Happy New Year.

I haven't been able to piece any words together. My mind is reeling with memories, both sweet and excruciatingly painful. I'm thinking about the whole concept of a "new year" and why people get so hyped. Everyone is constantly looking for hope. Everyone is always looking for a fresh start, a second chance. When a new year approaches, slates are wiped clean, or so it is hoped. "That person has to forgive me now; it's a new year!" or, "I'm going to get myself together by making a militant list of things I must do to become the person that I need to be in order to be happy." What sort of language is this?

I just can't stop thinking. I've said "Happy New Year" to only a handful of people tonight, and then I stopped. Not because I'm anti or emo (what's the new hip term that replaced "emo"?), it's just... Well, I don't really know why. I mean, I am excited for a new year. This past year may very well have been one of, if not the darkest year I've lived through. I'm so glad to be rid of it and on to something fresh and new. But see? What does that mean, "fresh" and "new"? Every single day is such. So why, then, do I say this now, and not at the start of every day? Perhaps it's because I think, "Hey, the people who have been acting crazy will probably take a break. I mean, they can't justify their evil around the start of the new year, can they?" Well, they did last year...so why couldn't they do it again? There is an automatic false sense of security that we thrive on during this time. Where it comes from? Well, I have an idea, but then again, I think we all do.

It may be inferred that I am encouraging melancholy or static behavior at the start of a new year. I assure you, I am not. I am simply bringing to light some things that I have never before found interesting or worth spending more than five minutes thinking about until this night. Of course, a lot of things have been on my mind lately, so I'm not surprised...

I don't know. Anything can happen at any given moment. I only wish we were this positive and optimistic more often than not. Some of us are, yes, but not necessarily for the same reasons as we are now. Or some try to speak their way to optimism with inflated words of solace when deep down they are ailing with every breath. If there's one thing I learned during 2011, it is that there is no time for poppycock. No time for fake, lofty, philosophical shite. If everyone would just get down to the nitty gritty.... Not that it's easy to do, but hey. Life isn't sugar. Hell, half the time, it isn't even sugar-coated. But should it have to be?

Since I have no real direction in which I'm trying to go, I suppose I should find some way to stop here. I learned a lot this year. A lot about people, actions, motives. Certain things I didn't know I learned until tonight, and some I won't be aware of until years from now, maybe. But my point, I guess, is that God is an amazing Father. I can't handle to think about how much He's looked after me, consoled me, held me in His arms while I threw fits, sent other people to hug my very soul with seemingly meaningless displays of kindness and compassion... I am just. gobsmacked. when I think of it all. Real talk, if He had not been with me, I might be anywhere. Dead, even. And maybe others, too, by my own hand. It sounds crazy and morbid to think that way, but it is when those earth-shattering realizations come to smack you like an oar in the face that you understand just that much more of who God is. It is my hope, among others, for this year that I catch even more glimpses of who my Father is through His word, and through the people that he places in my life, saved or not. I some ways I am frightened of what may happen this year, and in other ways, I am very excited. But in all ways, I am curious. Curious as to where my God will take me, and how much of Himself He'll reveal to me and in what ways as my hand rests in His.

May you all catch a glimpse or two of our Lord this year.

So, let me get this straight.

Everyone else is permitted to traipse around dropping their opinions, no matter how dimwitted, and yet I'm the one walking on eggshells. Not to say that I am the source of all knowledge past , present, and future, but surely I am able to speak? Well, yes. Of course I am. But not without nosy, no-lifes who thrive on hunting those who they can pull down to their level with their entrapments of getting you to second-guess your own intelligence that they only wish they possessed, all the while reeling in their own maniacal sense of false security. Deep, deep down, they know. They know how weak-minded they are. They know how confused they have become over time, and they only nurture the wound with more poison. The poison of the tongue that flies quickly with no thought (or certainly not enough), wildly spreading words of witless naivety like wildfire. They can no longer stop themselves, and anyone who's brave enough to tackle that battle gets sent home with the guilt of possibly hurting another one's feelings. I call bullshit. If so many people have tried to force-feed you spoonfuls of the "think-before-you-speak" elixir, then don't you think you ought to take it? Yes, it's nasty. But are not the words that spill out of your mouth constantly? Or do you sugarcoat your own vomit?

In Jesus' Name. . .

"Let us be deceitful.
Let us be conniving.
Let us act as though nothing evil is taking place.
Let us smile in the faces of one another.
Let us lie heinously.
Let us be secretive and secluded.
Let us rob another of shelter.
Let us be justifiably greedy.
Let us giveth and taketh away with a false sense of authority.
Let us be cruel.
Let us be Hellish...

and please,
let us get away with it.

In Jesus' name,
Amen."

Such is the prayer of some who warm the frontmost pews.

Feelings of Inferiority

I am surrounded by greatness.

All the time, I am surrounded by greatness.

It is almost as if I skitter about on the grimy ground

beneath the feet of those who walk before me with their heads externally held high

trying to catch whatever little flakes of brilliance fall from their shedding exterior.

I crawl behind, scraping up what they need no longer and make it new,

make it my own.

I feel not much more than a recycler digging through bins

wondering how I allowed myself to get to this place.

I move as a ghost searching silently for characteristics I'd like to emulate--

or what's worse--finding characteristics that I once had

that are now either missing entirely

or trapped under the glacierous surface of what used to be my being.

I hate it.

Back to the beginning I must go.

On my Father's lap must I sit and beg,

"Remind me who I am again?

And please, turn me into something better than that."

Everyone wants to make a difference.

At least, they all say so. . .

It is time to turn "say" into "do."

It is time to turn wishes into actions.

It is time to turn inspiration into art.

I have come to a point at which I must be more comfortable with walking in circles to start

than I would be with standing still

watching the world pass me by

one day at a time

while being eroded by the sands of time.

The first step. . .

. . .has been taken.

Exhausted?

Depleted.

Drained.

Pulverized.

Ripped.

Torn.

Run over by a monster truck.

And then again.

Unstable.

Discouraged.

Beaten to a pulp.

Like a ghost

wandering the halls

looking aimlessly for what he left behind

if anything...

Weary.

so

very

weary.

inspiration

-someone telling you that you're going to go places

-reading and identifying with the writings of another

-finding solace in shared feelings

-realizing progress after a prolonged period of being almost entirely oblivious to it

-intently observing minute details in other people

-being reminded of the fact that even the most revered people are still human, and therefore, their brilliance is also attainable by you (with hard work)

-encouragement that strikes a chord deep within from the least likely of people

-a simple gesture of affection

-a full moon glowing beneath a screen of hazy clouds, like the soul of the sky

Self-Mutilation

Empty box.

Blinking cursor.

Racing thoughts.

"Ooh, that could be good..."

Twenty words tapped out.

Stop... Think...

"Nahh, too _____."

Press and hold "delete."

*sigh*

Repeat.

This is what happens every single time I come here. I still care too much. I still hide within the walls of self-consciousness and timidity. I still find it petrifying to release my thoughts. Never eloquent enough. Never impressive enough. Never mature enough. Never written well enough. Never acceptable.

I get inspired by the words of others, almost to the point of action, and then I am utterly crushed by intimidation.

It hurts. It hurts to try and fail, or to feel inferior even when you know that anything that is done well by another has in some way been developed, nurtured and improved, whether by intention or subconscious habit. That knowledge has rarely been enough for me. Something is keeping me from believing it and I have yet to discover what it is exactly, but I must find it. I've grown tired of being crippled by my own irrational trepidation. I need to be freed. I need to be careless to a certain degree.

Let water flow from the deepening cracks in this prematurely aged stone.