prose

Why Is Love So Important

Folder: 
Christianity


I love learning languages. Wisdom and knowledge matter a lot to me. And I want to escape my selfish nature. These are all good things. However, tonight I've been reading that:


Were I to speak all languages, those of men and those of angels,
Were I a prophet to understand the secrets and all knowledge,
Were I to martyr myself in destitution to the world,
In all of these things, without love I am simply nothing.


I don't always wait with patience,

and I have seen my heart become hard

or more often ache with envy.

 

I take pride in my demeanor, as if feigned humility could cure the human condition of arrogance.

I could go on but this is just to say too often I live with self-seeking love.

I'm sure you can relate.

 

I know that there is a stronger love that endures, survives, and transcends all things.

As we grow older, one day very soon all things will be held to light and the shadow be burnt away forever, like dross from gold.

What remains is ours to keep, treasure stored up in Heaven -

and among this is found faith, hope, and love.

But love is the greatest.

 

And without love we hold nothing.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Based off of the New Testament, including I Cor. 13.

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The Ford Mustang of my grandfather


The Ford Mustang of my grandfather




I honestly don’t know where to start; this may even be a history lesson for some as this is something that has more than 40 years. This object may be the envy of any lover of the industry of cars and specially the American Muscle because I’m going to talk you about the most popular classic, my grandfather’s Ford Mustang 67’. This nice piece of art of engineering was given to my grandfather as his eighteen year old birthday gift. He really enjoyed it during his young years and always talks about how the ladies gathered to just take a ride with him; it really made him feel like some kind of artist. Now on days you can sit with him and watch a shiny gray can in his old hands with the words “Carta Blanca” goes up and down meanwhile he tells you about how sometimes he escaped very late night from home and went to some girl’s house in his ride to pick her up and just go for some random roadtrip all night long. Well, people may wonder what happen to his jewel throughout the time, I’m going to summarize it in a short sentence: the classic was enjoyed in its days and now obsolete. This became more than just a transport media or a magnet for girls, but became like an extra limb to my grandfather. He grew up, got married, raised four kids and did all the necessary to keep the car. He left it in the garage, left it to being eaten by the dust and years. I wonder if he was thinking it may function as an ordinary food which you can left in the freezer for decades and conserve the same aspect, but for the bad luck of my grandparent, it didn’t. Today you can see it and be 100% sure it is anything but a car. The poor jewel can be described as… rotten. If you ask my grandparent he will always tell you he is working on to fix it, but you may know the answer. The strange thing is that he refuses to pay someone to fix it and he really has the money to put it up back to life and maaaaaaaybe think about letting me get my hands on it. But you have to understand this may not represent his life, but it does most of it.

Domino

         When you went to my Grandfathers house, you could always find in the table of the living room a game of domino already finished. Every sunday that we went to visit him we would get all the cousins together and play against him. He would love to play the game and every time he finished playing he would leave the finished game in the table until he would play again. When I was young I didn’t understand why he would leave the dominos on the table and they would last even longer there when he lost. It was not until he past away and I was playing domino that I tried to imitate him and decided to leave the game as it ended, and when I returned to play again I noticed that I could have won the game if I had played the correct hand. It was in that moment that I realized that the reason he would leave the game as it ended was so that he could be able to analyze his game every time he past by that room and he could improve his game and skills. He had a huge collection of dominos for all parts of the world, he used to buy them as he traveled. But also each year when it was his birthday his friends and family would give him dominos and he would love them. His favorite ones were ones that were custom made, they had the name of my family in the back and the place where he worked most of his life in the front. The game of domino consist of playing with 4 players and it is very common to play this game with your friends especially elder people, the work of my grandparent consisted of being a very social person and knowing a lot of people. I remember how he once told me that he had made and sealed a lot of friendships throughout his life while playing this game with them. The way that my grandfather loved to play this game made me understand how important friendship is in life and also how you should always try to improve and understand where you went wrong.

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How Soon?

Folder: 
Prose

If I said I knew what I was doing I’d be lying, because maybe sanity is overrated or maybe I was interrupted from life from the very second I was conceived in my mother’s womb. I driving in the hour of twilight and the affairs I had along the way were my only pure daylight. The men, they were all nothing until I met him; quiet, yes. But so enigmatic, prismatic, and most of all charismatic; how cliché: a story about a boy who loved a boy with his whole time-lost heart.

I had always gotten the feeling that if I had to choose between the arcane men and myself death would seem much more fitting than a world desolate of mystery. 

