In The Stillness.

I breathed in the silent air, like a gulp of icy water. It was refreshing - revitalising. To be alone and not lonely, perhaps was the grandest gift to have! Oh what it was to be how I was at this moment... and what I would give to have it again!

Right here, where I am, people do not question what seems to be the matter, and rightly so, because it is not their matter. They do not ask why I look so... unlike joy, unlike the sun beating away the down of the clouds in the sky. Yet again, I address the question with the question. Do they know my expression? Do they know this queer feeling of the upturned corners of my lips, which really are the contracting muscles underneath? Do they know the true meaning of a furrowed brow, a lackluster eye?

I could say yes, but I long to say no, for the secrets of my heart could be spilled to no one. It is my choices that people are unfamiliar with, not necessarily the circumstance upon which I face, and their interpretation of my outward appearance would, I fear, only distort their understanding of my decisions.

I fear losing the privacy of my thoughts. The very faint idea, even if as tiny and as insignificant as an ant, that my wall is in any way corrupted makes me quiver and tremble. For the minute a tiny little thing like that breaks in, my rations will not survive. I will have no control over anything that I have. It will rot away the pristine clarity and purity of these walls which hide what others find so delicious and quenching. They just want it all, and they want to take me as well.

No, the secrets of my heart must remain deeply hidden. Nature understands - it hugs me with its loosened leaves, and brushes my hair with soft, grassy bristles. This may sound strange, but I do feel that nature speaks. Its voice is in the breeze, in the songs of the birds. It whispers into the inner sanctum of my heart: We hear you, we understand your decisions. Who is we? What is that sovereign voice, so faint, yet so lucid and clear, that seems to know the secrets of my heart, and understands who I am, what I am?

And yet, still, it embraces me with such a natural warmth when I am numbed by cold. Cool water laps at my feet, ready for drinking, when I am weary and tired.

But I can't help but to continually feel that there is a cosmos - larger than me... larger than life, even- that knows, and, even more to the point, understands.

What's more, it loves.

And I am so content that the secrets of my heart are known by this grander and more sovereign being. It is the one being I am willing to surrender to - to Someone that knows, and yet still loves - it is an amazing thing.

To this, not to anyone else, am I willing to lose control to.

PTL, Sarah.

Life Is Wonderful.

If you're the best I've ever met, and I can't have you...

Boy, am I blessed, because the best is still yet to come.

---
LOL, Sarah.

Unfortune.

It is the last night before Methods Exam 2.
I was determined to complete one exam paper.
So I did (though left the last question due to time constraints).

Then it was time to correct.
I search for the solutions...
Only to discover that I spent two hours doing the wrong exam paper.
Mathematical Methods Exam 2≠ Mathematical Methods (CAS) Exam 2.
Sad.

I want to shoot myself.

LOL, Sarah.

Austere Daydreaming.

Don't you hate the idea of structured, innovative, new writing?

I think I struggle most with that. If you'd ever gotten the chance to look back and read over your past writings, doesn't it seem rather poxy, what you discover? Say... You've written something along the lines of:

She stared back at him, and breathed, "I'm not afraid".

It's that 'something along the lines of' that bugs me, because everything everyone's ever written is 'something along the lines of' something else already written. And suddenly, what formerly sounded unique and special to you rather becomes conventional, idealistic. No matter what the context, it's the same. Now, there will always be certain words that one must use if they were to write a short piece of fiction; words, or even phrases, like: "he stared in horror" or "my heart dropped" and "He whispered "I..."" you get it. I know you get it.

For lack of ability to then express oneself successfully without already sounding corny or even phony (damn English is getting to me. Just when I thought I could lay that subject in the grave, it comes back to haunt me. And already, how conventional do I sound? Exactly my point.), we then turn to subject matter. Suddenly, everything we've written about has already once been written about. We capture moments, significant, rare, dare I say, magical moments in our lives, and yet, what magic is there if we've already written or read about it a thousand times? What does a feeling really feel like, if we're so accustomed to it having placed our angle of it that way?

But... I do think that it is our flair that makes it innovative, new, fresh, different. Our spin on words, choice on lettering, (American and Australian - don't discriminate (: ), sentence structure. Everything that makes literary writing is at our disposal, and we can use them however we want. Most of the time, it's just easier to work with something previously done - the way I've adopted a liking for Mansfield's style, and thus have incorporated some of her writing flair into my writing (obviously not this one, but you know what I mean - the stories!), but at the thought of being innovative, being new, being fresh, and being different... I mean, isn't it alluring?

I don't know. I sometimes think that when I write, I'm the least my own... yet still, it is only me who really understands it all. We're used to writing universally, because not one person has experienced and responded to each and every circumstance, for example, as I have throughout my entire life.

I do realise this blog feels much like a waste of your time, and I do apologise for that, but I can't help it; I like to ponder. Thoughts like this, to me, are often more vibrant than the colourful language spouted out by talented writers. I don't proclaim that I do have talent here (on the contrary, one can see I clearly don't from my plain and bland use of english here), but sometimes it's just why I write about simple things that pull at the corners of my lips. The things that work themselves out, which required none of our doing... now isn't that magical?

LOL, Sarah.

Still Alive.

Ames, I don't mean to copy you (though it seems that I cannot help it, genius idea) but I have ready-made two dedications so far. I'm not sure whether I will fulfill the whole 30-letters-to-30-people...
thing. But here's one, and another for another blog, because I don't want to be greedy and steal all your time! Pls enjoy.

I don't know why this image was titled 'Alone'... but ohwell.
---
I remember back to a time where I once shared my devotion time in the mornings. I remember us talking about trees, and their roots, and how often-times, we are likened to these very plants. He said, and I remember so distinctly, that he imagined his state to be a young tree who was setting his foundation in the church, whose roots were beginning to firmly grasp and hold the soil in God's house...
And I remember my response, where I, on the verge of tears, said that I was struggling to break out of my seed, push through the dirt and find my way out into the light. You said it was possibly one of the hardest steps to take.

I would have to agree. At the time, though I faced the adversity that he spoke of, I could not take comfort in his words. But, having that become my past, I understand his testament. I feel that I have grown, and where he stood, I now do. It is possibly that hardest to combine our first passion with holding true to our commitment.

I think it's our initial steps when we are most wobbly - yet is is just that achievement that is the most significant in walking along God's path.

And I thank God that I have that person in my life, and that through his guidance and support, and his reflection of Love, Grace, Mercy, and Kindness from God to me, I can now continue to grow stronger and hold more firmly onto God, and flourish in His house.

PTL.

---
And back to creativity.

---
The way that crowd would roar loudly, how it would sneer in my ears. It was the very same sound that could come from a collision of metal that would grind, crumple, grate and smash at each other - like a tragic crash on the roads. They screech, yell, and bellow, and mock me. Suddenly my vision is blurred - there is not one individual that I can see; not even a single face that I can recognise; instead, I see all but a huge wave, enveloping the space around me with their ringing voices.

And it is these howls that seem to echo within the binds of my heart like a clanging bell - an ever present reminder of hollowness. It is there no matter how I fill it with noise, because, even among the loudest of clamours comes a faint reverberation of helplessness, of the inevitable stillness that I must, alone, face.

But I am still not game enough to face it. And that is why I hide myself under these noises, for they are to me like almost silence - the rain drumming on the roof; white noise that eclipses the silence that I fear.

I would much rather face being lonely alone, than in a full room with no one to face it with.

LOL, Sarah.

Spontaneous Nonpareil.

I haven't disappeared just yet (:

---
There seems to me to be something a little strange...

As usual, after being dropped off at school, I take my daily hike up the hilly surfaces that my school has been miraculously built upon. As I walked, I listened, and all that I could hear was the unrehearsed songs of the birds, with voices of different tweeters and chirrups. Their voices sang so perfectly into my ear, like a perfectly unique little melody, a high trill intertwined with soft, murmured coos, percussioned with the tremour and rustle of leaves. It's as if the wind held the stave of these little voices; and each note is a fresh intake of beauty and a new sound.
It is truly unique.

