Sunday, July 12, 2009

I will sing praise,
I will sing praise,
No weapon formed against me shall remain.
I will rejoice,
I will declare,
God is my victory and He is here.

All of my life,
In every season
You are still God
I have a reason to sing,
I have a reason to worship.

And this is my prayer in the harvest
When favor and providence flow
I know I'm filled to be emptied again
This seed I receive, I will sow.

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I'll take whatever You're doing
Inside of me,
When it feels like chaos,
Somehow there's peace...

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Give me a Revelation,
Show me what to do,
Cause I've been trying to find my way
And haven't got a clue.
Tell me should I stay here,
Or do I need to move?
Give me a Revelation,
I've got nothing without You,
I've got nothing without You.

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God I'm crying out tonight,
Because I've given You my life,
But I'm tired and I'm missing what's behind,
So once more,
Here's my life.

Even when the tears are falling
When I find I fear the calling
You remind me,
Words You've spoken over my life
Promises, I've yet to see them come
For me...

Friday, July 10, 2009

Dear Em,

The girl you see is not beautiful. She is not clever, nor loved, nor enviable. She is a lonely, desolate demon who is ITCHING to destroy you. You know what she really looks like? In the corner of your mind?

She's on a hospital bed, wearing one of those disgusting, filthy gowns that ties loosely enough in the back to reveal bruised and mottled skin. Her hair is lank and damp and looks like dishwater, and falling out all over the place because she doesn't have enough nutrition to have healthy, sleek hair that grows. Her eyes are sunk in her face, a face with no life and the skin stretched too tightly over brittle bones, so that it looks like an old, translucent sheet of wax paper that yellowed over time. Her lips are chapped and taunt over her teeth, and her mouth leads to a bleeding, fiery throat with a never-ending ache, caused by puking up so much. She is not beautifully fragile— she is disgustingly broken and twisted, like a dry twig ready to be thrown in the fire. Her hands are bony and dry, cracking between the knuckles. She is ready to die and she beckons to you. She wants to die. She would love for you to die, too. There is no snowstorm here. Only dead and rotting leaves from a long-gone autumn, waiting to decompose. Everyone who looks at her shudders, because she cries out to them all day long, not for help but for pity, not for food but for thin air, that rasps through her lungs and she suffers through another day, still waiting to die and become... nothing. She cries out that she is overlooked and only in her weakness will she be recognized, but it's a lie. She eats nothing and is yet never satiated.

Doesn't that sound enchanting? Oh, wait, no— it sounds like hell.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Lost and Found

So, in Orr's AP Lit class, we did these free-write things. And one time, I wrote something about The Great Gatsby, and he kept it, and all I got was a photocopied version back. I found it today in my desk drawer.

"There is a gap in human nature that rests uneasily between the things a person knows and what they only have the power to imagine. It is deep, wide, and fretful— many extraordinary and unfortunate men have allowed themselves to fall, subconsciously, into its blanketed jaws. It is a state at which one becomes fully aware of what he possesses, and what he does not. Of what lies as a necessity, and what presents itself as a means of life within its appearance of necessity, that captures a mans soul and hunts him as prey, making him shift restlessly and seek, in most cases, eternally. Here, in this ravine, a man may become oblivious, even ignorant, and is bound hand and foot to lie in this hole until satisfaction does, or perhaps sadder still, does not, arrive.

If such a man stuck in this gap there ever was, he would be called Gatsby. His face would be pleasant, but somehow, dry. For his mind would be beyond whomever he was with, or wherever he was— he would be a man with a purpose that could never be fulfilled, for how does one close the intangible rift between the throes of ravaging desire and the dissatisfaction of material surplus?

[There is no man truly living who would contend to believe he has no purpose. Even those sunken in the depths of their gap have the most torturous destiny to be reconciled. So it somewhat stands to reason that those who overcome will save their life, while those who let themselves be overcome, will lose it.]

Perhaps it is unnecessary to single out one man versus another when discussing human nature in detail. However, it is imperative to agree that, like Gatsby, there will always be those who extract, who exhale, who emphasize and enlarge every aspect or the soul to the point where the very air around them cackles and snaps with a melancholy, sweet, electric vitality, that can and should remain forever a mystery to the average soul.

This exemplary personality is created within the gap. It sets a man apart, raises him above the social standard to the point of vast admiration, but leaves him very desolate, very hungry, and very lonely. He has given up his free will to it, and there alone, until the end, he shall suffer."

When I reread it, it's very broken. My thoughts don't connect at all, and it really doesn't make sense. I wonder what I was thinking when I wrote it.