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Half Empty

A glass half empty, a glass half full….everyone knows what is meant by this. I guess I’m the pessimist. My glass IS half empty, I am half empty. Everything good that happens seems to not have any effect on my half empty glass, but everything negative from unbearable to tolerable seems to be a drop taken from the glass that I worry I may never get back. My predators all drank from the glass, thirsty for an easy target. The closer to the bottom of the glass I get, I can no longer see my reflection in it, I feel my strength draining down to the last drop when I have to scrape for something to continue to fight for. Things aren’t clearer through an empty glass, they are streaked with unpleasant remnants of what they left with me. Left terminally ill, my glass finally breaks, and I find myself with nothing to hold the hope in but my inadequately equipped hands. A small, intricately shaped piece of glass becomes my hope. I draw crimson ribbons with it, hoping everything coming from hate would be evicted from my body. I pray that the parts that made me, me,…are hiding dormant inside, waiting for the chance to wake and take back what once was mine,…what was supposed to be un-ownable by anyone else. Like a string of pearls,…beads escape wildly across the well-kempt floor as if someone yanked them from my undeserving neck….life drains from my half-empty body. My slow departure being one last punishment I had expected would find me. Maybe now they would see that I was right, I was a half-empty kind of girl….my life ending in a half-empty state. Half-empty was enough, or so I thought.

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Vague Garbage

It feels as though some part of me is about to go away forever. It will exit through the back of my skull, and will leave a large, gaping exit-wound that likely won't have any blood to offer the air. In time it will close and there will be no scars hinting at any sort of passage into or out of my cranial dome.

Because I am unable to take anything I say or think seriously as of late, everything I write must be some mixed, vaguely metaphorical slew of nonsense alluding to me, to the people I know and to the situations I may or may not actually be experiencing. It's almost comforting but then it isn't, because it isn't interesting, it isn't helping and it isn't constructive. Nobody's paying close attention unless they already were to begin with. It's hard to garner attention for one's self if one's self is also terrified of being judged, or worse, being seen as boring.

But I am boring when I'm not conflicted. Thank goodness, because I'm always conflicted over something. At that point I transcend from the boring into the annoying, and there are entirely new reasons to be away from me and entirely new reasons to keep my moods, emotions and thoughts totally to myself. But then somebody bumps into me a little too hard at the wrong angle, and, like an over-inflated balloon after encountering a sharp point, I begin to squeal audibly as everything underneath my skin comes flailing out in a stream of hot gas and empty atmospheric waste.

This morning I awoke to nothing besides the sweet sound of my cat knocking my desk lamp on to the floor, which, of course, has broken and also managed to knock my glasses on the way down, not bending their frames somehow but still scratching BOTH lenses. That's the second lamp he's broken in less than a month, and now I don't have a lamp for my computer desk. On the bright side, I got to work earlier than usual.

I had a lovely dream before I was disturbed this morning, though. I was in a cafe of sorts, in one of those dreamscapes formed entirely by the first-person view where you never actually turn to observe the people that accompany you. I knew there were friends nearby - clearly I wouldn't come to such a place by myself. And as I sat with one of my knees pulled to my chest, looking about as relaxed as I actually was and with my head full of muddled pointlessness and curious feelings of ambiguity about the validity of the world around me, I spotted the one familiar, and clearly dominant face of the dreamscape. It was Josh, Megan's old (or current I guess) lover. Nothing really happened between us. He was sitting only six or seven feet away and we happened to be facing each other. He glanced at me occasionally, pretending not to notice, all the while I simply stared at this stupid, fucking bearded face without hesitation of aversion of the eyes. Then I raised my right hand, the dominant one of course, and flipped him in the bird. I even held it in the air and moved it from side to side, to be damn sure that he would notice it.

That was the whole dream. It was great.

I think I may actually be going a little crazier than I was.

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What’s inside the purse?

Emergency kit, lip-gloss, paper fan, sewing kit, everything I needed I knew I can find it there. Besides being my best friend I’ve always seen my mother as a hero, and her purse is one of her special weapons. Whenever I think of a bad situation I think on my mother finding a way to fix it. I remember when I was 10 I was at Dallas, Texas ready for my ice skating competition, or at least that’s what I thought, two minutes before going in the rink, I saw how my costume was ripped from one side, if it hadn’t been for the sewing kit my mom had on her purse, I probably wouldn’t have competed, she immediately saw it back again and I was ready in a matter of seconds. Four years ago, my mother took me and my friends to South Padre Island, we had so much fun for the first two days, that night the hotel’s emergency alarm went on and we had to leave the building, hurricane “Dolly” attacked the island while we were sleeping. We found a basement safe for us to stay, 10 people and a total of 24 hours on the same room, how did we make it? Yeah, you’re right… my mom’s purse; from food to emergency blankets, my mom just kept taking things out of there, once again we were saved by the power of the purse. I remember being so nervous at that time, hearing the strong wind blow and the sound of things falling every second, I guess that knowing how I could find something on that purse that will help us make it through such a bad day relaxed me and made me feel better. I can’t even think of one time since I was little that I needed something that I couldn’t find there, sometimes I didn’t even had to ask for it the fact of knowing that it was in there made me feel secure. All these years I’ve been thinking why is it that I find so important what’s inside my mother’s purse, I finally found out that it’s not about the things, its about the way it makes me feel, secure and protected. When I grow older and have kids, I hope the stuff I have in my purse make them feel the same way.

