refurbish and burnish anew.  Itch forms below the line of sight and is swiftly rubbed once, twice.  Tiredness forms in the forearm from resting, impossibly thin paper thoughts shredding through the secondary wave of rub rub.  Sniff, rub. Blink, blink, blink.  Tears form from what? Not sadness, no one is sad here.  There is nothing to think about, but the whole world of time past to lose and to mourn, to expect exultation in the new thought that the rest want to impose.  The lone fighter howls into the wind of sands’ time, echoes lost to the ages of gnashing of teeth and murderers of crows.  The complicated history of a compounded memory strives to knife the back of a foe, back roll into a thresh of wheat, golden grained hair suave boasting in the wind – success.  What is going through the hows and whys of living, where none have tread softly and all have trampled hearts below, thinking them hard marble but were actually marshmallows.  Lamb silence terrifies the living, dying breathe in anticipation of the new souls captured for feasting upon the twisted, tormented wave of delight.  Entropy rains down upon the order, chaos manipulated by disaster until sound is stopped.  The washing is done and the drying begins.  Oh, there it begins again.  Five more minutes.  Scratch scratch.  Awkward interlocutor realizes that he is alone, talking to himself.  Lies, deceptions, theories, hopes, all dashed to flint by ignited passion, candle wicks burning with forlorn melancholy.  The fire rises until smoke evacuates the dying and overwhelms the living, passing time into hourglasses of sand and streams of falling water.  Gravity runs no course here for stretched hours become years of experiential catastrophe, blowing a nose seems like a good way to pass the seconds.  Thirds of birds flaunt themselves in front of others, yearning for recognition of some kind of cycle stopped.  Or has it just paused.  The water is still running, not quite over yet, the drying will commence soon.  Biting cold alerts of emails appearing in the right hand corner, thunderbirds screeching out a line of ten, stools reminiscing on all the ends of those they’ve known.  Desperation floods the dry cracks of tin, rubber under plastic as a new life begins.  Shaking white by force on the keys, locked up memories stored within random phrases of words, never to see light of day until day is grey and gone to sleep.  Coughing coffins belch out tunes of dirges turned melodies, sunrays lighting up the night sky through moons of envy and stars of shame.  How warm it is outside.

Still Blazin.

This is a start of a young kid’s life raised in

stories told of sex, drugs, and guns blazin,

an Asian, not aware of the hell that he was cravin.

It’s amazin, cus Mr. West was the Yeezus who was savin.

Impressionable, there’s no other way around it

A fresh can of bull, and at a young age, he had found it

Resounded within him, the silent fury he had drowned in.

They clowned him, it was his voice that they didn’t like.

He passed fresh lines but he failed on the mic.

Point guarding the pen cus all he could do was just write.