And I cannot help but to think of our music. We crave structure to our music. Birds' song may delight us, but it is so beyond our grasp; so beyond our boundaries conjured by theories that melodies must take a few steps, then a few leaps, but not all over the place; that harmonies must have either 3rd or 5th higher pitch, give or take a few veriations such as a sustained 4th from time to time. Each instrument must perfectly be in tune- there is no in-between note between B and C. "Accidentals" are truly accidentals.

It is not that the music that we make is horrible. I truly love music; our deepest inspirations, our most heartfelt emotions, and our innermost desires are teamed together with various sounds placed so exhaustively and structurally detailed upon our black-and-white stave. We almost slave ourselves, and the result is a piece of music, a piece of our attempt at perfection.

Still, my mind wonders back to the song of the birds. They need not harmonise. They need not follow the rules. They know not perfection.
For they sing, because that's what they do.
And its perfect.

... And it's so beautifully moving that it could bring tears to my eyes.

It is how God's creation moves me. Beyond music. Beyond words.
Is God.

PTL, Sarah.

Exhilarating Resplendency.

I lie awake; restless. Though my lids close, my eyes dash about, eager for even a glimpse of light through their twitching slits. I furrow my brow, and squeeze my sight shut. My entire body responds in tension: hands ball, and toes curl. I begin to shudder.

But peace comes suddenly; I release. Every muscle relaxes, and I have been shifted.
Refreshing. I inhale, drinking in and savouring the night air. It is sharp and crisp, and yet, more like swallowing a mouthful of ice-cold water on a warm summer's evening. The air wafts through my lungs, chilly and wintry; still, my heart remains ever warm - it even overflows - and ever so sweetly floods through my veins.

My fists alleviate. Lush, dewy grass softly caresses at my palms, brushing tenderly through my loosening fingers. It is a cool, and yet somehow, a pleasant touch, not unlike a mild drizzle that leaves one with treasures of fragile diamonds in their cupped hands.

Gently, my eyes unfold - and then, brilliance.
A deep blue-black blanket glimmering with speckles of white dawns on my vision. A crescent moon smiling down, and I - or we - lying down, simply admiring.

And all of a sudden, it is so much more like gazing into the eyes of a significant other.

I would like to share this with you. You don't have to be important to me... For I only long for such beauty to flow throughout my veins, and send chills running down every nerve in my body. To breathe in the fresh, crisp breeze of a chilly evening, and to feel the soft undergrowth tickle at my limbs...To experience a wonderous night as this, even with one whom I know not well at all...
It is truly a special moment, truly, and a moment to simply savour.

And even if it just for this time that I spend feeling like this, even but for a mere moment, that is all I ask. That is all I will need.

LOL, Sarah.

Fluffy.

I reaaaalllly want to watch Despicable Me!

Look at this!!: Agnes!

SOOO CUTE!!!

That's all I really wanted to say (:

LOL, Sarah.

In The Valley.

It is much like this; like flowers in a valley.

---
At the mouth of a valley, you know what you are about to face. Deep, dark secrets linger about the musty air, whispering quietly, harshly, against the damp, mossy walls. Just one step in, and the wind arouses- it is excited. A small breeze isn't a breeze at all- you are suddenly cold, and your entire body is on edge. That presence that so comfortingly followed you before, now feels almost absent, and you are left almost utterly alone. The sun that urged you on so warmly, so encouragingly, and so surely, has escaped from the eve of the valley, it is swept away with the wind. There is nothing that would bid you onwards, unless you knew, and absolutely trusted that beyond every valley, a hill resides, and will return you to the crisp air, and the warm embrace of the sun once again.

And you do know this. So onwards, you walk, into the damp, into the unknown. The path is rocky - if it was to say that there is any path at all. Stray roots from under deadened trees seem to want to strangle your footing, and often you stumble, but you do not fall, for you are still strong from the sun's provision. But the darkness drifts towards you, slowly, inevitably, and ebbs away at any remaining light that you so depend on. You squint your eyes. Soon enough, they'll adjust, mind you. They were made cunningly for such moments as this. Your hands are stretched as far as arm's length will allow, and you feel your way through, for as surely as the darkness has settled, your vision has faded. You waver around. Nothing is familiar. You grope, and shuffle about... the wind is like the cold belly of a snake slithering along your shoulders, sending shivers down your spine. You slow down, and stop. You know you cannot turn back. But what can you do when you cannot see beyond this lingering darkness? But your vision is adjusting, slowly, surely, and soon, you see something.

Ahead, a single flower resides. It seems to be illuminated by a tiny stream of light, and though it is clouded and murky from the polluted air that you must breathe, the blossom gleams like stars against the night sky as it stems from a black pit within the crevasse of the valley. It shines. And it reminds you once again, of that hill- that beautiful hill, sprouting in abundance with flora, and streams that run alongside green grass where you may be laid to rest, under the shade of a flourishing tree bearing bright, ripened fruit. That hill is abundance - and it is where you are going once you conquer the dangers, the fears, and the insecurities hidden deep in the heart of the valley.

And so, you can take another step. But be careful! For you must not take the flower with you. The flower cannot sustain you, for as soon as you uproot it from its habitat, surely, it will wither, and die. You perhaps should leave it there, and simply be reminded of the abundance of which the flower originated from. How can something so alive, so full of joy and prosperity, live in such a deathly valley? Surely, if this flower has been conditioned to bear the harshest that this valley has to offer, and yet is still cared for, and brims with such warmth and goodness, surely, you are cared for just as well, if not more, and can journey safely, soundly into the depths of the dark.

Memories of that flower- no, of your destination: that hill - must linger in your mind, but as you wade through the darkness, darkness eats away at all seeming joy. It seems to feed on you - as you resonate with joy, darkness growls, and and magnifies. If you had carried that flower with you, and had drawn your strength from its warmth, surely it has failed you now. Its life has waned, for it is no longer sustained, and can no longer sustain you. You can no longer hope in it, for what precious life it had, nestled within the crevasses and cracks of the valley, you have stolen from.

A feeble flower. You cannot rely on it. But bear in mind the reminders it holds: its life is so sufficiently provided for in the darkest of dark. It is a signature of blessing; a reminder of the place you journeyed from, and venture towards once again. And, just as the little thing gleamed in a tiny shed of light, surely, the sun has not faded. The valley may impair your vision, but it cannot destroy the sun it so desperately tries to hide from you.

And so you continue. But the darkness grows ever darker, and your vision wanes, and your strength fails, and you begin to lose heart. Don't lose heart! Look left! Look right! Find those flowers that are sprouting up among the darkness! Though they do not sustain you, they remind you that this valley cannot destroy even the most delicate of beings, and it will most unequivocally not be able to conjure up the strength to destroy you, for, though the sun may fade, and warmth may be deficit, though your body fails, and provisions are scarce, the one who calls you is faithful, and He will carry you through.

These blossoms; though there are not many, they are sufficient. They are like lamps that guide your path. Even in your darkest hour, a little lamp will shine through, not beyond your vision, and it will light your way.

The valley can no longer overcome you. It never could, for though the darkness seeps in, and steals away our warmth, it is not warmth that we rely on. And these flowers, though their warmth is temporary, and we cannot journey onwards with them in our grasp, they instill in us the hope that we have that cannot be taken away, for surely we will be delivered, just as these flowers spring from the darkest, murkiest habitats known to man, and we will reach the promised land, flowing with milk and honey. Land of abundance.

---
Indeed, it is so much like this. Our blessings, like flowers in our deepest turmoils. And though God's presence may seem distant, we do not lose heart, for as surely as the sun rises, He is faithful to us, and He will never leave us or forsake us.

And though we are blessed, we do not place our hope in these blessings, but on the one who provides them. For where God is, there life is also, like flowers...
Even in the deepest valleys.

PTL, Sarah.

At The Park.