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Rambling at Work

I'm comfortable today, though I am and have been starving since eight am. My morning slim shakes aren't doing the job anymore. Maybe there's food nearby? I haven't heard of any birthday celebrations today, but that doesn't mean there isn't something free to eat at a desk on the other side of the building, somewhere.

I managed to get a good walk in yesterday evening after departing from work. I've really lost my motivation to exercise as of late, so it felt good to get out there and move. Walking long distances always centers me. Whereas I used to simply walk the circular labrynthian neighborhoods all connected to my own home street back at my parent's house; since moving, I've ended up walking all of the hilliest and most unforgiving roads in terms of terrain and traffic that I can find. It makes for a much better workout, though it also runs the risk of allowing people to throw shit at you, which happens more often than I would prefer. I've been hit directly in the back of the neck with a quarter, which, while painful, I had to hand it to whoever threw it: it was a damn good shot, especially out of the window of a moving car. I've also been hit, dead on, full force, in the crotch by a cup of ice. Once again, this was from a moving car. That one was also a pretty good shot, and it took every ounce of my will to stop from slowing my pace. It hurt really, really bad.

I walk for many miles, generally stoned if at all possible, and with my headphones on. That beautiful sensation of making progress, of making headway and of just getting somewhere, anywhere, is probably what I love most about my walks. In my day to day life, there is a stagnancy. I'm not unique in this regard by any means, but it's still torturous, especially on my bad days. I've always been the type of person that desires purpose, and I've yet to find one that's lasted. There was a time when I felt that my purpose in life was to eventually become a professional artist, but I've bypassed that, and these days I hardly do any drawing at all. After that, I was sure that my purpose in life centered around Emily, and keeping her happy and at my side. After she left, and I had my uproarious identity crisis which turned me from a fat, mostly-jovial and exceptionally kind teenager into a thin, cynical and stoic asshole of a young adult, I was completely at a loss, dropping out of a college and taking on a full-time job just to prevent myself from dwelling on my sorrows in my free time.

After becoming a college drop-out (the first time) things only got worse and more out-of-control. Upon my return from Columbus, I knew that there was really nowhere to go and nothing to pursue. I had no goals besides getting weed, staying high and hopefully, somewhere in the midst of that, finding a girl that will stick around this time. A dozen failures and another ruined relationship later, I was worse off than when I had started, completely broke and at a point where suicide sounded logical rather than drastic. But I'm a dramatic and emotional young man, and in time I weathered that storm. These thoughts do crop up from time to time though, even now. Despite my good job, my friends, my family; none of it matters to me apparently, though it is what keeps me going. I want something more.

I have a habit of constantly checking things where people may be trying to get a hold of me. Whether it be my e-mail, my Facebook, my cell phone or this site itself; I'm always glancing when I have a spare moment, hoping for a word from... Someone. I'm not sure why, nor am I sure what exactly it is that I'm waiting for. Just... Contact. I suppose it's just my conscious/subconscious desire to be wanted and sought out manifesting itself. As if one, beautiful day, I'll open a new tab on my internet browser and take a peek at my e-mail; there, I will find a long, wordy, unabashedly DESPERATE message from someone, maybe Kathleen, telling me that they want me, they NEED me, they're IN LOVE with me and they can't go another day without me at their side. Suddenly, all of this chaos that reigns above my head and keeps me held firmly at bay will disperse, and I will rise, oh yes, RISE into the heavens and become, at long last, a happy and fulfilled person.

Stupid, right?

It's a stupid habit to have, one that I should be taking active steps to rid myself of. But I suppose there isn't any real harm in it. If I take some simple delight in doing so, why not take a moment to make a wish and then see if my wish came true? I've had wishes come true before. As cheesy as it sounds, Emily coming into my life was a wish that came true. I was lonely and had been single for some time, and every day I wished to find love. Suddenly, love came, in the form of a beautiful Italian girl that was so far out of my league that I was legitimately confused when our time together began so quickly. And we worked, for a long time. So maybe that will happen again. Who can say? I may be having absolutely terrible luck with women right now, but hopefully it won't last.

I've felt the sobering sting of rejection far too much in the past year. It's been a brutal time to be alive in many ways, and I'm glad that things have gotten so much better, at least financially-speaking. But still, I am alone. My solitude may be what's best for me right now, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I have to like it. I haven't the faintest idea how to stand out to all of the lovely, captivating women out there. The longer I go unnoticed, the worse I tend to think of myself. That isn't fair or even really sensible, but it's not something I have much influence over. I like to think that some day, I'll be able to properly judge my own self-worth, without taking into account shallow occurances such as a girl that eyes me up and down or the vague, half-informed opinions she may have about me based on my appearance. But if the entirety of my life up until this point is any sort of indicator, then I will likely be this way forever. Unfortunate, but it's hard to do combat with who you are at your core.

It's fun to look back on my time with Emily at this point. I miss all of the warmth that accompanied it, and it's nice to reflect on all of the good times. