The Trees.

I have a huge fascination for people. I'm not quite sure why. It's something about meeting people, the spark in their eye, their little hop in each step that they take, the tiny clicks between their fingers when they point here and there. People are just so interesting.

I love people. I love meeting new people (this is especially interesting, because they are only new to me, but they themselves aren't new at all...) . I love to hear their whole life story, everything they've been through, in hopes (and often to no avail, but that's okay) to empathise with them, to understand where they come from. I want to know what it's like to live their lives, to be human in the way that they see it. I am so intrigued by their reactions; why people believe the things they believe, and how they react in such a unique way to any sequence of events. I want to know their thought process, what they think, why they think it, and how their thoughts play out. And how do those thoughts translate into actions?

It is not only that. I love getting to know the sound of their voice, their nervous laugh. I yearn to anticipate the sound of their footsteps, and to recognise the shape of their back, and their posture every time they walk. I want to see the little features across their face; a dimple, a little flinch, and visualise it in my mind everytime my mind crosses towards them. I want to see how their face lights up when they are met with a gentle surprise, and how their eyebrows furrow at the sight, or even mere sound of something foul to their taste.

I find myself with such a deeply profound interest in every aspect of a person's life, that I don't know what to do. I cannot help but long to know them, to understand them, to recognise every single bit of them, and to isolate them out from the 'crowd'.

--

Whenever I'm on the tram, I like to watch people. Not in the seriously stalkerish way (although the more I think of it, the more I'm convinced I've become a stalker haha), but whenever I pass by a street full of people crossing, I can't help but to glance at each person there, and just wonder about who they are.

Their background. Their experiences. Their knowledge. Their interests. Their hobbies. Their pet-peeves. Their philosophies. Their beliefs. Just... their entire life.

Isn't it amazing to think that each and every single person, young and old, has a whole life that they have lived? How inside the world in which we all live in, there's another totally personal, intimate world that each person can call their own? I don't think you would understand. Not even I do... I just accept that it is beyond my imagination and will never cease to bewilder me whenever I think of it. But it is quite profound, and it is a really humbling experience, just being reminded of how truly small we are in this world, and, although there is one world, somehow there is an endless multitude of worlds within.

--

Sometimes, I feel like I see not the forest, but the trees. It's just that people are just so interesting, and I am constantly astounded by them.

I love people. I am constantly, and perhaps will forever be, intrigued by them.

It's just that sometimes, I wish I were just so too.

LOL, Sarah.

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.

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.

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.

Trivial Musings and Earnest Pretense.

My lips are dry and cracked, for I have yet to receive a rush of cool water throughout my body, and I am slumped on this lazy chair which reclines as I will it to by my mere weight - I am in earnest contemplation; that is, of the good things, and of the less charitable. But I figure it is useless to think about such things as these, to repeat excessively a single train of thought which encircles the entirety of my mind in only a second, with which it has no stop to unload its contents, or relieve its passengers of this aimless ride.
And I suppose this may be its only stop, and all I have to hope for is that it will terminate here; undoubtedly, although it may proceed its course in due time, I long for its burdensome carriage to be loosened from it, and remain emptied from this train as it continues its route. And so it stops here, and I can only hope, stays here:
"Hey, are you alright?" They looked over with an eye of concern, and perhaps a tinge of worry, but she was far too perceptive to have been fooled by their facade of care, as she, in turned, turned over to meet their eyes; upon doing so, their eyes of burdened concern flickered and glanced about elsewhere - anywhere but to the seemingly glum figure that sat before them. It was almost as if they could not even bear to meet her eyes, for fear that she would see through them, and she snickered at the failure of such a desperate attempt. She turned away from them, partly hypothesizing possible outcomes if she laid all upon them, but for the most part, in hurt, for their facades of care had considerably injured her.
"I'm assuredly fine, don't you worried," she lied through her teeth, "Although I do seem to be catching a bit of a cold. Ha ha". Her crude reply left her friends smiling and chortling with her, laughing at their silly assumption that there may have been something wrong. She smiled back at them, secretly sneering at their outrageously fake courtesy.

"Oh that's too bad. Well, hope you get better soon!" She was always suspicious about their earnest sincerity in those sorts of sayings; was there really any credibility in any of phrases?- But she said her thanks anyway. They left her to it: falling sick, and inside, hiding her injured heart.
---
And well, I can't fight this feeling anymore. As much as I long to suppress it, it will only strengthen and overwhelm me all the more. Why can't I simply accept what I have? Why is it such a necessity to become a burden to people around me?

