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.


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.

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.



Desperately, he seeks approval

For removal of his helplessness

Yet incredulous, he can’t accept

That he won’t be swept under your rug

A hug might be the spark plug

The caffeine in his coffee mug

The first shovel that has ever dug

Into his drug addled heart




(this was gonna be four lines, but they were running a buy one get one free special, so you get eight)



I rarely feel more emasculated than when I cannot make a decision. Alternately, I feel quite manly when I do make a decision. I like being decisive, but I fear making the wrong decisions, especially major ones, because I do not want to be stupid. Of course, stupidity is emasculating too; yes, others may disagree and say stupidity is quite the male trait, but I digress. I do not believe I am stupid, but I am afraid of failure, afraid of the unknown. Is failure unknown because I am successful or because I do not take enough risks where I could fail? I fear it is the latter.

I do not fear spiders. I do not fear snakes. I do not fear heights. I do not fear the dark.

I do fear having lived out my life and not having had something to die for. I fear dying without having had something to live for.

And I do fear being alone. I do fear burning my bridges.

So I try to keep all my bridges up and supported. I am so busy holding them up, I forget to cross them. And really what is a bridge for if not to cross?

What is one to do when they both love and hate making decisions?

I do what any logical person would do. I fill my days with mundane and meaningless decisions: What should I eat? Should I get up this morning? What should I wear? Should I read the news or check my messages first? Should I…? Should I…? Should I…?

So I get a cheap fix from what will never ultimately be important. Like eating toaster pastries for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch, and ramen for dinner. It will fill you up but never truly feed you.

Decisions. I need to make some—throw them in a pot, turn the heat to high, make them boil. Let stand until ready to serve. A meal fit for a king.