It was such a lovely day to be out in the sun. Finally! After such a long, cold and dreary winter, Vera could see the shy sun peek out from behind the clouds, to sweep her into his warm embrace once again. She let the sun stroke her bare shoulders, and whisper softly, sweetly, into her ear, “winter has passed”. As Vera breathed in the fresh breeze, her chest elated. She wanted to sing! And how the birds near her had started to sing, too! Their voices danced along with the warm breeze; the wind like a fresh whiff of perfume that flooded one’s insides with absolute joy and euphoria. The birds twittered and hummed; she felt right at home, as if she were sitting in front of her piano, her glove-adorned hands splayed out to play along with their cheerful tune. Vera really did feel something inside her bosom move – like a song longing to overflow from within. “I shall hum along with the beautiful creatures as they sing to my piano,” she declared gleefully, as she swept her hands across her lap to the right, and fluttered her fingertips at the end, just as the birds let out a pretty trill with their flutey voices.

---

Today was the perfect day to spend in the park. She had walked by the park many times –but quite hurriedly, so she would not have to spend a further minute out in the daunting cold of winter. So little happened during those few moments, where she would glance at the barren land – only ever was there one or two little creatures brave enough to venture out into the frosty terrain... It was far too cold for Vera, and too mysterious in the almost deserted unknowns of the park. However, Vera felt adventurous today, with the warmth of the sun assuring her of his supervision and comfort. And so, she had ventured into the park, eager to discover whatever that splendid morning had in mind for her…

And then she saw him, sitting on a nearby bench, peeling an orange in that strange way that she would never forget. Vera almost laughed aloud at the sight! She could succinctly remember how he would claw at the fruit, his sharp nails quickly splintering into the skin to create some sort of decorated swirl. The orange was his canvas – he would doodle all over it, skilfully and precisely dissecting the firm outer layer and scooping out the zest and fibre to reveal the tender, unspoilt fruit within. Vera had told him off the last time, to put away such radical behaviour and just to peel the poor orange as everyone else did. But his wily face would stare back into her, with that all too familiar and all too broad grin. Vera could distinctly hear his words dance around her ears as he positively shouted, “I’m my own artist!” the ladies and gentlemen in the café around them softened their murmur to silent reproach. How he would just smile right back, and how mortified she had felt... Vera heaved a sigh. Then, as if he’d heard her, he whirled around to face her, his light face flickered so quickly into eagerness, just like a spark bursting into tongues of flame.

“Oh my, Vera!” he exclaimed, and leapt right up to greet her, taking her hand in his, “I surely didn’t expect to see you here! Having a lovely stroll in the park? Out enjoying the sun?”

“Ah, yes, the latter”, she replied, and he grinned back at her. “Would you like something to eat? An orange, maybe?” Vera declined politely, but as she tried to withdraw her hand, he clasped onto it with both of his. At that moment, a strange beast inside of her began to move. “Won’t you come and sit? Come, just for a little while!” He led her back to the bench, and she sat down alongside him – but his hands remained firmly clasped onto hers. Vera felt like her hand was hovering low over a small fire – intensely warm, but it did not burn her. Instead, its warmth seeped in through her glove, and flooded throughout her body. She felt like she had been out in the sun for a minute too long, though she had only been out for a little while.

“You see, you came at a very convenient time. I was just looking at these bright yellow bunches, just there. Can you see? They reminded me of you, and of that time when we wandered about Kew Gardens. You named for me every single flower there was… and yet, I still cannot recall this one! You know that I am quite hopeless at remembering things. See here, how I have even carved it into the skin of this fine produce…” Vera glanced towards a colourful bush just ahead them, where his inspiration lay. She leaned in a little towards the little flowers with a warm smile, and they all reached out, wanting to hold her, beaming back at her ever so brightly.

“Verbenas,” she breathed, and turned back towards him. “Mother used to have them in her garden, in a hanging basket, and whenever we went to water them, she would tell me that I was like her Verbena, beaming at her like sunshine…” Vera’s voice faded as she remembered the warmth of her mother’s embrace, and how she would never feel it again… She shivered slightly, but he did not notice. ”Oh, the tenderness of this fruit is magnificent!” He took a generous whiff from the deepest cut of the wounded fruit. “Vera, you really should try some. Its aroma is just wonderful.” He turned her hand ever so gently in his, and placed the orange in her palm. Vera felt a grimace from inside her chest creep towards the corners of her lips, but she pursed them quickly enough for him to not notice.

“No, no… it’s okay. I really do not want this.” She was almost pleading. Would he understand what she had meant?

“Ah right…” He said, taking back the orange, and letting her hand go. His eyes wandered from hers. “Oh! Look, Vera!” he said softly, but she could hear that restrained eagerness bursting from his lips. “The children!” Vera inhaled sharply, and the beast inside her began to whimper silently, but she followed his gaze towards the playground. Suddenly, a wave of jovial children, just as adventurous as she had been, swooped in towards the playground – two in particular, a sandy-coloured haired girl, and a boy whose head of curls were boundless and untamed, scampered across the dewy grass, directly towards the monkey bars.

“Don’t worry, we’re big enough now!” Vera heard a high-pitched voice sing out towards the girl. “But I’ve never been on them before!” A higher, prettier voice sang back, and Vera could almost hear a tremble of fear from within the little voice. “Don’t be a chicken, Lottie!” the boy shouted back, and so the little girl reached for the pole.

Vera watched the girl in silence, and suddenly warmth grasped at her hand once again. The strange beast inside her chest rumbled. Lottie swung once, twice… and the little tyke successfully grabbed a hold of the next bar. What an achievement! Vera felt something inside her leap in joy and relief. But as Lottie let go of the first bar to grab a hold of the next, she lost her grip, and fell onto the ground.

“Ow…” Lottie began to sob, and Vera felt a faint chill across the skin of her neck. Wasn’t it a little colder now than before? She was sure of it. She trembled slightly, but she did not move towards the crying girl.

“Oh Lottie! You weren’t meant to fall!” The little boy dashed towards Lottie’s side, and pulled out a bandaid. He dabbed at the graze on Lottie’s knee with a tissue from his pocket, and quickly covered the scratch with the bandaid. “See? All better now! Now c’mon, let’s go!” He grabbed her arm and helped Lottie back up, and they dashed away.

Vera could not get that image out of her sight. How quickly Lottie had moved on! Yet, she was sure that she heard Lottie stifle a sniff, and saw her wipe the tears from her face before running after the boy. How hard it was for her to keep up…

“Verbenas in your garden – indeed! They really are lovely little things!” Vera heard his voice break her from her trance, and his warmth left her hand. He had knelt by the flowers beneath their feet. “Your mother was right, you know. I do believe that you are much like these delightful blossoms. In any season, you resonate with such warmth and energy...” His calm face broke into a slight smile, and the strange beast began to pound at her heart. Vera gathered her hands at her bosom, and pressed hard against it.

“Yes… you must be the only one in the world of whom I know nothing can take away that fire inside of you.” He snapped off a cluster of verbena from the bush and twirled it between his fingers. Vera stood up.

“You’re going already? But you must stay a little while longer!” He held tightly both the bunch of flowers and the carved orange in his hands, and Vera pressed even harder at the strange beast’s beating at her heart. The orange’s juice began to drip from its incisions.

“I really must go. I’m sorry,” she gave him a smile that did not hold. At that moment, she was even sorry that she had entered the park at all…

“Surely I will see you again soon?” His voice sang of such hope, and yet, such dreamy vagueness. Vera could no longer stand it. “Perhaps… but perhaps not.”

---

The sun had drawn back behind the safety of the clouds, and the winds picked up, silencing all the flora and fauna from singing any more. Still, he did not hear her last words. He placed the bleeding orange on the bench, and he hovered his dripping hand over the bushy flora, where he had removed the cluster of verbena. He loosened his suffocating grip on the isolated plant; its vibrancy had already begun to fade.

---

Finally, the story I was talking about. I got an A+! YAY! My teachers loved it (: But.. I think they liked the reflective commentary more.. bummer x]

And thus begins the final sprint. A close other has my password for Facebook, and I vow to be absent from MSN for the coming days, until my focus can turn away from study. I dedicate this to You, God, for I know in You, I have the strength to carry on. Continue to shed Your light upon my path; may I see You in everything around me, and when everything overwhelms, I know that You are God.