LOL, Sarah.

Conceptual Reverberations.

Music; it steals your senses away into a world of its own.

A thump of the drum is like a sudden dream; you're thrown into a new world of wonders, and of pure senses.
A slide on the guitar is like the quenching of thirst; drips of water splashing into your dry throat.
A hum of a sustained note is like the sudden sensation in your fingers; a rush of warmth as you press your hand on a sun-baked footpath on an ardent autumn day.
A whisper of melody is like the sweet aroma of a flower; a permeating encounter of its blossoming freshness.

The clustering of all that's harmonious is like the sudden invoking of tears; tears of joy, of sadness, and of reminisce.

But strip away all senses; all emotion... and what have you left? Nothing more than the mashing of different notes and sounds together, like white noise: simple, incomprehensible and simply nothing.

"Music makes sense."

LOL, Sarah.
No, that's not me in the picture. I got two pictures this time because they're both pretty and conceptual! :D

Face.

Life will strip you of your possessions; your career, your living, your life's work.
It will strip you of your pride, of your love, and all you have ever cared about.
One day, you will sit in the bar, draining another glass, and wondering: "who the hell am I, really?"
Because you have nothing: you're retired, your family doesn't seem to care, and on the most part, the things you have don't please you anymore.

So who are you?
Are you shaped by what you have? What you have accomplished?

Who are you?
Because when life strips you of everything you could ever have had,
You become a lifeless mortal whose experience was to dress themselves up in the latest trends, only to soon realise that as soon as life comes, life goes...
And life goes on.

So who are you?
When you have nothing, when you truly have nothing... how much does everything mean to you then?

And finally, are you your own?

LOL, Sarah.
I know who I am, at least.

We Sing Holy.

"Open the eyes of my heart Lord, I want to see You"

I had an epiphany whilst singing this lyric over and over on stage today. It's probably something everyone knows, but goodness, what a reminder that is direly needed by everyone.

... Because all we really need to do is be willing, and He will do it.

And just knowing that is just... wow.

--
"not all the birds and butterflies will stay on your hands forever... some may fly away and come back, some may never come back. But true companionship and trust stay at the warmth of your hands as long you don't close your hands on them..." - NitNav.

LOL, Sarah.
You mean more to me than you will ever know.

The Nonsensical Prose.

This neglect was inevitable. I never much could flow with the trend; I'm a traditionalist, of course, as quickly as I try to fall into the latest fads, it seems much more like falling through clouds of foam in the sky, only to be met with crisp air once again as I dive back into the earth's atmosphere. No, these were only phases that I would do my best to fit well in, and perhaps I would be absorbed in them for hours; no weeks, and possibly even months on end. Just like this blog.

But I can't be contained by these constantly changing trends, fads, phases, call it what you want. I'd as soon fall out of the sky like a condensed vapour too soon after it has been elevated to the clouds above. I simply cannot do it.

And I need to address you. I need to tell you that I am done being selfish. Nothing is truly mine, and I cannot ever say that who I love will fully love me back. I will no longer hold you to myself, for I no longer want to think that I deserve more than what I am getting. I am content if you love me, and I will still be content if you love me less.

There is no jealousy when I look upon you and see your friendships blossom like the spring flowers in the early morning breeze, sprinkled over with tiny droplets of dew. But you are more like the seasons, constantly changing to suit your needs, to hide your own inconsistencies, whilst I battle against your polarities; how I struggle to find my foundations in the murky soil, all at once dry and thirsty, as well as saturated almost till I drown, and stand with all of you.

But I simply cannot. I am a pebble among a sea of rocks, and whilst you may have smooth edges as I do, I cannot slot comfortably into an opening where your rough cuts would not scratch at my delicate surface. I simply need to be left to nestle by myself, and be churned, shaped and weathered not by you, but by the winds, the waters, and the sun.


They say ignorance is bliss, but I say ignorance is the one thing that will tear even the closest friendships apart. I know this from experience, that you simply cannot ignore something, and hope to the Heavens that one day it will be alright. Because that one day might never come, and by the time you realise it, it's too late. Like it was for him and I.

