Dying is a small price to pay to live

You know when you read something, or see something beautiful and inspiring, and something just clicks? I was blog surfing the other day, and I saw this post from one of my favorite blogs, lifesize paperdoll.

An excerpt:

… You look at the sky, you look at your world, you look at everything and realize that dying is a small price to pay to live…

It is. It is indeed.

This is possibly one of the best and inspiring blog posts I have read this week, straightforward and simply stated, yet profound in its implications.

May you be similarly inspired.

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One more time with feeling

All around me now, I see the lonely anthems of people who say they feel too much…

As if the capacity to feel emotion deeply and express it eloquently was a curse. There are those people who see the heartache and suffering of others, and feel it a hundred times over. There is so much pain in the world, and they want it to be fixed. The broken hearts to be mended and put back as good as new, the scars to disappear and the skin to appear broken and whole, the dead trees to sprout buds and branches.

So much to a fault. To the point that sometimes the joys and little whimsical happinesses of other people are overlooked, simply because it’s so much easier to be acquainted with distress than to be acquainted with joy.

While this may be true, don’t ever rue your ability to emphasize. Maybe we are a people becoming too used to keeping the tears back and pushing all emotion away, taught to avoid the pain that so naturally comes with hard but right choices and seek that road which avoids looking at the dark side of everything. To become overly light-hearted, pushing all dark thoughts away for fear of being consumed, to the point where pain is something that they cannot understand. Not their own pain, or even the pain of their friends.

But who knows? There might be a time when those people wish they could feel more. And the world always needs people who can feel deeply, because feeling deeply the sorrows and heartache of others is one step closer to coming alive.

Thoughts?

hold on
one more time with feeling
try it again, breathing’s just a rhythm
say it in your mind, until you know that the words are right

this is why we fight
this is why we fight

silence

Love…

Every day I struggle to comprehend the wonder of it all; and failing, can only stop to stare at the leaves that fall.

Silence is good, even wonderful. Though I love words, I keep many of them inside me, only releasing them when it is time. Though I write and have dedicated many years of my life to the proper use of the words, I keep silence. They are things of beauty, often misused. I care for them as if they were my own…

But…

I believe that for such words, for such a word, I would surrender my silence.

PS: I just slogged through midterms.

Testimony

Lost souls in a lonely world, staring out a window at the rain that never stops coming down. “Eyes are the windows to the soul,” they say. Shutters and curtains drawn, you can’t even see the faces through the glass.

Can you see me now? A whisper.

Do the stars know best what it is like to be alone, millions of miles away from each other? The insufficiency of planets and moons, the routine of rotations. Perhaps they feel it most of all…

But the stars sing, even though they have no voice.

Or perhaps we are little stars, pinpoints of light in the dark expanse of sky, drawn to each other by the weight of gravity, guiding each other through and through…

Because even a small candle wards away that much darkness.

And small stars together form an ever-turning galaxy, spinning away the night.

Inspiration: moonage daydream

All photos are under a CC license and used with permission. Click photos for credits.

Touch

“You look so happy.”

Surprise coloring her voice, blended with curiosity and a tentative tendril of doubt.

Wondering, if maybe she reached out her fingers and touched, this happiness would pass over to her as well. As if happiness was something that could be passed along from hand to hand, like bananas or a small rubber ball. Or with a look and a sigh.

As if, like the woman bleeding for many years, she could touch the cloak and feel alive again, with only a little faith, and desperation, and helplessness, and fear, and longing.

… if I could touch your clothes, I could feel your power…

Oh yes, the longing. The wanting but not having. The needing but not getting.

And being so alone and forsaken.

She is so hesitant, not knowing whether this is true happiness. Not knowing whether the true happiness that many speak of even exists… the light at the end of the tunnel or just the train.

Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t want to reach out to the illusion she sees at the bottom of the well, and fall in and drown altogether.

I’ve got the faith to believe…

Is it worth the effort to find out? She’s been hurt one times too many.

She remembers everything that transpired. Raw insides. Endless bleeding.

It hurts.

I’m so tired.

Forget.

No. Believe.

Reaching out, and pulling away… reaching out, and pulling away…

Could she fall down the rabbit hole, so to speak, and begin again?

Believe.

All we know is that it isn’t her last chance.

Not yet.

But I’m running towards you and it’s all I believe.

All photos are under a CC license and used with permission. Click photos for credits.

Song: Come My Way by Skillet

Related post: On Choosing Happiness by chasingparadise

Soul Windows

… Akin
To one who’s locked inside a room
And, hearing noises in the street,
Peers through a window eagerly.
Like him, my heart cannot conceive
What’s happening and, mid such noise,
Looks through the eyes to catch a view,
As eyes are windows of the soul
Where hearts pour out in teary dews.

—-Life is a Dream, by Calderon de la Barca

For a while, I’ve been thinking of a particular topic which I could write to accompany this beautiful little selection from Calderon de la Barca’s play Life is a Dream. I’m still stumped.

It’s a perfect, insightful bit of poetry all by itself, even without knowing the context in which it was spoken.

And I do encourage anyone reading to read the work for themselves. Penguin Classics has an excellent translation. In terms of its wisdom, accessibility, and easily understood language, I think this is the best reading assignment I’ve gotten in all of freshman year. Each time I read the work, I get something new from it. At the same time it’s pretty straightforward.

Maybe we do look through the eyes of another to gain some sort of understanding of the situation. That could be why when we’re guilty or ashamed, we’re afraid of letting other people meet our eyes. We don’t want them to decipher what’s going on because they might judge us and be disappointed in turn.

Thoughts at Midnight

Quick bout of self-loathing at my inability to express myself sufficiently… at instead, expressing God’s love in a way that looks stupid and unreal. Rummaging around with my clumsy hands and getting my foot stuck in my mouth is one of my shortcomings. Perhaps the reason why I would not make a good psychologist is because of my own failings at speaking.

However, I was led to this conclusion…

… maybe my happiness is found in knowing that I am enfolded in a Love my small, stupid, undeserving, unlovely heart cannot even begin to grasp.

…  maybe that’s why I can keep trying, even though I am stupid and small and undeserving and unlovely, because to those eyes I am deserving and lovely.

And because I know deep down inside that this Love is not an illusion…