Blogspot will be my hangout space (:

PTL, Sarah.

In Heaven's Wake.

The more I think about it, the more selfish it is.

Isn't life... so much more? So much more than materialistic and monetary value? Much more than gain?
Isn't life so much more than me? And yet, we are so wrapped up in ourselves that we have no time for others.
We label them; student, worker, businessman, police woman. But who are they? Does no one know? Can anyone identify an individual? Does anyone know someone's life story, besides their own?
We can't. We simply cannot, even for the hope of the world.

Life is more than superficiality, gain, riches. Everyone knows it. But for those without hope, who else can they turn to?

---
I've written a story, but I will not have a direct post of it. I have provided a link to it; click here if you wish to read. By no means do I abuse such a time as this... And with everything I have, I mean it in the deepest of respects.

But I just wanted to say.. sorry. For I'm so caught up in my own skin, that I have no time to mourn for you. But I earnestly pray that you are lifted up to a place of rest, and a place where it is okay for you to cry. For He comforts. And He loves.

But I am torn. For it is especially times like these where I want to jump out of my own skin; to escape it, and forget about my own selfish and insignificant desires. I want to cry with them... And yet, I feel that myself has once again drawn centre focus. And it is a wretched feeling. My spirit is perturbed... But life, far greater, far beyond comprehension, and all I can think of is myself?
Selfish. And as silly as ever.

But even in my deepest regret of narcissism, my condolences go out to you. As hopeless, as selfish, and as greedy as I am, with little goodness that is in my heart, I give you Love. If not mine, His. For I know that He sees your strength, and how you stand. He knows the innermost depths of your heart. And just as He fell from the skies, so too, along with you, in all your inequities and pain, He is lifted on high in glory.

Hosanna,
Amen.

---
I do not seek approval, I do not seek attention.

RIP, for you wake up in heaven.

Sarah.

Alluring Reminisce.

Hello. (:

Be eagerly anticipatory of my story, of which I will post soon.... No, I'll be generous. Make that two stories, because I am guilt-ridden for my unexplained near-one-month absence.
There is no excuse, but there are reasons which I can only give with a slight grimace, but I'll smile it out.

Year 12.
It really is the most overwhelming breath of reality I have experienced so far.

Pray for me, please? I cannot go on without Him.

It is a mediocre post today. Significant to one. That one is perhaps only me, though there are two addressed here. I do not mean for it to be sad, for I am only filled with love for my past, which has weathered me away to who I am today. I hope you enjoy the style, if nothing else.

---
"To: Doofus
From: Awesome"

I closed my eyes, and imagined. Well - I tried to imagine anyway. There is only so much I can work with. All I have left are tiny fragments, but I feel that I have been robbed of all the adjoining pieces, left only with tattered, confusing pieces that I just do not understand. You know, I probably did understand once... it feels like a lifetime ago now. But now, I just can't connect anything together. I can remember nothing.

And yet there is this empty feeling. It's as if I should have something there - almost as if you should be there, but that is just silly, because you're not. Nevertheless, this is it: the feel is like a room, windswept, papers scattered everywhere, but everything is deafeningly silent and dangerously still. With it, the wind stole my memories of you.

But I have dug up some sort of creature - it's not real of course, only a stuffed animal. It sees with no eyes, has a large tummy with no food. It is strangely reminiscent of my birthday. Yes. I think you gave that to me as a present. Praise the heavens that I remember something, I suppose. Oh- and with it came a card from you. Of course; how could I forget? Our mutual yet pointless obsession of a colour; it adorned the otherwise naked envelope... its contents really were naked too. I definitely believe this is true, even now: that I heard you laugh when I opened it.

But I can't seem to remember that strange sound, that laugh of yours, despite the acoustics of this room I'm in. I should be hearing something - I'm straining to hear something. But nothing is there. Even the faint echo of your voice is nowhere to be found.

And what are these figments of my imagination? They are bountiful and boundless. I've looked at so many; and they are all so incomplete... and yet, my mind is completely covered. They portray a face- or rather, various facets that, if correctly placed, may perhaps reveal the slight resemblance of a face. Essentially, they all make up one thing, but I cannot grasp the product of all these fallen fragments of information. They are useless to me... but they aren't meant to. They are here for a reason... but for what? It is a question I am unable to answer.

Nonetheless. They must be here for a purpose. You, after all, were in my life for a purpose. And memories of you, as disintegrated they may seem, and as emptied as I am of them, there are pieces- very small, very insignificant pieces, that remind me of that something in you that even a fool is smart enough to treasure.

So, I bid you fare-thee-well, and I leave you on good-graces. May whatever these segments of what seem to only point to you stay or go as they please - perhaps carried away - or otherwise, left in this room as that one reminder that you were once significant in my life.

Take care, and I wish you love from here, to wherever you are now.

LOL, Sarah.

Invigorating Incense.

You've Got The Love - Florence + The Machine

Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air
I know I can count on You
Sometimes I feel like saying:
"Lord I just don't care,"
But You've got the love I need to see me through

Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough
And things go wrong no matter what I do
Now and then it seems that life is just too much
But you've got the love I need to see me through

When food is gone you are my daily meal
When friends are gone I know my Saviour's love is real
Your love is real

You've got the love

Time after time I think "Oh Lord what's the use?"
Time after time I think it's just no good
Sooner or later in life, the things you love you loose
But you got the love I need to see me through

You got the love

---
Sharing music ♥!

LOL, Sarah.

Alleviated Assent.

It's little things that I remember, and thus it's also the little things that hurt.

To remember the thinly veiled insults exchanged behind eloquent words and fine phrases; the passionate singing along to such sweet music from the top of our lungs; the witty, and sometimes sarcastic jokes shared and understood only by us; how we dared not embrace, and yet somehow I feel that we knew just how much we meant to each other...

I remember your laugh, and vaguely, yet quite distinctly, the sound of your voice as you sung for me for the first time ever in front of an audience of two; at least you still have one of that audience, huh? And I'm glad it's one of the people I trust most, because I know that you're still in good hands.

And so we tackled the first hurdle, head first... we both got hurt, I suppose, but we recovered quickly and ran side-by-side for a while longer... or for as long as one of us could last. But I just couldn't keep up with you over the next hurdle; I was knocked down, and you just had to leave me behind, because I slowed you down enough already.

It was an awkward goodbye... surely I'd see you down the track, but we had our own journeys now. Our paths ended then and there on that one hurdle that tripped me over, and I just could not run with you any longer.

But I'm thankful that you didn't slow down, and that you didn't try to ease the pain that I'd consequently felt from this. I'm thankful that we grew apart. Because now you really can move on, with no hindrances, with nothing that holds you back. You're running the race, and you can run it with all your might now, and with complete concentration. Your next hurdles may be higher, but you've got no one pulling you down when you attempt to jump over it.

As for me, I'm so much stronger that I've ever been. The pain singed at me for a while, a long while, I'll admit, but because I wasn't strong enough. But now I'm just thankful that you were there to run that race with me. And when the road got thinner, and the path got steeper, I can only conclude that this was the best decision we've made. The race that you're running just isn't mine to run, and neither is my race yours.

I'm a little sad, but my heart abounds in joy and in peace - because I know that you're making your ways well. I too, am doing so, and if you wanted to know, I'm doing great. I really am. I've learnt a lot from you, and I just wanted to say how great it was to have you as one of my best friends, even if it was only for a little while.

Thank you, friend. You've meant so much to me. Maybe you can't look at me the same, but I still hold you up with great respect and affection for you. I only wish for you the best from now on.

Lots Of Love,
Sarah.

Avant - Garde.

And so this is a very Merry Happy Birthday of exactly 2 years of my baby blog's existence.