I hope it isn't too late for us. But I retain myself from suffocating you with my presence.
Be free. Be lively. Be happy, even if it's without me.

LOL, Sarah.

Polaroids and Cassettes.

If I had a camera in my eye,
That could develop all my past memories into treasured videos and Polaroids,
I would capture the world's beauty;
The dew drizzled rose, a budding flower's unfurl.
The smile of innocence will remain forever,
Remained untainted,
Unstained by experience.

----
(Alternate/Long version)

If I had a camera in my eye,
Would I capture the world as I saw it,
Or rather, as I willed it to be?
A world full of hope,
Where flowers still blossom and children still laugh,
With no restrain?
Or would I capture the heaving sighs of the weeping willows,
Truly weeping now that they lie there,
Weathered, old and dying?

--
The earth's breath choked by the very hands of men,
Skyscrapers grow larger than the sky itself,
And the oceans of blue become muddy blacks.
Perhaps I could show people what the world is truly like, or only that reality is what they themselves perceive it to be...

-
Perhaps we can finally grasp the once-in-a-lifetime shots
And place them in neat little photo frames in the back of our minds
Never forgotten, never forsaken.

But all of a sudden, there is no such thing called a once-in-a-lifetime shot.
Breathtaking moments would be but reduced to mere sights,
Sights seen a million times on end,
Seen by everyone,
Over and over again.

"Once-in-a-lifetime"
too quickly becomes
"I've-seen-it-before"
and
"That's-average".
And what then will be beauty?

And those moments of unimpeded laughter,
What of them?
Will they be but muscles that stretch bright lips to reveal a line of brilliant whites,
And a distant echo;
Remembered, but in turn,
Long forgotten?

--
I would be blind with pretty pictures and non-existent smiles,
Curtaining my present sufferings in the diminutive hope that maybe it will pass when I open my eyes again...

My film will be overwritten with the unwanted reality that we all must inevitably face, but our memories have only left us unfit and unequipped for the trials ahead.

---
We will convince that our past is better than our present, and our memories are the only things that keep us alive. That our happiness stems from our childhood, not from our present tribulations, and this is why we wish our eyes were cameras that took snapshots of the best moments of our lives.
And unfortunately we will neglect our sadness, hardships and adversity... But if we do not know sadness, how can we know to be thankful for our happyness?

If my eye were more the camera, I would be less the human, destitute of memories past and memoirs present; forbidden to the joy and the hope of the future.

LOL, Sarah.
You've become so frigid... have you lost your fiery passion that once burned so fervently deep inside?

Execration.

The stupid thing about swear words is that we try to sound cooler by sounding offensive. We take normal, non-offensive, pedestrian, civilian and society-friendly words; take bother, for example, and screw it around enough till it becomes so offensive that we were once shunned to even think of the word.
Can't be bothered. Eh, sounds too... Polite.
Can't be stuffed. Mmm... could do with some working on. Stuffed is used fairly loosely. Refers to pretty much any existent noun nameable. Or unnameable in this matter.
Can't be _. You know it.
Why? It's so.. weird.
And yet now, swearing is our second nature. How ironic.
It's as if swear words were our way of expression. Through tone, pitch, volume... the harshness of a single word can be multiplied three-fold.

*sigh* If only the lips of my mind could be sealed shut forever, for they carry zip but profanity and anchors of depression. Sealed off. Unheard, unwanted. Unnecessary.

LOL, Sarah.
This is my second post in the span of 10 minutes. How strange.

Auscultate Narcissism.

Listen.
Everyone's talking.
Loudly.
It's a battle of voices.
Everyone wants to be heard.

No one wants to listen.
Just heard.
Or they will say something...
To make way for them to say more.

But what of the listeners?
Do their ears bleed in silence, whilst profanity rests on their tongue as they keep their mouths shut?

Their hearts are too full of others, and there is no one to speak to.
No one but themselves.
Their hearts break from the burden of everyone's cries...
And the weight of their own voices.

And they are left. Alone and shattered, with no one to hear them.

LOL, Sarah.

Consiliated Replenishment.

I am so broken.

---
Luke 9:12-17 (NIV)

¹²Late in the afternoon the Twelve came to him and said, "Send the crowd away so they can go to the surrounding villages and countryside and find food and lodging, because we are in a remote place here."

¹³He replied, "You give them something to eat."

