When Opposites Collide

Sometimes the world doesn't turn fast enough,
And sometimes it's never slow.
Sometimes I can't get enough of you,
And sometimes I just wish you'd go.

This world is forever changing,
Yet often it's always the same.
I may not always make sense,
But I'll always remember your name.

Inspiration

Inspiration is a strange being. Or rather, a strange abstract concept. Because inspiration cannot be described as a concrete object. It is merely a concept. It is one of those things we can see the effects of, but never see it itself. Now the kind of inspiration I am speaking of is that which stirs creativity inside of you ( I feel the need to specify this, as there are various meaning for the term "inspiration"). The reason I profess inspiration to be strange is because of its unsystematic appearances and transience. Inspiration can come upon you in a moment, sometimes for no apparent reason, and, likewise, it can disappear just as quickly, often at the most inopportune times. Sometimes inspiration appears at inopportune times as well, such as when you do not currently have the time or means to express the creativity which has been stirred inside of you by whatever it was (or perhaps in some cases, nothing at all) that inspired you. Sometimes you are inspired by something, and then at a later time, when seeking inspiration, turn back to this original inspiration, however none is forthcoming. It is not systematic. Although you can at times "find" inspiration when intentionally seeking it, it is a difficult end to achieve, or at the least, this is what I have witnessed from my experiences and encounters with inspiration. It is always changing. What inspired you once may never inspire you again. What has never inspired you, though you have been witness to it a thousand times, may suddenly on the one thousand and first time inspire you more than anything ever has before. And sometimes you may find that no specific object, occurrence, or thought seemingly gives you inspiration; it is simply suddenly there. This is what I have found to be the nature of inspiration. It cannot always be pinned down. It is there, and then it is gone. Its appearance and disappearance cannot be satisfactorily explained. In fact, I am not sure anything about it can be satisfactorily explained. Not for me anyway. This was merely an attempt on my part to explain something which I find to be strange and inexplicable.

Over Thought

I'm tired of this over thinking,
This reliving in my mind.
An escape I must find
From these crippling thoughts that bind
Me to this very spot.
This doesn't have to be my lot
And if I stay I will be caught -
Trapped inside my head,
Replaying all the words I've said,
Until I'm gone and dead.

This isn't what I sought;
Peace is what I thought
My thinking could have brought.
Overwhelmed am I
By all these tears I cry.
All I can do is try
To make these thoughts leave me,
But that is never easy
When you're addicted to your thinking.

The Beginning at the End

This is the end. The end and the beginning. The end of all I've ever known. The beginning of all I've never known. Every moment is an end. Every moment is a beginning. Because nothing is ever the same. Because nothing that is here stays. Because nothing that is not here stays away. This is life. This is my life. This is everyone's life. Life is changing. Life is ending. Life is beginning.

Empty Hands

Every day I asked for this to change, but there was a fear inside of me. A fear that made me question who I am and why I'm so capable of such horrible things. And every single promise that you whispered in my ear, that fear just kept growing until it consumed me. But I let that fear go, and I can see who you are. Your words gave me nothing. I've been running away for too long; I'm not running anymore. I will stand my ground and scream out loud: "My heart won't be yours."

This isn't mine, it's from one of my favorite songs, and possibly my favorite quote of all time from any song, because the implications are so powerful. We don't have to live in fear of what will happen when we do what we need to. There is nothing that we cannot live without besides God. The world will not end if we tell whatever is holding us back to get out of our life, if we tell it we will never belong to it. In fact, we will only be better for it. (The song is Empty Hands by Close Your Eyes).

Useless Tears

I feel so alone. So alone. Even God feels like He is not here. My heart hurts. My eyes fill with tears. I cannot contain all of the sadness inside of me and it seeks to leave through the salty tears leaking from my eyes. As though they could really help. As though they will alleviate the sorrow within me, as though they will lessen it at all. What good are tears? They will not help my pain, they will never take away my hurt. My heart aches and my response is to cry? What good will it do me? What will crying do besides stain my cheeks with tears? How can it ever make me feel better? But even though I scorn them, I know I will not be able to stop them. I cannot hold them off for long. I can already feel this building inside of me, pressing outward on my chest, trying to escape, and then constricting upon my heart in an attempt to force the cries from me. And soon I will give in, for even these words do nothing to console me.

7-8-12 11:09PM

Outlet

I'd write about my life, as I've done since the beginning of the year, but it seems as though there is nothing to say.  My life seems so empty now, so tasteless, so pointless, and any words I wrote about it would be the same.

I feel lost, like life can't go on, even though I know it will. Life always goes on the same. Always the same. Even though I don't want it to. I want everything to just stop for awhile, things to slow down, come to a stop, just for a bit, long enough for me to catch my breath. But it never does. Time goes racing on the same as ever, life goes on and I still have to keept trying to keep up with it because being left behind isn't even an option. If you're alive, you have to keep going. And I am alive, even if I don't feel that way sometimes. Sometimes my heart, my life, everything, feels so empty that I think I must have died. Or perhaps all happiness simply decided to leave me and when it did, left me only in possession of this hurt, this sadness, this emptiness. Oh, that it would all leave, all the emotion! The happiness is all gone anyway, why not just take away the rest and be done with it? At least then I would have peace. That at least could remain, because that is not an emotion, merely a state of being.

I have nothing left to say, at least not for the time being. Words seem so useless right now anyway, for there is no way they could ever express the way I feel. It seems they never can. So why do I like writing so much? Why is my passion for something that doesn't even begin to describe who I am or what I think or what I feel? And yet, what could describe all that? Nothing could ever truly show who anyone is or describe their deepest desires, or explain their most heartfelt emotions. And so I do the only thing I know how to. I try to fit what I feel into words that, though they will never do my heart justice, at least begin to make my heart seen. I write. I put the things that mean the most to me in words that barely scratch the surface of what those things really are. But they give my heart an outlet, and that is why I put forward this feeble attempt - to make my heart feel better.

7-1-12 10:38PM