So I thus present thee, of whom perhaps may be a many or a little, a long blog (:

*To be read whilst Everthing Is Beautiful - Starfield plays softly, but distinctly, in the background. (:

Today is a new day. Today is a good day. Why shouldn't it be? God has us physically, spiritually and mentally rested, preparing us for new places, new objects, new trials. Today must be good, for He made it, and He makes all things good, working everything together for the good of those who love Him.

Today is not the quarrel yesterday at recess, nor the hurt that followed during the day, nor was it last night's depression. Today, you have been healed. Or, if hurt still, you are undergoing a great recovery. Today is not yesterday's rushed morning, stressful afternoon and exhausted evening. We start anew today. We start having had enough rest. We start with the wakening of the senses to the chilly smell of a winter morning, the clinging of warmth from our blanket as we grasp it gingerly in our fingers. Inside, we have been massaged, relaxed, restored and renewed.

So, if God has done this inside our midst, on us- our souls and within our hearts, in our spirit and in our strength, should we not then be life? And by this, I mean truly alive, alight with brightness and eagerness for the events of today? For we are being renewed every day. Should we revert to old ways if we have been restored? Should we start old if we begin new?

We have been redeemed from yesterday's hold - yesterday's tantrums, hurts, and tribulations cannot cling onto what is today. They are old, and they dare not touch a new thing. When we wake, we do not have to think about old trauma, for it no longer binds us to its situation.

It is a new day! and a good day! We have been prepared for it- restored for it, renewed for it, and redeemed for it. Is this not something that delights our hearts? Do we not believe that our God does all this, and more? Nuggets of blessing throughout the day, fresh laughs, earnest smiles, sincere joy. New hardships to make us pray, reflect, and pray for change, so that in another new day, we are renewed again - and not with old strength, but instead we a moved from His strength to His next strength, where His strength is made perfect in our utmost weaknesses.

Is this not good news? Is there no reason to praise? It's a new day, a new dawn, a new life - for me, for you. And shall we not, then, feel good?

Of course, this is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it, for the Lord has made us in His own image, and He knows that His creation is good. He is glad in us, for He can live in us - and restore, renew and redeem us.

Praise God, who makes all things new - we are new creations! The old has gone! The New has begun!

- Taken directly from my devotionals journal from 22.07.2010
---
It is at these glowing moments where I feel so incredulously joyful.

It's as if I've walked out of my door to find the curtains drawn, and only the sun beams down on me, with the clouds even daring to recede. I close my eyes, and I enjoy the sunshine as he embraces me, stroking my cheeks with his rays of light, and warmly clasping at my hands as he eagerly fills the spaces between my fingers with his own in earnest affection and ardor.

And he leads me towards the front step of the porch; from there, a stone path invites me to step into the new season. Each stone is frilled with little bristles of dewy morning grass, each droplet on each leaflet bouncing bent light onto the stone - so much so that it burst with colour - surely even the stones were proclaiming the promise of this day!

I feel there is spring in my step, and daisies twirl from the traces of my footprints, and butterflies circle from beneath my feet. It's as if they are lifting me off the ground, and I begin to soar as I leap from stone to stone. The butterflies at my feet beat away at the mist so as to reveal the stones, joyfully glistening its true colours in the sun. I kneel on a particularly large stone, and suddenly, I hear music.

The birds, out of nowhere, perch onto a naked branch with but one budding leaf, chirping gleefully as if they all had a reason to sing. Their voices carry me along, dancing around the sun's rays, and encompassing me with impromtu rhythm and rhyme, and smiling as their melodies flow through my ears, and enter every corner of my heart, and I cannot help but to sing along with all that sings around me.

So, from my lips escape a chilly, yet refreshing kiss of wind, and out comes unrehearsed: a harmony that all but exemplifies the great twitter of the birds, the buzzing of excitement and expectation from the wings of a tiny bee as it hopes and expects to find great provisions even from a tiny budding flower, and the lullaby of the sun as it cradles me in its arms, uninterrupted by the soft coos of the winds that playfully tug at my hair.

And how my heart overflows with love and gratitude! How I am blessed to be embraced by the sun itself! And how my surroundings resonate with such beauty, and that I, little I, am able to sing along with the flora and fauna, and together celebrate a brand new opening of a new day.

---
And I really do feel that spring begins in my very next step. I have felt no joy greater than now - I in so much awe that my thinking is even childlike...

I cannot help myself. I must smile all the time. I must smile at every small thing, and I must capture life in its fleeting moments, for I know that everything - every infinitesimal thing - conveys beauty, and captures the essence of a Saviour whose faith is complete.

And I step into a new season, leaving the frosty bites of winter alone. I am embraced by warmth now, and I have everything to be thankful for.

---
And finally, it shall be that until one year from now, I have no intention of committing to any relationship closer than best friendship other than that between my God and I.

PTL, Sarah.
*This is entirely optional, but listen to the song anyway (:

Beautiful Promise.

There's so much we can do with words. We could dress up a naked word, and adorn it with decorations of imagery and twists of metaphors and analogies to appeal to every one of our senses. Our line of thought can be adjusted by what we read, we are positioned to like, hate, or be neutral about a subject. We can enhance, or take away from a subject of beauty, and we can create worlds, images, and dreams far beyond one's own imagination.

We can confuse, and we can confront.
We can entertain, and we can stir sympathy.

But we can't change hearts.

There's so much that we can say about our troubles, tribulations, and trials. There's so much complaining we could do, so much whinging and whining behaviour that can add to the surmounting pressure and stress that they provide with. We can go on forever, lamenting on our troubles, and always be depleted of any glimmer of hope, not even a rainbow of promise could lift our spirit.

We can compromise, and we can despair.
We can lament, and we can be blinded.

But we can see God.

But the one thing that is simple, the one thing that needs no words, is that God is greater. And God's glory will be revealed in us.

All it is really, is God. Not how cunning we are, how skillfully we play with our words, nor how moving we can be. Nor is it how hopeless we are, how punished we feel, and how deeply in a hole of depression we have fallen into.

It's about God. God makes things, and makes things beautiful by His mere word. It is His light, which He made, that streams down to give us hope in Him again. He put that rainbow in the sky; a promise given to us, to remind us that He is God. He is above all things. He is above the storm. His mere words silenced the storm, and He silences our storms, with a promise: that He is faithful, and He will do it. He will change our hearts.

This is flat.
This has no dressing of any kind.
This is God's work.
And these are God's words:

That He really is God, and that He is God above all things.

I really cannot say any more.

PTL, Sarah.

Effortless Extravagance.

The Greatness of our God - Hillsong

Please listen to at least 5 seconds (up to 26 if you will) of this song, because the first five seconds of this song unlocked from within me such an outpour of awe... As you can see here what follows this sentence... (:

---
It's just as if a butterfly flutters across the keys, gently hopping from one note to the other- it would do so with such delicacy and precision. Its mere touch was barely anything, but somehow more than enough, for just as it lands, it takes off again. The butterfly, so elegantly poised, rises from its first residence, still ringing of cherished beauty, towards its neighbouring residence for another ounce of resounded prettiness to be left there too.

Then, it waits.

First, with a single - quick, but unrushed- stretch of its wings, outwards first to ever so humbly reveal the stunning beauty adorned upon the unknowing butterfly's wings; and then restored to their former, closed position, as if the little darling knew to be modest- that You could only ever catch a glimpse of beauty, but you could not nor should ever bathe in its splendour for too long...

And then again, it nimbly leaps into the air, enjoying the stretch of its arched wings, as well as the freedom in which it could move, all the while leaving a trill of inspired awe in its wake as it fluttered away, perfect and pure.

How 'free' every movement of this butterfly seemed! And yet, it was so precise- it seemed to be made to exact beauty in all its splendour and glory- and yet there is that ever present modesty and humble stature that resides from within, because it just knows this: that it is not beautiful because the lovely being wanted to be, but instead because its loving Creator wanted it to be.

So as this meek, little butterfly flutters so daintily away, we are left with so much more than its extravagance, its pleasant beauty and the ring of pleasant music that follows it, but so much more of the wonder of its creator, who made it so perfectly, so that it illuminates His spirit of excellence in its entirety, even in what it leaves behind.

