I am a child of half-measures.
I am a product of lost love.
I am a student of procrastination.
I am a daughter of sin.
I am a lover of words of which I never string together.
I am a seeker of truth who tires easily.
I am a runner whose road always ends.
I am a dark figure who carries a lamp.
I am a winner who never enters a race.
I am a wanderer who never stills.
I am a viewer of injustice, who remains a spectator.
I am apart from the vine.
I am all of nothing.
I am filled with dust.
He is the vine.
He is all of everything.
He is filled with everlasting water.
I stretch out my hand and bring to my chapped lips, His water.
I become. I hope to always become.
I am a snake who has shed its skin.
I am a seeker of His love.
"We slept better than kings on soft beds of pine needles, next to a clear-running Appalachian river. My new alarm clock, the sun, woke us the next morning, warming us as it filtered through the giant pine trees."
"On foot, in a van, on a fleet motorcycle or on a bicycle, a person must be very careful not to become overly concerned with arriving."
Good Stuff. I just started reading it so I can't tell you much except this pretty hard core guy who his parents named, Peter Jenkins, takes a walk across America. So I guess the title's pretty self explanatory.
I thought college was supposed to fill my mind with new and exciting ideas. I thought because of my groundbreaking and world changing thoughts I would be effusive with my speech and various ideologies.
I was not prepared however, for the life sucking, debilitating powers that the collegiate institution holds over me. I am a shell of my former self and my once bouncing and happy brain cells are now lagging across my cerebral base unable to utter a syllable let alone another word.
Words collide and crash against each other. Every sentence jumbled until its ideas are unrecognizable. Electrical circuits in my mind are going haywire and I haphazardly try to repair them.
Deadline, due dates are the death of me and my heart trembles in anticipation of the coming days. The shades from my window are lifted and the bright sun taunts me with its unencumbered rays. My bike sits lonely against a wooden stake and the crisp air calls my name. Yet, my bottom has become one with my desk chair and my fingers are now grafted unto the white keyboard. My eyes are blood shot from looking at the artificial light of my computer screen.
Ideas? What are those? Freedom? What concept is that? I must tailor my thoughts to those of my professors in pursuit of that ever elusive, primitive, and worthy, 'A'. My heartbeats are erratic. My brain fizzles with foreign thoughts. And my body lies awake into the depths of the dark night in search of it.
My room is dark and quiet. Garage voice is playing through the speakers of my computer. I should be outside enjoying the weather and God's creation but my eyelids are heavy and my pillow beckons me. I write now because my mind is sluggish yet unsettled and that's always a sign that something needs to be said. The wires in my brain are crossed and the connection is fuzzy. I don't know whether to think about God's intimate nature, the fact that He is a friend, why sometimes I don't feel Him, or why when I want to be lead I don't feel like He is leading. The little man in my brain is jumping from one area to the next and trying to write down all my thoughts but their going so fast all he has so far are sentence fragments. Which we all know are not good.
I don't think I have anything to say right now. Or maybe it's just I have too much but none of it will come out clearly. I'll try to wade through the dark and murky waters of my mind. In the mean time I'll show whoever reads this, a bad poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the mind.
A maze, a labyrinth filled with snakes. Burrs line the floor that must be picked up. Hands are pricked, heels are bitten. Hours spent, none of the time lost. Streams of light are at the end. The closer we are to it, the farther we've been. Your destiny is never to reach it, your journey is to always begin.
You dig in the dirt with your calloused hands. A pearl is found under the time worn sands. Rare - the find happens once in a lifetime. Half the sky is night, half is filled with light. You forget which is which. The black man looks white. There is a sweet kiss upon your cheek but it doesn't feel right. The water is murky the depth is deep. I can't breath, I'm drowning beneath questioning heaps.
That sounds kind of depressing. It's not meant to be. But like I said it's bad poetry. I hope everyone is having a wonderful Sabbath. God is good. All the time God is good.