Thoughts on writing

            There is much to tell, and much to read, and not enough time to tell it, or enough time to read it, all. I can't say everything, and this perhaps is wise. Perhaps in saying everything you readers somehow devour us whole. But, I will give pieces; pieces that I want you to have inside of you. Chew with care.
            The extreme ambiance of a home where decisions have been taboo. Welcome to tradition, mundane and beautiful and predictable, in it's angular way. It is hard to get around a square. Like cutting corners off a circle. I wish this square were jello, smooth and soft and easy to eat a hole in.
            Book empathy. Feeling like an orphan girl raised in an abusive home and sent to a slummy girls school where emotion is supposed to be resented. Rising above it all and marching into the unknown! What a strange sense of helpless ire, stirred friendship, and butterflies. I feel like an emotional pogostick.
            Negativity, thrust at you like a spear destined for something vital; transforming it into the marshmallow of understanding and cutting it in fours to be served with conversation.
            Finding Nirvana, Sublimity, Peace, in the home of understanding.
            Love is refracted in the facets of crystal blue souls, both of them, staring at me.

Impulse

               Decisions are the lines of life. The things we stand on, the material time is made of. We progress with them, and to not make active decisions is still quite the decision. Coasting or not they carry us forward, but we are moving, and we are making. Thank you time, for enforcing us.
               Impulse has been the author of me. I see and feel and fail to show, but if you could see my thoughts you would tell that I am always deciding, always finding ways to go. And, when I find it you can all tell. You can see me walk away and walk into and express and fail to express. Every decision well thought but hardly spoken.                    
                                                                     My life.
               And so, this week has come. Frozen days and good classes. Dead bodies in a cadaver lab, getting stuck in traffic with friends, singing songs I don't know the name of. Inflicting pain and calling it therapy. Such a week. Driving to Clinical, and walking away. Not graduating. Living, learning, accepting. Feeling. A row of decisions, and I keep deciding, this is what I want. Forward, then, into unknown. Seizing and fleeing as necessary.
                                    

              

While the sun shines

                 I think it fitting to write while the sun shines. The sky is clear for us, and for those that live on the second story of a house the ground is a second sky. The light reflects off the snow and makes the room unbearably bright. I can have my blinds tilted up and be prejudiced. Only ground sun for me! None of this sky nonsense.Way to express yourself. Almost as bright without the direct credit. Thank you sun, Now the praise I give is slightly abstract. Once removed. Like thanking the Lord for American cheese. Processed and acclimated to our taste. A way of taking what our Father made, and making it ours. Is that flattery or debauchery? I choose to think the former.
                 Perhaps an all inclusive thanks is in order then, to make sure I leave no facet of humanity that I do love without my praise. Thus, I am thankful for free will and this gigantic sandbox to play it in, where we can objectualize the good and the bad and attach stigmas to those objects to make them moral decisions instead of just matter. But, if all things were created spiritually first perhaps we are just reacquainting ourselves with their less visible nature. Ideas ideas.
                 I am still writing while the sun shines, and while I speak of light and cheese and gratitude and decisions and objects, this much remains constant enough for me. The sun is still shining, the world still moving, and wherever my mind does wander the gravity of reality brings me back like a shout from below. All I bring with me are my perceptions and my decisions. I thank the Lord for this grounding limitation. Shine on sun; one of life's many anchors on my turbulent sea of thought.
     
        

Dissonance

           There is a certain amount of dissonance in what is to be written tonight. A certain lack of clarity.
           Elder Andersen just delivered a fireside. Yesterday I went skiing with Elizabeth. This week I had lunch with a blonde ENFP, and I tasted fresh coconut for the first time. Facts. Objective.
            Looking in the mirror is like a reminder of what other people perceive. Grounding me away from what I see all the time. Of all the angles I look at myself, what I see in the mirror is never one of them. It is more chiseled. Less kind. It carries more sunshine and less moon. I am viewed brighter than perhaps I think I am. A lot less reflected from other sources. Opinions. Subjective.

            Combined

            Elder Andersen delivered a good fireside, but I was a poor audience. Yesterday I had fun skiing with Elizabeth, but felt so drained afterwords. All smiles with no limbs. This week I carried out a plan to buy lunch for the  stubborn blonde ENFP, and felt quite satisfied with my short-lived secret success. The coconut tasted bitter with a sweet aftertaste. In the mirror I see one fourth of me. Unquantifiable facts. Subjective facts. Subjective objects.

            "I'm waiting for the coin to land on its edge"

                                        Music emits feeling.

            One million things on my mind. Dissonance. The bitter sweet symphony of my skull, whose movements we learned about in Cranial Sacral this week. Our body ebbs and flows with a pulse, a breath, and then a rhythm that most never feel. All in your head; and so, all over your body. But not in the mirror. We can't see it in the mirror. In the mirror we see an object. A quantifiable object, and we remind ourselves how it looks to smile.

              

            

Old Year

             It seems to be the season for New years posts. Hopes and dreams are written in multiplicity, and like little notes in bottles then set out into the unknown. They will be tossed here and there; crushed and replaced. Some will reach their destination, the worn and wiser. I would speak of what mine were and are and have been. The new bottles upon the waves are hidden, sometimes from me, and I will not reveal them, but the old ones with conclusions; they deserve to be mentioned (in honor of those lost at sea).
            My mission ended this year. I arrived home in the latter end of April, three months before my scheduled release. I suffered an emotional breakdown and came home after twenty one months in the mission field.
            Working with my Father. Five months and the little computer shop was still open, I felt I was able to help with his financial situation.
            Meeting a lovely woman, being inspired to move North to get a job and filling out financial aid in hopes of attending college with her. Breaking up.
            On a whim getting into the Utah College of Massage Therapy a week late and without any money, but having everything taken care of.
            Making new friends and becoming reacquainted with old ones.
            Seeing the stars in Levan again.
            Kissing
            Christmas traditions
            Failing to make an unstoppable army of undead to crush those silly pixies
            Living half a mile from a temple
            Writing poems that will never be read.
            Writing poems that will be.
            Watching a villain named Tea Time get pushed down the tooth fairy's castle.  
            Understanding people.
            Getting hugged again.
            Loving others
            Starting a Blog
            Not dying
            Being with others that understand me.
            So many more... So much was accomplished. I am grateful for it all, every up and down. A happy new year to you all, one that is well crafted and mastered.