I’m preparing myself for a war.
I woke up this morning to a cold room. My skin is shivering with the thought of getting out of my sheets. I can almost feel my breath. The heaters are off, but not for long. There is a small glimmer of light outside my window, but my optimism fails me as I look out to see the grayness.
“Oh and to be loved”, I sarcastically whisper. “Oh to want glory”. There are no birds singing, none of nature's life scurrying about in the yard.
I frantically put on as many layers as possible before I head to the bathroom. I’m not accustomed to being cold. Well I am, but not in that sense. All the toughness accumulated in my youth has worn off. I have become mush. Weak and livid. Questioning and defiant. I’m looking at the back of my hand again…
And all the while, my God is laughing. I see him in the trees, changing the leaves of the eucalyptus tree in plain site of my window. He’s ravaging the garden, which I once thought was beautiful -- It’s not now, and I wonder if it’s ever been. It’s been depleted by the seasons. By him. Even the bugs can't take anymore of his scrunity.
My neighborhood is waking to the sight of God. He’s shining whatever light he can today into the eyes of his followers. The rest of him is covering the light, in plain sight we see it; a mass of clouds. He’s relentless in his approach. There is no bargaining, nor would I bargain, I have too much pride. I will prove to him I can withstand the onslaught.
He killed my Aunt Rita yesterday and God knows who else.
I understand death but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m assuming she died in her sleep. I have to assume because nobody from my family has had the decency to tell me yet.
She was older and healthy, strong-willed and a caretaker. She died without regret.
The school yard is full of life today. The children are running into the school across from my house. They are clad in winter garb, there arms are flailing with their speed, their anxiousness to get to class on time. The kids range from 5 to 10. Most short, most stupid.
The parents are like zombies. They silently walk with their kid(s), a gait that is almost an acceptance of life lost, their defeatist attitudes, struggling with the lack of freedom and choice. There energy is sad at times. I don’t see the smiles this early in the morning; I see their grief and wanting, and there questioning eyes that sometimes look at me and wondering what my life is like. They are clad in discount clothing, probably from Wal-Mart, because now their looks and physical well-being are overlooked.
“God how I loath denim jackets and bright colored, cottony shirts that just aren't cotton. How I hate the sight of fleece and lulu lemon. This is everything that is wrong with society…”, as I stare at them with disgust. I want to walk up to one of the mothers and slapping and shaking her. “Wake up! The time is now. Free yourself from the clutches of youth. Live again! Make the revolution”. But I can’t. It’s not my life to save.
Oh parents, how I do not envy you. Your protectiveness and self-righteous behaviors that are non to apparent to us lowly beings. Because why? You created life? Pffft. I create life everyday. I change the world around me with a mere sentence and just because I didn’t give birth doesn’t make me any less of a creator. Abomination!
I do appreciate the fact that you have been closer to life then I. I have tasted it, held it, wondering about it…but it’s not for me. I don’t think I can come to terms with it. The fact that, yeah, my life would no longer be focused on myself, and that my fate is now sealed unless a mishap occurred. I can’t give up that easy.
As I wait for my car to warm, and watch the remained of the techno-colored generation that will become the leaders of tomorrow, I get it. I am pledging to be no longer weak. To no longer seek gratification. To whisk myself away from this ungodly pattern of thoughts and free myself from romance.
I woke up this morning to a cold room. My skin is shivering with the thought of getting out of my sheets. I can almost feel my breath. The heaters are off, but not for long. There is a small glimmer of light outside my window, but my optimism fails me as I look out to see the grayness.
“Oh and to be loved”, I sarcastically whisper. “Oh to want glory”. There are no birds singing, none of nature's life scurrying about in the yard.
I frantically put on as many layers as possible before I head to the bathroom. I’m not accustomed to being cold. Well I am, but not in that sense. All the toughness accumulated in my youth has worn off. I have become mush. Weak and livid. Questioning and defiant. I’m looking at the back of my hand again…
And all the while, my God is laughing. I see him in the trees, changing the leaves of the eucalyptus tree in plain site of my window. He’s ravaging the garden, which I once thought was beautiful -- It’s not now, and I wonder if it’s ever been. It’s been depleted by the seasons. By him. Even the bugs can't take anymore of his scrunity.
My neighborhood is waking to the sight of God. He’s shining whatever light he can today into the eyes of his followers. The rest of him is covering the light, in plain sight we see it; a mass of clouds. He’s relentless in his approach. There is no bargaining, nor would I bargain, I have too much pride. I will prove to him I can withstand the onslaught.
He killed my Aunt Rita yesterday and God knows who else.
I understand death but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m assuming she died in her sleep. I have to assume because nobody from my family has had the decency to tell me yet.
She was older and healthy, strong-willed and a caretaker. She died without regret.
The school yard is full of life today. The children are running into the school across from my house. They are clad in winter garb, there arms are flailing with their speed, their anxiousness to get to class on time. The kids range from 5 to 10. Most short, most stupid.
The parents are like zombies. They silently walk with their kid(s), a gait that is almost an acceptance of life lost, their defeatist attitudes, struggling with the lack of freedom and choice. There energy is sad at times. I don’t see the smiles this early in the morning; I see their grief and wanting, and there questioning eyes that sometimes look at me and wondering what my life is like. They are clad in discount clothing, probably from Wal-Mart, because now their looks and physical well-being are overlooked.
“God how I loath denim jackets and bright colored, cottony shirts that just aren't cotton. How I hate the sight of fleece and lulu lemon. This is everything that is wrong with society…”, as I stare at them with disgust. I want to walk up to one of the mothers and slapping and shaking her. “Wake up! The time is now. Free yourself from the clutches of youth. Live again! Make the revolution”. But I can’t. It’s not my life to save.
Oh parents, how I do not envy you. Your protectiveness and self-righteous behaviors that are non to apparent to us lowly beings. Because why? You created life? Pffft. I create life everyday. I change the world around me with a mere sentence and just because I didn’t give birth doesn’t make me any less of a creator. Abomination!
I do appreciate the fact that you have been closer to life then I. I have tasted it, held it, wondering about it…but it’s not for me. I don’t think I can come to terms with it. The fact that, yeah, my life would no longer be focused on myself, and that my fate is now sealed unless a mishap occurred. I can’t give up that easy.
As I wait for my car to warm, and watch the remained of the techno-colored generation that will become the leaders of tomorrow, I get it. I am pledging to be no longer weak. To no longer seek gratification. To whisk myself away from this ungodly pattern of thoughts and free myself from romance.
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