Dang it, dream girl.

Last night, I met the girl of my dreams. Unfortunately, I woke up to find that last statement literal. Humorous and disheartening. I barely got to spend any time with her, and I’ve already forgotten some of that. What I do remember is that she enjoyed the  rain and splashing in puddles. She had long semi-curly brown hair (then again, it was raining, so maybe it was just frizzy, doesn’t really matter to me) and an infectious smile with dimples. 

When I was a kid, I occasionally had dreams that I thought came true. Nothing terribly dramatic, I don’t think. Or maybe they were just déjà vu and I just didn’t understand what that was at the time. Childhood memories are terribly unreliable, as are remembered dreams. 

If my life was a movie, at least I could probably presume she would come to life so I could have a real conversation with her. Then I’d probably full in love, and then she would decide that I wasn’t her dream man. And I would wish I’d never had that dream. 

I’ll keep my eyes peeled anyway. 


Distracted Musings

I’m sitting in a coffee shop trying to read some C.S. Lewis (Out of the Silent Planet, specifically). But my mind will not focus. I read three pages. They were a good three pages, but I couldn’t go on. I’m so distracted by everything: the dozens of topics flying around in my mind and the random stimuli here in my favorite cafe. In front of me, there is a rather attractive, but seemingly bored out of her skull, girl who has been texting or playing on her phone incessantly for over an hour. Her expression hasn’t changed once.

Behind me, I was overhearing two people on what seemed to be a first date. I’m pretty sure of this because if they had known each other previously, they would have likely known the answers to the questions they were asking… and would have felt more comfortable letting there be a few moments of silence. Of course what strikes me most about them is that the girl is someone who sent me a message on a dating website last week. (Don’t judge me for being on a dating website. I can quite easily find a date–but when you’re as picky as me, it makes sense to use your resources. That said, I’ve had much more success re:dating in real life).

At any rate, they seemed to hit it off. Good for them. I hope it works.

I’m tired. I’m so tired of this dull barely-existing-ness. I’m the most unfulfilled I’ve felt since I was in high school. I need a jump start. I am angry at myself.



I am so thirsty; I am so nauseous. This drought is more than I can bear. I am tired of deceiving myself, deceiving you. I hope for a 40 day flood, a flood to fill the valley, and I will hope someone throws me a life preserver so I can doggy paddle over to the mountain top. I know better than to try the breaststroke, because every time I try it, I sink like I’ve a millstone about my neck.

But what will I do should that flood come and I reach the mountain? I’ve been there before only to lose my footing.

Oh there I go lying again. Truthfully, the snow was just so pure, I grabbed a sled to enjoy the rush down, but how I wish I hadn’t. How I long to be back, but my body, my body betrays me.

Pretend Love

I can’t pretend to think my life, even my love life is worse than anyone else’s. I don’t usually go around complaining, except to my closest friends. I know I’ve had my heart broken a few times, and well, that sucks, but I guess life goes on, you know. But what bothers me more is the potential harm I’ve done on the other side, being the heart-breaker. It’s not something I ever set out to do, but I probably knew better. In the heat of the moment, for however brief it was, it was nice to pretend I was in love. But when it was over, all I could think of was how badly I wanted the real thing. 

What’s Up With the Weather Anyway

It seems a bit overdone and cliché to talk about crazy weather where one lives and then compare it to one’s life situation, but I think I see some of the appeal. Let’s be real: the weather in Somwhereville, USA is pretty random, just like such and such situation, right? Perfect analogy. I’ve lived in a lot of places, but there hasn’t been a ton of variation in the weather patterns—I’ve moved 20 some times but nearly all of my life has been in the Southeast US. And in the Southeast, we get some crazy weather, especially in Lynchburg, VA. But this years has been something of exception—not just random, but rapid 50 degree swings in only a couple days. A few weeks ago, local schools cancelled classes because of snow (ok, so they tend to do that at even the threat of snow), and two days later it was in the 70s. Today, and every day for the rest of the week, the forecast says to expect a high in the mid-70s. A few days ago,I needed my heavy jacket. Before that we had some thunderstorms. Right before that we had snow.

I like seasonal changes; I get bored of consistent weather after a while, but I like knowing what to expect. But life doesn’t like playing by the rules. Sometimes you have to adjust, and as they tell you in all the fashion outlets, the best way to do that is to prepare by dressing in layers. Unfortunately, that’s not as easy to do with people. People are not actually like onions. There will be tears if you cut one, but that’s really the extent of the similarities. You can’t just peel off a layer off a layer of yourself when things get a little heated. Besides, that’s not even something you do with onions. It’s something you do with clothes. Or maybe people ARE like onions. Some are sweet, some will make you cry, some will take your breath away.

Here’s the thing though, sometimes weather changes, and you just aren’t prepared for it. Maybe it got cold before you expected and you don’t have a jacket. Maybe a hurricane is threatening to ruin everything you know. That’s ok; you can’t prepare for everything, but what you can do is give other people a hand when their stuck out in the proverbial cold. Maybe you can bring some warmth into their life by showing them that you care.