They answered, "We have only five loaves of bread and two fish—unless we go and buy food for all this crowd." ¹⁴(About five thousand men were there.)

But he said to his disciples, "Have them sit down in groups of about fifty each." ¹⁵The disciples did so, and everybody sat down. ¹⁶Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke them. Then he gave them to the disciples to set before the people. ¹⁷They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over.

---
Just a few points within this passage that resonate to me.

- We fall short in that we think we are unable to do something because of the things we don't have, when in fact, God presents us with the little we have so that only HE can multiply it to address the needs for many.

- Jesus would never force us to do His will, but He calls us. He knows what little we have, and when we fall short and doubt, He's stepping in with the little that we have surrendered to Him.

- God has blessed us upon multitudes, and He breaks us. We need to be decreased so that as bread, He increases in us so we can feed the thousands.

LOL, Sarah.
He replied, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you. Luke 17:6

Saving Grace.

Of course Christmas has become materialistic. It's been like that for a long while now; we've just been to young and too innocent to have it revealed to us; that the world has plastered up Christmas to protect the vulnerable from seeing a Love so perfect. We've matured enough to see now how materialistic Christmas really is. But that's only ever been for those who don't know about the grace that saved us all, even if we don't want it.

Christmas is not materialistic for those who earnestly long to show their loved ones God's love for them through an exchange of gifts.
Christmas is not materialistic when, in the hustle and bustle of everything, we remember the spirit of God which resides within us with an overflow of love.
Christmas is not materialistic for those who can still see the heart of a human child in an animal's trough.

Again, without Christmas, there are no gifts. And there would be no Love.

---
Some people can only get by knowing they're loved, and that constant ache to hear that they are... Why do we hold ourselves in such low esteem? Why do we want people to constantly prove that they're there for us?

Why do I need? =(

LOL, Sarah.

Reason For The Season.

Why is it that I feel so unsettled? Spurts of anger, like fireworks arrayed in the black-blue night, shooting across with a glamorous repetition of shock and awe. Patterns arched over the sky; although expected, these lights dazzled the hearts of many, especially mine. How could my fiery heart bring so much wonder and astonishment?

Well, at least fireworks spark only on significant occasions.

---
It's as if we're waiting for it to dawn upon us... as inevitable as the rising of the sun, and yet still, It seems that Christmas has come at a later time than usual. Here I am, sitting in my mildly renovated room with just 5 days before Christmas. Five days... wow. Christmas has pretty much tripped me over this year and taken me by a complete surprise.

---
Maybe it was the Christmas Spirit that I was aching for... a shred of hope in the midst of the murky, shrouded cascading waters; the bustle of buying gifts, organising dates, holiday homework and preparations for the conference in only one week.

And the Spirit of giving is what I found; the ultimate gift that is simply incomparable to anything else.

The gift of Love.

Without Christmas, there would be no gifts... and so much more, there would be no Love. Just hurt.

Have a merry CHRISTmas week!

Lots Of Love, Sarah.
The sections mark that I've written on 3 different days :P I'm so lazy nowadays...

Dilatory Meander.

Icebergs.
Drift close, drift far...
So free in the ocean wide horizon.

---
The first crack showed in the snowy blanket; a tiny splinter to one's short-sided vision. But walk on...

A large blizzardlike crevasse extended from that minuscule splinter; a trench with a seemingly endless bottom, almost sending sight's senses itself to a pit of black. The edges of either side of the crevasse crumble incessantly, mimicking the consequences of even the most minor of vibrations. A simple breath in the cold, a whisper into the musky air would send a few helpless rocks into the trench, with no avail to even hear of their landing.

The trench's end was almost indeterminate. At the very edge of the horizon, the ice seemed to part completely horizontally, and was met by a deep azure. Further than that, glimpses of tiny, white dots seemed to float about the horizon, each going in every different direction, as if to purposely steer away from shards formerly their own...

A tiny crack in the ice can make all the difference.

It is so unlike the platelets streaming through our blood as they pulse heatedly through our vessels. At the first exposure to the air we breathe, the tiny cells clump together unwittingly, each combining to strengthen a wall to stop an overflow of blood. How cunning it is that it is within our best interests to subconsciously stop bleeding, and yet in the oppression of life's deafening reality as a body, we seem to distance ourselves from each other so advertently as to protect ourselves singularly, instead of all of ourselves.