*PTL, Sarah.

*Praise The Lord; and also a substitute for a while, as long as my blogs remain, to me, glorifying to God.

Harmonious Hustling.

"Don't look outside of the boat!" Your voice was raised so high, trying to gather my full attention. The rapids were moving ever faster now, and I could barely see any hope of our survival.

Waters splashed heavily into the boat, and drenched me entirely. Rocks seemed to spit out from the hungry rapids, and it was as if the rapids were taunting us; the rocks were bones from its last victim, and we would be their next. The ferocious waves snarled and snapped at us from the exterior of the boat, and drooled all over us with its rushing water as it pounded into the sides of the boat. I shook violently in fear and anxiety... How could we make it? How could we make this, when so many other people have died trying?

I lent towards the end of the boat, and all I could see were these majestic waves smashing against rocks of every size, each with significantly sharp, jagged edges. The moment I looked over the side, the boat too, was thrown aside into the point of a particularly jagged rock, and bits of wood from the boat was shattered into pieces; the bits flew everywhere, partly cutting me, and partly cutting you also.

"Stop moving!" you said, but I was flailing hopelessly at the tremendous odds against us in surviving these rapids. You were steering the boat, I know, but they said even the most experienced sailors had difficulties in the rapids. I tried to close my eyes, but as soon as I did, I lost my balance, and I was thrown from side to side; the boat rocked more violently than ever, and I could barely pick myself up when I heard your voice again.

"Look at me! Please, just focus on me!" Your voice was still raised, and strained… not out of anger, but out of desperation. You wanted to see this through even more than I did. And suddenly, there was an ounce of hope that I heard from within your voice, and I turned to you in an instant.

"Just watch me..." Your voice trailed off as you continued to work at the oars, moving so sharply, yet so fluidly to keep the boat in balance. I could do nothing, of course, because you were the driver, but I watched as you began to rock in sync with the boat, and with the rapids, swiftly moving your oars back and forth to manoeuvre the boat around the larger rocks.

I set my eyes on you, and I concentrated on watching you move and sway about. All of a sudden, you did not look frantic or panicky as you controlled the boat; instead, you looked rested, in control, and full of hope for our survival. Soon, I my body was guided by your movements; I swayed as you swayed, leaned as you leaned.

"Brace yourself," you muttered, but I already knew that you wanted me to, and I ducked as you ducked, stead-fastedly holding to the sides of the boat as the rapids continued to spit rocks and shattered wood at us. I squinted as flying objects were thrown in our direction, cutting and biting into our skin; I winced at the pain, but I refused to take my eyes off you. Somehow, I knew that if I just obeyed your commands, I would see the end with more than just my skin on... but that I will have learnt to fully trust in you, because you know what you are doing, where you are going, with my safety as your topmost priority.

---

Does this not seem to paint a picture of our sailor, who tries to guide us, and show us the way in rocky streams, and rushing rapids?

PTL, Sarah.

The Delicate Equilibrium.

I have a strange habit of only posting memoirs which are permeated with such strong levels of intensity; of obscure pain or sorrow, or of such refined happiness and joy that deserves no veil in front of it as its light breaks through the lines of black ink, and radiates its vibrant warmth from the led lighted screen. And as these waves leap from the screen, flooding into the chest -sometimes warming and calm, sometimes frigid and icy waters - they lap against solid hearts, finding small entrances into its tender secrets within.

In any movement of these currents, I could only hope the hearts consumed within it are moved along with it. However, the intensities of the overflow of my heart haven't been what I long my readers to be swept along with. The currents go deeper into colder, more mysterious, painfully bitter depths, and I long to change the direction in which these currents flow.

Perhaps my life is made from ocean trenches, and I am unable to channel these currents any other way, but the least I could do probably is to - yes, cast my readers into this flow of words - but not in biting, chilly tidal motions, but instead into a stream of warmth, which rushes them to the surface quicker, where the sun's rays may catch them, and hug them in its embrace.

So I've decided. If there is any lingering emotional imbalance, where sorrow far outweighs joy in a blog, I hope to restrain it, and instead pour in an extra flow of fervour to restore this emotional imbalance to its original state. I know in our humanity that we have a naturally great outpour of sorrow, and so little natural exuberance.

But thank God for the sun to warm our cooled currents. Thank God for His son to flood us with His love, hope and joy, so that we, in turn may illuminate His light to the coldest of hearts.

I cannot promise, but I hope to turn this leaf over, and let its wilted ends be revitalised once again in the same way I walk with edges that no longer wilt in its circumstance, but brim with the light that is my sustenance.

LOL, Sarah.

Hybrid Sentiments.

You know what?

I'm alright with being replaced. Because first of all, being a friend of mine is no small feat. It's hard to be my friend. I don't mean that in a cocky, arrogant way; I mean if you make friends with me, it's usually tough to stay friends with me. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but it can't be your fault, seeing as so many people in the past have left me before in similar circumstances anyway.

I don't blame you at all. In fact, I want to congratulate you. It's probably a bad idea to have become my friend in the first place. All you'd be in for is a spark, a glimpse of some artificial warmth, for example, which embraces you and comforts you almost immediately; but then after a few moment's use - because it's not manufactured to last - soon enough, it'll explode right in your hands. You'll find no use for it in the long run. All that it'd leave you is with a slight burn on your palms, and a lingering thought ebbing away at your mind saying what a stupid idea it was to ever buy some cheapo "instant-warmth" device.

Don't think that I don't know it. I don't know why it happens, but it happens. It's almost inevitable. But the way you show off your new "insta-warmth" device right in front of me is punishing. There I lie, broken and filled with glitches. and you just dangle it in front of me, still prettied up in its case, and glinting in the light because you polish it. You cherish that device, because it works, of course.

But that never meant that I never tried to work for you. I did, and I still do. Yet you brush off any sign of warmth from me, because it's too much when it's teamed up with another. You only need one, and you haven't bothered to recover what was broken.

I shouldn't complain, because I'm a faulty device anyway. But has anyone tried to fix me after I've blown up in their hands? Has anyone bothered to think that maybe my glitches aren't unrepairable? I'm sorry to suddenly be all needy, but I'm actually trying to make it work. You aren't. Don't be a hypocrite about it.

Complaining about others not making it work for you is just not justifiable if you don't put in either. When I finally want a break, rest my damaged arms from this task, don't burn up against me and say that it's my fault that I'm broken. At least I try.

---
I'm writing this to a lot of people, and I'm sorry that it's one of my angriest blogs that I've ever posted in the 260ish posts already made.

On a lighter note, I learnt something really positive today - because I've been troubled with a lot of thoughts - friends who I wish could be closer, and impulses which, according to my morals, is as wrong as sin. But these temptations are just that: temptations that steer me away from having faith that God's got a brighter plan for me, a future that's so much better than that I could ever dream of. A best friend who will really love me and care for me, and whom I can truly fall in love with and call my husband. It makes this wait worth it... it makes this suffering worth it...

Even when it hurts most.

"What we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory he will reveal to us later." Romans 8:18 [NLT]

LOL, Sarah.

The Withdrawal.

I don't feel pretty.

---
It was against my every urge. I glanced across the room over and over and soon enough I lost count. From time to time I was convinced that I had felt your eyes fall onto me; I almost wish that they stayed there so that you could see my own lock with yours. But against my very impulse, my want, and even my utter need to have this desire filled was neglected, and trampled across the dance floor as the music rumbled on. I would edge ever closer to you, but I could never face you. Just inches apart, a fire ran so fiercely through my veins, and demanded my complete concentration to fight myself, to keep myself in control, and to steer away from you...

And as I did, I succinctly heard my heart drop. The adrenaline that rushed through my entire body was suppressed - even squeezed out of the life of me - so resentfully and so regrettably as our proximity once again became the Great Divide...

Perhaps I will be thankful for my morality and levelheadedness in the long run, but for now, as my car pulls away from the venue, with me slumped limply over the back seat, watching the ray of light drown in the darkness; as I return to where I belong, a tiny hole in my heart remains open, and a space in my mind - a question of regret? - lingers, unanswered, unfilled, and unforgotten.