Life, Love, and Nakedness

So, I’ve got a lot to think about, and a significant number of thought-promoting stimuli around me. I have the urge to write—I’ve had the itch for months now, but hit a dead end after a couple lines each time I sit to do something about it—and so I’m going with a little stream of consciousness approach. Maybe it’s the Don Miller I’m reading, or the Tallest Man on Earth in the background, or the storm clouds and wind gusts blowing the sparrows about outside as I look out the window of my favorite coffee shop. Maybe it’s the fact there’s a pretty girl sitting across from me that I would like an excuse to talk to. Or maybe it’s that I don’t actually want an excuse to talk to her (she sneezed and I said bless you and she said thank you, but there was nothing to build on after that, alas) but that her presence is just reminding me that I’m hoping that another pretty girl that I (desperately?) want to be with will reciprocate my affection (unlikely, but I have a modicum of hope still in reserve).

No, I don’t really know what to say, and if I did, I wouldn’t know how to say it, but maybe that’s the point. Anyway, my good friend and roommate Matthew have been having some awesome conversations lately about the nature of nature(s) of love and humanity. That is, when we aren’t catching up on random TV shows on Netflix which we also see as commentary on human nature and love (by random, I mean various anime,  survival shows, Phineas and Ferb, How I Met Your Mother, and the surprisingly clever and tragically short-lived Better Off Ted). And I’m struck by how universal our yearnings are. Sometimes we view our journey in terms of humor, sometimes we paint it as melodrama or any other subgenre the critics designate. We want a sense of purpose, a sense that our journey is TO somewhere and FOR something. And we want someone to journey with us. We might want a lot of people to journey with us, but we definitely want at least one other person to come journey with us.

I’m not sure where my journey is going to yet, not have I have I figured out who will join me. I’ve got a lot of ideas for the journey part, but I’m afraid of getting too far along my journey for someone to be able to join, so I try walking a little slower, but it doesn’t really work that way—it’s more like one of those airport moving sidewalks, but it gets faster and faster the further along you get.

Now an annoying couple is sitting where the pretty girl was. That’s probably not fair to them. I tend to judge others a little too easily. Dear couple sitting across from me, if you read this, please forgive me for judging you.  They actually don’t seem very into each other. I wonder how long their journeys will be parallel.

I’ve been thinking about the women I’ve dated, the women I’ve loved, those I pursued and those I didn’t. It seems I tend to fall hard and fast. Usually faster and harder than the other person. I have a not-so-secret hope that this will change soon, but it’s not something I can bank on, which is frustrating, since I want to bank on something. I’ve been “in love” a couple times, I suppose. At least once, I truly believed the other person actually loved me, but even that relationship disintegrated rather rapidly. Then there was one I pursued for over 2 years trying to get her to commit to a relationship, only to have her break down in tears when I gave her an ultimatum; I still don’t get that, it broke her heart that I was giving up, but yet she wouldn’t do what she needed to make it work. I think she wanted to love me, but was too terrified of what it would entail. I guess that makes some sense, but it left me a wreck. I still love her even now, maybe always will, although I’ve more or less convinced myself it’s platonic now; not sure what a lie-detector would say to that. I’d be lying to say I don’t think about it somewhat regularly.

Then there’s the most recent (mis)adventure. The one where I met the (quite literal) woman of my dreams, girded up my loins (that’s the biblical term no?), and pursued her in the most earnest way I could manage. She would even agree this is true—I was great, she said, honorable, sweet. I fit pretty much everything she said she was looking for and yet…

Yet, it seems every time I try to the rescue the princess, she’s rigged the whole castle to blow.

I can slay a dragon, but melting a heart is so much harder.

Disney lied.

I don’t really know what happened. And I’m quite willing to go back for a second gauntlet run, because I’m incredibly stubborn. It may or may not work, we’ll see. That’s almost beside the point.

Matthew and I got around to discussing how so many wonderful women come to the conclusion they aren’t worthy of the person pursuing them. I’ve seen this happen so often, and it’s heart-wrenching. I suppose this happens with men too. Actually, I know it does.

We struggle so much with self-worth that we refuse to be loved. Because receiving love requires vulnerability, a nakedness. And ever since we ate of that tree in the garden thousands of years ago, we’ve been terrified of our nakedness. Nakedness is more than skin-deep. To be loved, we have to let ourselves be loved, which means we have to think there is something worth loving.

Museums are for the Dead

Museums are for the Dead

Creation. Birth. Life. Death. Every. Single. Day. This is how the story has gone. No day goes by where you and I do not die. We were dead before we were born, because we were born to the dead, who were born to the dead, who were born to the dead. Because death begets life that is dead from the start. How can the dead come to life again? How can what has passed be renewed?

We’ve become a museum filled with relics of the past, as excavated and elaborate coffins line the halls. No curator can bring this place to life; we need a creator; A fresh breath, a fresh breath, a fresh fire to burn it all down. We like our relics and we clutch them with our death grips and we try to take them out the door with us as the fire consumes. But our corpses are highly flammable, and they yearn to come to life. The dead are alight, but will they be alive?

Recreation, reignition, rebirth is a painful thing, but the real pain is on the one who gives the new life and not the newly born. For how can the dead complain? Are they not already dead? Yes, the dead want to be alive again, and so they begin to listen. A whisper grows. The creator speaks. We come alive, not again, for we were never alive. We come alive, for the first time. When love moves, life begins.