---
Could I imagine enough that an answer, formidable as it may be, would float down like a diminishing cloud into my hands? Could it explain the countless questions and frazzling indictments which have been thrusted into my turn of this sequence of events?

If only I could believe so, I would work a way then to fight against this natural occurence of consequence after consequence.

So just why is it, that we drift? And why is the present always more painful than the past, as possibly an inkling of foreseeable damage in the future?

Sure, we're human, but even our own body works each body part so cunningly together to rescue us from our rue.

LOL, Sarah.
And yet, still, the environment could never be more beautiful... even in its dying days.

Balloonatic Contour.

This is an introversion of my brain with all its bubbly wonders.

It really is all just a few items here and there; thoughts written as words, cartoons symbolizing a best friend, family, a future.

Fireworks that mark the implosions of the thoughts in my mind, and the waves that follow it.

Flora which stems up hope, or just the petals of which have no foundation whatsoever...

And a plagiarism of John Mayer's 'Heartbreak Warfare' icon, by which I could interpret as a heart halved by lightning at the roots of a love.

And a cloud, oh, how I wish to be spared aloft.

And in the corner is an inner conscience that doesn't understand any of it. Yes. My inner conscience is a man. Supposedly. It could be someone else. Something random... to keep my mind off it all.

And yes, you can click the picture.

LOL, Sarah.
On the back of this page is a series of drawings, and 2 sentences remained unfinished.

Erm, Christianity.

What we thought were once clouds are in fact the fumes we believe will sustain us till the end of time. What will become of the trees? Will the atmosphere be but a pool of black oil?

And here we are, gaping our mouths wide open to catch the stained acids of the sky; no longer will we drink the crystal drops of heaven, but the metal splinters of man's best treasures.

---
*sigh*, we're so human. I'm so human.

It's quite difficult being of a Christian family and within the church; people almost expect you to be stronger than you really are; to be the mighty men and women of God of who nothing can sway them or cause them to stumble. The ridiculous expectations thrust upon us; we must be perfect, we must abide by God's law, we must not swear, we must be picture perfect, we must be good little church boys and girls.

I'm afraid that I can't live up to these expectations. In fact, I doubt anyone can. We're not radical, almost-angels and more holy than anyone else. We're only human.

Did you know that most churches consist of so many "sinful" people? Liars, Drug-addicts, Cheaters, Thieves, Alcoholics, Sex offenders... the list goes on.

I think it's fair to say that just because we're a bunch of Christians, it doesn't mean that we're not any less guilty. In fact, strangely enough as it is, we know that we're wrong-doers, sinners, disgusting low-lives that don't fit the "Christlike" persona.

And it doesn't mean we don't feel the pain and suffering of harsh lives. The only difference is- we hope. We hope and we hope and we hope in a future of bigger plans for us; plans to prosper us and not to harm us.

I can see where the statement "Christianity is perhaps one of the most difficult lifestyles to undertake", because I know that when we don't have hope, Satan doesn't need to worry about us. We've got nothing, so he'll leave us alone. But when we hope, and we hope and we hope, he despises it. So much so that he'll do anything to cause us to stumble. He'll attack us personally, our family, our friends, our possessions...

And I suppose I understand that under the condition of God's love, if we are willing to go all out for Him, we've got to be prepared to sacrifice. Our families, our possessions- our lives even.

In Vietnam and Thailand, people really do sacrifice their families. They are shunned from their communities, beaten on a daily basis because they choose hope. Speak the name of Jesus in a rural area in a country like Vietnam, and you should prepare to be killed.

All because of hope, hope, hope. How lucky we are to be able to hope without stumbling over our family's lives.

And I'm not saying that I've got a hard lifestyle. I've got an easy one, actually, but I'm faced with human experience in a human body... I stumble, I fall. But I get back up again. I cry, I lose heart, and yes, even faith sometimes... but I hope.

You will stumble, you will fall. And maybe you will get back up again, or just accept that once you're down at the bottom, Satan won't worry about you because you have no future. Or you can hope, hope, hope, and stand on God's foundations, because God has a bigger plan for you.

LOL, Sarah.
Don't tell God how big your problem is, tell your problem how big your God is! - Ha, cheesy.

A Tremour Of Sentiment.

The long awaited. The highly anticipated. The new exhilaration following this heart-felt warming sensation.

---
Trying to slow the motions of time down.