---
The last ever school formal ended too fast, too soon, and too regrettably.

LOL, Sarah.

Evanescent Moments.

Although you probably don't remember me, and I could only see you from a distance, (save from being more stalker-ish than I seem right now), I just gotta say- nice haircut, Michael. I guess you were due for one sometime soon since last we met. (:

---
As the train picked up speed, and the familiar chugging of its wheels pulled it forwards along the track, I turned up the volume, and immersed myself in a flood of musical lyric. The carriage met a curve, and it begun swinging from side to side; as it rocked, I too, swung to my own rhythmic harmony, Or was it the other way around? the train wasn't just making a precise turn - no! It was really swaying along to my music, rocking along with me to the gentle melody. I could not help but conclude: the train was, in fact, praising the same God that I was worshiping.

I smiled in amazement and wonder, and increased the volume further, and closed my eyes, softly humming with such a renewed passion to worship along with everything around me. As always, the sun shone brighter than ever before, and the winds cooed from the outskirts of the carriage. The sky scrapers scraped the sky with more ferocity than usual, as if standing in majesty, for His glory. A delightful scene, indeed, as the train rocked me softly into worship, and I closed my eyes and engrossed myself back into wonder and awe.

---
Some days are truly splendid, and it's days like these when we can truly realise that everything happens for a reason; if we stop singing, the rocks soon will shout.

And it's these days where I can truly be myself, unhinged, and free from being suspended on the pendulum that swings me to and fro from who I am and who I'm forced to be.

LOL, Sarah.

Pensive Contemplation.

This room is full of cling and clatter. Random objects are tangled on strings suspended across the ceiling; the dim light hangs in the centre, its weight supported only by the feeble wire, and it flickers weakly, but desperately, as if it were determined to shed light in its neglected territory.

All across the grimy carpet lay old newspapers, dated from up to years back, and the only recent one being ten days ago, all ripped up and torn, and finally lying limply in a messy heap on the floor. In another corner lays another large pile; unsorted, unlikely objects, all with a thick blanket of dust neatly resting atop each piece that stuck out, organised tastefully into a unique, utterly incomprehensible form. These objects are remarkably similar, and as each object is recognised, a little story seems to flow from within each one... Stories that ring a bell, and invoke reflection and reminisce.

The cupboards, desks, chairs, everything is filled, even overflowing, so that nothing can be closed; the room were as if it were a strangely deliberate display of an array of books thrown in every possible direction, with leafs carefully laid out dangerously close to the edge of a desk or shelf that it may fall if anyone touched it, and covers left wide open with nothing in between. Even the furniture seems antique: they have collected a thick, warm layer of dust over themselves, and their varnish is long gone, leaving unwanted, dull finishes, like the murky, dirty waters many would dare not even touch.

It seems that all life has been sucked out of this room; that is, all but a tiny little plant, sitting by its lonesome self beside a row of withered pot-plants, behind old, patched curtains that stole the room of any natural light. It puffs its own little chest as large as it can, although it is choked by the thick, dusty air. As much as it may have tried, gilings settled atop its little arms and intertwined with the tiny spikes over its body. Still, the cactus lived, and stood on the sooty window sill, soaking in the sun as it breached the clouded windows, permeating throughout the cactus' body, and in turn strengthening it to live on. The mini-cactus seems to know that the sun would still rise again to give light to it, even if all surrounding it had died so long ago.

And so I stood up, cupping the brave little cactus carefully in both hands, and left the room with a soft creak, followed by a muffled thump, before departing from the forgotten room. There, I left its memories, and miscellaneous objects undisturbed, aside from a stir of dust particles, floating dreamily in the air once again.

---
I feel delight. This piece, although seemingly dreary and probably boring to everyone else, is like the sun softly caressing my cheek, and its lovely warmth tickling my lips.
The room itself is strongly metaphoric, perhaps, of myself, or my thoughts: cluttered, messy, and full of memories and past memoirs played over again from a vinyl record over an age old gramophone.
These objects themselves remain untouched, for I can't take them with me, but even laying eyes on them stirs the music inside me, and sometimes I well up with tears in pensive reminisce.

But I know to let go.
I know I can't hold onto everything, for everything has its moment, its time, and its place. I would never forget it...but if I were to bring anything of the past with me, I'd bring the belief that even if everything else was now useless, and withered, and old, the sun would still rise for me, to strengthen me, and fill me with hope again.

LOL, Sarah.

Unprecedented Endowment.

So, I was at the express checkout with all of two things: contact for my book so that it doesn't somehow rip to shreds whilst sliding and swaying around in my bulging bag, and another- this was last minute impulse buy of course- a packet of Oreos, on sale for 1$. It was the "sale" sign that really tipped me over into getting it, since I only had $5, I was quite satisfied how it all turned out. Anyway, I walked up to the counter (the lady was leaving, and I'd already been through once, and another check out lady I'd passed was at the express checkout now) and manoveured quickly towards the empty check out.

A checkout boy, probably no more than 3 years older than I was, was scanning my 2 items. His loosely cropped, curly blonde hair framed his face, and his glasses were carefully balanced on the bridge of his nose, as he was looking down and they had threatened to fall. About 3 inches taller than me, his lanky, skinny arms nimbly and quickly scanned the two items. I dazed at his tag, where small red print was underlined by larger, capitalised letters spelling out "MICHAEL". Absent-mindedly, I held out the 5 dollars I had so that he could take it, quickly and promptly, so I could be on my way.

"Uh, did you want a bag with that?" His clean voice suddenly broke into my daydream like a little pebble smashing a small window in my view. I snapped back to see him pointing at the two products I was about to pay for as they rolled lifelessly, limply across the counter. His eyes were hidden by the frames of his glasses, and his expression was somewhat dull - perhaps dying of utter boredom of his primitive job.

"Ah, no thanks", my voice almost wobbled, but I was sure I was sincere at it, and he took my money almost instantly.

"I just love -" Michael had began to talk whilst fiddling with the register, getting the receipt and my change at the same time (good at multitasking I suppose) "how you said - no - and made it sound like - I was really - stupid." A smile flickered across his face, but he remained looking down, focused on his present task. I tried to get a glimpse of his eyes, but they remained conveniently hidden behind the rims of his glasses.

"Oh!" I gasped, although I could not help having to stifle a chuckle "I didn't mean it in that way!"

"No no", I swear he almost laughed back, "that was really - good" He was finishing off his duty with the register again, and whispered, almost nonchalantly to himself "I hate asking that question", and passed me back my change and my receipt.

I glanced back up at him, but I still could not see his entire face; no matter, it was time to go anyway.

"Well, sorry anyway!" I managed to blurt out between a short laugh "ho-have a nice day then!" And I managed to capture one last smile of his before I walked out of the store, with a smile on my face, and more than what I'd bargained for.

---
I love it when we have random encounters with random people. It's just like an unexpected nugget of goodness - unpredictable and possibly will never happen again. But perhaps it's those little moments that can bright up an entire day. Tiny amounts of blessings in the most unexpected of ways... how good God is.

It did mine, thanks Michael. (:

LOL, Sarah.

Earnest Pleading.

Forgiven - Sanctus Real.

Well the past is playing with my head
And failure knocks me down again
I'm reminded of the wrong
That I have said and done
And that devil just won't let me forget

In this life
I know what I've been
But here in your arms
I know what I am

I'm forgiven
And I don't have to carry
The weight of who I've been
Cause I'm forgiven

My mistakes are running through my mind
And I'll relive my days, in
the middle of the night
When I struggle with my pain,
wrestle with my pride
Sometimes I feel alone, and I cry

When I don't fit in and I don't
feel like I belong anywhere
When I don't measure up to much in this life
Oh, I'm a treasure in the
arms of Christ

LOL, Sarah.
Sanctus Real have the most down-to-earth and simple lyrics... I can only relate.

More Than Words.

