Pray for this world

Everyone keeps talking about praying for Paris. Pray for Paris. I’m not a religious person so I won’t pray for Paris. And I’m not entirely sure how updating your social media status to hashtag Paris does anything.

But I will hope.

I will hope that this world will soon pull its head out of its ass. I will hope that we will get over ourselves, step away, and soon see what really matters. I will hope for this world–this world that would rather cause an uproar over a red paper cup than an up roar over the rights of female students, extreme poverty, affordable and accessible healthcare and education.

These are the things that we should care about. I’m not saying don’t pray for Paris. I’m not saying don’t pray for Beirut. I’m not saying don’t lead a social media crusade to drum up support and collect funds. I am saying perhaps you wouldn’t need to if people were considerate. Perhaps we wouldn’t have to if we were just considerate and kind. Instead of making a list of what is different from you and the person next to you make a list of things that are similar. I truly believe if you can’t find one commonality then you aren’t trying hard enough. This is were sexism, racism, and ageism find their way in. This is where they crawl in during the night and expand, pushing that person farther and farther from you until you can’t see them at all. So don’t just pray for Paris. Pray for yourself. Pray for them. And pray for this world.

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If ever I needed a dream analysis…

I rarely, if ever, remember my dreams. I occasionally will go through periods of time when I’m super stressed or there’s something on my mind that causes me to have abnormal dreams but it is super rare. I am a tried and true insomniac so I drug myself every night to sleep. This almost always insures me REM cycles minimizing the chances of me remembering what goes on in my skull while I’m out for the count.

Due to this fact I’ve drawn the conclusion that Sonic Drive-In is drugging me. After indulging in a strawberry milkshake late one night this past week I had a series of rather disturbing or strange dreams. I won’t get into the details of all of them but they were one right after the other all night. Some were so weird they were funny, other were just weird, and some were scary or disturbing. I’ve managed to work through all of them except the last one. This one woke me up at 8 o’clock in the morning and kept me up hours later pondering the meaning…and by pondering storming into my roommates room and forcing her to listen. If anyone can offer any insight into this dream I’d appreciate it. I’ve already done some searching myself.

Okay, here we go:

When I come to, I’m running. I can’t see anything but I can feel slight things whizzing past my face. I’m in a cornfield and I can’t see anything past my head so I just keep blindly following my feet. This goes on for however long–time seems ¬†warped in and after a dream. When I finally make it out of the field I’m spit out at the front steps of a small wooden cabin. The glass is gone from the windows and the front door is open. There is no sign of life; the house is completely boxed in by the cornfield. I run into the house but my point of view switches. I don’t see inside instead I watch as my body runs into the cabin and I wait for me to come back out. When I do I’m rejoined with my body and I gain my perspective back. I walk behind the house. There is a few feet from the back of the cabin to where the corn starts.

I finally see someone. There is man between the two. He is dressed as a hunter and he’s bent over a dead deer. He doesn’t see me at first. He’s lost in his own world basking in the glory of his kill. I’m concentrating on him hard when he looks up at me and smiles. He never stands tall, he remains bent over the deer. He grabs the antlers of the animal and lifts its head up off the ground. The eyes of the deer lock to mine even though I know that’s not possible. I know it’s dead. The hunter smiles again at me, bigger this time and says “it’s good to put the blood on your feet.”

 

And then I woke up.

Relying on a Magic Eight Ball

I got a call late Saturday night from my parents. Not entirely unusual but concerning all the same. They casually invited me to breakfast baiting me with free food and the promise of seeing my sister who lives across town. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was being recruited for hours of manual labor.

My parents have been inundated. Charleston has received so much rainfall in the last two months that their poor patch of land couldn’t take it. It gave way fast to the heavy blanket that fell upon them earlier this season. Because of this they have had to deal with the insurmountable cost of damage, insurance policies, appraisers, and the general inconvenience of flood damage. Their air conditioning unit pulled a Titanic and is lost to us forever. In their chaos they’ve decided that they should replace the ground A/C unit for a ceiling unit to protect it from ever being damaged again…if Charleston ever dries out. Long story short I spent the afternoon sorting through all of the items that have accumulated in a dusty attic over the course of my life. My parents are officially evicting me and I have to say that I’m uncomfortable with this.

As a child, it was the responsibility of my parents to hold my things. They provided a roof over my head and as a child of many interests and hobbies it was my sole responsibility to fill said house with as many items and possessions as I could get my grubby little hands on. When I went to college my room was kept as I left it, waiting for my bustling return at the beginning of the summer. Towards the end of my college career when I had such a greedy thirst for my own independence I moved out. But even then I wasn’t required to take all of my things with me. Now years later, I found myself sitting on the empty floor of what was my sister’s room sorting through decades of memories. FullSizeRenderI flipped through pictures of friends that I haven’t seen or heard from in years, toys that occupied thousands of hours of my time, and tiny trinkets whose origins had become fuzzy and forgotten.

I realized at some point how old I have gotten. Mind you, I’m still in my twenties and at the start of my quarter life crisis but it seemed as if it was sudden. As if holding these items I had cherished as a child put into perspective just how far from that young girl I had gotten. Time as a child seemed to pass so slowly. Even as a teenager time seemed to never go by, I remember thinking that I would never turn 18. And once I turned 18 it was like I would never be 21. But once 19 passed, so did 20. And soon even 21 was a distant memory.

I’m now at the age where I’m first discussing what kind of salary would be right for me, what kind of health insurance I need. I’m signing up for retirement plans and trying to plot where my life will go over the next five years. Holding the glove I learned how to catch a ball in back in 1994 seems to have magnified the time that has gone by when I thought it was standing still. How clearly, for a moment, I could see all the places I’ve been, people I’ve met, mistakes I’ve made, hearts I’ve broken, and all the pain I’ve experience over the course of my life.

For the very first time in my life, I am aware of how fast time is now moving. Somewhere between 18 and now, it has begun to whiz by me so fast I never noticed it. I’ve always wanted to get older, to be wiser, to be ahead. Now I’m finding myself wanting to curl up in my old things and start over.

I demand a re-do.

I’m not sure I’m where I want to be.

Kiss me, an exhausted soul

Perhaps the most contradictory situation of my life is the struggle of wanting to be alone but never ever wanting to feel lonely. And all my life all I have ever really felt is lonely. Lonely in life, lonely in love, lonely in almost every corner I could reach. Except friendship; thankfully I have been granted the ability to cling to a small gathering of wonderful people and thanks evermore to the universe for encouraging them to cling back.

Yet kissing you made me feel, for a brief span of time, that I had been wanted. That I was someone’s first choice. That I had been ¬†desired, attained, and then conquered. I felt like I was the gold at the end of the rainbow you’d been searching for.

Some rare, treasured thing.

Kissing you turned down all the noise in my head. It cleared all the fog laying low behind my eyes. I felt what it was like to be ‘in the moment.’

How rare this is for me. There is so much chaos, color, and cacophony in my head that I can’t ever…just be. As much as I try there is always something to think about, to worry about, or to create. The wheels in my head are hot with a never ending friction. My soul has never slept, never rested, never paused. And after decades of endless running, the minutes I spent kissing you were the metaphorical wrench thrown into my exhausted gears. How can I possibly thank you for such a moment of peace? You are already gone, getting smaller and less significant as time passes. And most cruelly of all, my mind has seemed to have quickened in its endeavors now that I am not kissing you. Every second your lips are not on mine is now more burdensome than ever.