Afraid to close my eyes, because my dreams will steal away what I could so willfully use.

Conscious of communications, in case I get carried off into a world that dismisses the thoughts of time.

Reluctant to move an inch, knowing that every contraction, every reflex, every tension, steals a moment that can never be taken back.

I could stare at the clock, watching as the repetitious arrows encircle its centre, inevitably winding closer to my deadline meet.

So scared to have an inkling of fun... because they say that time flies when you're having fun. Motionless, I would stare at the clock. It's fairly relaxing; I like relaxing... It's fun.

But there's an impossible loophole to my theory of slowing down time. The definite strokes of the clocks are undeniable; unstoppable. I'm in a losing battle...

---
Have you ever noticed?
How the soft rumbles of your heart can only be heard at a standstill; in an almost-silence occasion where we do nothing but halt our fidgeting bodies.

I can't help but think about the murmuring of our hearts; how they echo through the halls of our arteries; its steady beating bringing a soft momentum the subtlest of reverberations throughout our bodies. How, as we lie in darkness, listening to the sounds of the clock ticking ever so nonchalantly; the winds cooing as they return with the life of wings- creatures of the sky huddling within their nests, protecting their newborns - the cooling hum of the refrigerator in its dutiful maintenance of keep; the soft snores from neighbouring rooms, or from outside, where a single dog nestles in the comfort of his own house...

... That our fingers softly, unconsciously drum on the sheets, our toes twitch at the slightest just under the doona, and that each hair on our head rustles softly as it finds a new place to settle. As we are at a standstill, our heart beats at its loudest, still working strenuously and tirelessly to keep us alive, even as we sleep.

And once more, our hearts thud in our ears after an adrenaline rush. Amidst the journey, we can only focus on the destination at hand, but we fall across the finish line, exasperated, and all we can hear is the sound of our heart, still working, so earnestly and diligently to relax our aching bodies. Only once we've stopped ourselves can we hear the sacred sound of a heart so worn, so exhausted, and yet in our tribulation, our hearts beat at their loudest to let us know that we're still alive.

They haven't given up on us just yet.

LOL, Sarah.

Amuck Ruckus.

You just know that there's something up when...

It's 11:33 in the evening- no, I'll correct myself- AT NIGHT, and you're hungry.

I'm so hungry! I spoke the very words to emphasise how hungry I was, and as I continue to write this, I still cannot deliberate that it was effective in any way whatsoever. :\ I'm a strange person. We'll deal with that soon enough though.

I've written a few more sentences on my little white box, and to answer Amy's 2 questions: It's something like a time capsule, except I have no intention of burying it; it can just sit on my table where it's easily accessible when I need to write something...
Which reminds me, I do remember my youth group making a time capsule and burying it in church in like 2005 or something lols... to this day, we can still not find it (: Gotta love youth.

And with the no Facebook thing.. if anyone's noticed, it hasn't gone very well, although I HAVE indeed limited my time on Facebook, which I find myself prideful of (eg. now, I'm not using Facebook at all!) Same goes for MSN. Not off completely, but only online occasionally. (:

I want to get something to eat, but I don't want to eat at midnight. Midnight carbs = winter fat body. Also, I already brushed my teeth.

---
Going to rant because I feel like it.

I seriously don't understand why people can mispell people's names... Wait for it... Wait for it...

ON FACEBOOK. Seriously guys! The person's name who you're addressing is just above to the left of your little comment boxes. It's something called common sense, by which even I can talk, despite my lack thereof.

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Remember the 'word of the day'? Soo last year, huh? Well. Chagrin is today's word.

Today was Muck up day, and despite our lack of participation in the senior's activities (it was as if we were in prison. No one could go in to our classrooms, and no one could leave), especially the little action in the art room, I can still smell the remains of eggy fart bomb.
Oh, they egged the school like crazy.
They broke a window because of this 'lock-down', and vandalised every sign they could lay their paint on.
And police came.
Some dude decided it was smart to egg the security guard.

It was pretty good, only we were locked in like little fishes in a tank. We had no hope of leaving our classroom thanks to our PMS-like teacher. -.-

Although I'm disappointed with the costumes. Under-average much?

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I refuse myself aping you any longer.

No matter how I use the word 'ape', it just doesn't sound smart. It's meant to mean imitate -.-

LOL, Sarah.
I'm still hungry.