I had a dream about someone, and I think it's the first time I've ever dreamed of that person this way. It's been a while since I've dreamed this kind of dream... and it had to be about you.

Here's a shoddy go at an I-have-no-idea-what-style-this-is-but-whatever poem. (:

---
Just what is it about words that move us so?
When a string of words hangs alongside an orchestra of music,
why is it that we do sway,
to the eloquence of harmony, melody, and lyric,
which are, for our lips, a newly paved way?


Why is it that when one paints a picture with words,
The subject could be tragically beautiful,
Or on the contrary, beautifully tragic?
That words become the ticket to endorsing what is bountiful,
Or that words may just lead the way to utmost havoc?

When a combination of phrases, sentences, and paragraphs
Come together to be presently linked,
Why are we suddenly pulled into magnificent whirl,
Where pictures, painted by black and white print,
dictate us as a character in a new imaginary world?


When a single person speaks just words to the world,
So that all may understand,
Yet with such fervour and such heat...
Why is it that it brings some to stand,
And other still, end up down on their knees?

When a single word is spoken, just tell me how?
How does the crowd know to be silent,
And with another, to applaud with standing ovation?
How is it that they respond to the very instant
from keen observation of a new word revelation?


How is it that a single word brought into motion:
The sun to stretch its rays and shine
Down upon a fresh, new, beautiful day?
And how does another word hang the moon in the sky,
And make it smile through the winter haze?

How indeed, did a single breath of a single word
Call together the heavens and the earth
In celebration and worship to the Lord
As yet another whisper, to humans, gave birth?


And finally, what is it about just one word
That it would encapsulate in a single moment the revelation
We have longed for: the ineffable culmination?
The majesty, the wonder,
The glory, and the splendour,
The awe, the dominion of the one who supersedes any expectation?

Just what is it about the word 'Jesus'...

---
And there's my pathetic attempt... -_- I didn't know how to finish it! Forgive me. I've been working very hard on this, though (: I hope you like!

Wallowing Awe.

The earth begins to shake, and the clouds gather in tumultuous fury. Thunder rumbles, and causes the earth to tremour in absolute fear. Droplets fall quickly, and all too soon become silver bullets penetrating the parched soils of the earth.

The clouds weep uncontrollably, and the earth wallows in its salty, dirty tears. The thunders bellow and roar, and vast claps of lightning encompass the gloomy sky. The clouds wail in fury, and with each cry, thunderbolts pervade throughout the mourning darkness.

But beyond the fury and the majesty of the tempest dysphoria, there is no more than broken anguish. The formidable roars are no more than the constant wailing of a morose heart, and the thick blanket of black is no more than a veil to disclose a grieving storm. The thunderous claps and clamours of lightning are no more than the bloodshot eye of the storm, drenching the deserted earth with its flood of tears.

And perhaps the storm is no more than a reflection of the sheer sadness of God as He weeps over His dying creation.

---
Jesus wept...

... And the earth cried along with Him.

And we, who are nothing, are swept into the awe of Christ, and we are immersed in the eternal presence of His majesty.

LOL, Sarah.

Keep My Heart Alive.

What I find is that the most seemingly profound and inspirational quotes are simply common sense. The metaphors and similes that complete it add that extra imagery; that extra emotion, that invokes us to think it amazing beyond comprehension - how we think we could never think the same thing... and yet, we unequivocally agree to it as if they were words meant to be breathed from our mouths.

---
I have stumbled, yet I am caught in arms of love. I have deserved punishment, but overwhelmed by grace. I have been hard pressed on every side, but God is pushing me through it.

And I can only insist that strength of character isn't really about our strength at all. For as firmly as we wish to stand upon some foundation, and as much as we try to run towards our goal, we fall short. Our movements are restricted by the weakness of our bodies, and we are inevitably pulled down to the ground time and time again.

If anything, we cannot rely on our own bodies to cope. And we cannot rely on others to wait for us for as long as we are down.

But I am determined, for I know that in all my weakness, in all my pathetic performance, His strength is made perfect. I cannot hold onto anyone, and I cannot hold onto myself. But I can hold onto God, whose grace IS sufficient, and strength is perfect.

We have nothing but intention. But when our intention is set on God's glory, in all knowing that it is HE who makes all things work for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose, our intention suffices.

I have nothing I can attribute to so that I can pick myself up, other than my certainty that God does not want me lying here, tattered and torn in pieces. And I know this one thing: That God, in all His splendour and majesty, walks right by me, guiding me, and leading me, and showing me His way.

And He carries me on his back when I cannot stand any longer.

"It was then that I carried you".

As long as I believe.

LOL, Sarah.
Title by Sanctus Real from the album 'Pieces of a Real Heart'.

Amalgamating Convictions.

The John Mayer Concert.
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

It was amazing! I'm still super excited and I just can't hide it. It was definitely the highlight of this Monday... and probably this week. Possibly this year, and years to come. ARGH I still feel the adrenaline rush. Ahh, John Mayer. (: Could God make any human any more beautiful?

It lifts my mood, and I smile every time I think about it.

It's a good thing that I think about it a lot.

---
And the day after the event was not unmingled with unhappiness; even so.

I tried my best to make you happy for all of these years. My biggest goal was to make you laugh, and to make you feel loved. For as soon as you were happy, I felt that I could help but be happy myself. But the moment that I am happy without you, you seem to stare at me with such a look of scorn and distaste. And so it seems that I cannot be happy without you. I absolutely must only be happy when you are, and if there is something enlightening to me that I cannot relay towards you, I must do my utmost to conceal it from you.

So there you have it. I am sorry that I cannot help myself sometimes.

---
I suppose I am a bit weary these days. Things will come to you straight for a short while. And that, the truth is that I'm losing confidence. I'm uncertain, and thus I shudder at even the faintest whisper of wind. I am trembling more than ever, and though my steps are small, I am stumbling to and fro, and rocking back and forth in utter confusion, utter precariousness. I still believe in my God, in all this uncertainty, but I am selfish. Too selfish. I want more. I want too much.

Of course I cannot blame you. Who wouldn't run away from me? I am dangerous, I hurt unknowingly, and so much more painfully than any other simple, sad, and shallow acquaintance. I had foreseen this, and I made sure you knew as well. But I could not help myself. This was an opportunity that I thought I could not miss. Thus I did not, and consequently, I feel like I cut the rope, and burnt both ends, and I can only wonder how you hold up after my nasty affliction.

I feel a little sad. And a little alone. But I am determined to not let this selfishness overtake me. I only want to need my God. For His strength is made perfect in my weakness, and His grace is sufficient for all of my needs. And His love conquers all.

Such beautiful things to think about.

LOL, Sarah.

The Last Sunset.

So it will be the last time I talk of the dying world. But it painfully glares at me, desperately nagging at me to do something about this. But what can I do? This world is too big for me. There are too many things; too many man-made things that I cannot undo. What can I do for you world, that people may see you the way I see you? Not just to see the paved path whirling into your death; no, but your beauty, your majesty, your glory. Just what is it that I am meant to do, so that people will see how truly beautiful you are?

I cannot. I am feeble and inept. I have my visions, but my visions fall short of faith and deeds.

So this is the one last time I will talk of this dying world. This is where I say what it truly means to me. What these sights, these visions truly mean to me.

The chokers of the earth are man-made destruction. It is our efforts to make our paths straight, to place glory upon ourselves, and to look at ourselves in majesty and awe.

But the gleaming beams of the rich warmth and radiance of the sun, is God's glory, breaching the destruction of man, persisting in being seen... but our own desires, our wants, long to block away the beauty of the sky, the comfort of Christ's warmth. We want to do things our own way, to block out the glory of God, and to lead our own lives. And we're killing ourselves in the process.

But God's glory will still shine. We just have to turn our eyes to the skies, and we will see Him, in all His splendour and holiness. Even when the world's seams are stripped away, He is still there, and in the face of our uncertainty, He holds us in His arms, and comforts us.

---
I only show you what I choose to show you... so what would happen if I show you everything I long to show someone else but myself?

LOL, Sarah.