pulling heartstrings

There are strings dangling from my the chambers and valves of my heart, attached to little puppets. Quite animated, quite they are. But I have not the slightest idea by whom or to whom these puppets come to life, prancing around, flailing their lifeless limbs.

At times, the little puppets slumber like children for days on end. I come close to forgetting them, altogether. Other days, it seems they are pounding with indignant fists on the inner walls of my chest, demanding release into the open. May they burst and reap explosion, or suffocate a death mocking as it is slow, I cannot say.

Charlotte O'Connor - Just Like You Love Me Again

until

"dying is easy
it's living that's so hard"

scholarship entry frenzies

“If you could rename yourself, what would your new name be and why?”

I proudly dub myself the name Anonymous.

In the history of nomenclature there have been names of both typical and atypical nature, of both glorious and disgraceful meaning. History has yet to encounter wholehearted absence of name. I believe that name does not confer upon the named the virtues of Greek gods and goddesses, nor does it bestow particular fortune or calamity. A name fosters not concrete identity, but virtual, futile identity. In essence, it is emptied of meaning when employed in the context of the moving, breathing commotion of life. Within life’s bona fide realm, little does it matter what my name is, so long as I can show you much better than I can say.

Sooner rather than later, akin to trivial specks of dust particles diffusing into nullity, engrossed by sunlight’s captivation and darkness' absorption, a name denotes naught.

one hundred forty four thousand

cause when the trumpets blowin'

I have spent so much useless time in the past trying to please others.
I have found that I will end up either stranded at sea or shipwrecked on shore.

24 elders surround the throne

What things would we say if we had not a care of how others regarded or judged us upon? How fervidly would we love? Would we at last cease to ferment amongst moldy bits of bread crumbs, made sheepish by our vile instincts - our want of acceptance and recognition?

only 144,000 gon' get home

1 + 1

I made a time capsule in 4th grade and found it in my closet today, buried beneath a heap of the past, among other flimsy old valentine's day cards, photographs, printed conversations, or whatever else have you.

And I have always wondered what my PostSecret card might one day say.

"I finally got what I always said I wanted. And now I realize I don't want it at all. But the worst part is that I'm powerless already."

Too bad I didn't think to glue big, red 'Rewind' and 'Fast Forward' buttons on my time capsule back then.

= 2

withering flowers

The coming and parting of spring infests me
It's the happiest and saddest time of the year

mercy on men

"forgive them, forgive they know not what they do"

If we didn't know that forgiveness was endless, we wouldn't bounce back comfortably onto second and third and thirtieth chances as acceptable avenues of redemption. That God would still consider excuses "repentance"? But even though He sees us manipulating His forgiveness, given the choice, He would still save us a thousand times over.

Paid the full cost plus tax, so long as we still got it all for free.

masterpieces on blank canvases of silence

Music speaks in the world's only universally understood language. There need be no fear of precious meaning, lost in translation, forever irretrievable. Zimbabwe, Tokyo, Paris, Buenos Aires, Cairo - you name it. No matter where you're from, you can feel the bounce and rhythm of a song. You can tap your feet to the beat, that is, unless you are melodically handicapped. (Such poor, unfortunate souls.) You can get goosebumps listening to silky smooth vocal runs, like I do.

Gets me every single time.

We are a people with whom the majority have been equipped the ability to empathize with music on a crazily sublime level. To be moved by notes and voices from all ends of a revolving 3-D spectrum of hues and colors. Some identify better with the raspy throats of hoarse soul artists, others with the striated timbres of violin and viola, and yet others with electronic synthesizers and voice box technology.

Sometimes I wonder how beautiful the world would be if words were sung, rather than spoken.

So that expressing how you care for someone wouldn't amount to meaningless mumbles, but to rhythm, chords, and ultimately, divine melodies. Imagine if there were soundtracks for every emotion. Soundtracks for joy, fear, anger, hope, despair. After all, don't we always say that how we feel "can't possibly be put into words"? Words apparently don't serve proper justice to the intensity of human emotion. In no way can it capture the fine lines, and the unfathomable depths between those fine lines, the way music can. Words can't overlap and layer and interweave and contort like the notes of a root chord and all its variant chords - the seventh, fifth, ninth, diminished, major, minor chords.

I believe that ears can shed tears, can bleed convulsing in pain, can smile wider than the heart can grin. I'm so thankful that I'm not deaf. If and only if God willing, I were ever to go deaf, I suppose I would paint quarter and eighth notes in the air, in hopes that they would magically come to life and reverberate the airwaves surrounding my eyes. Perhaps I could use those digital, visual metronomes so I could sing and play, if not audibly, then at least visibly.

Until then, music will always speak for me when hurt penetrates so deep that I am numb at the mouth and frozen at the feet, drowning in my own miserable pool of writer's block.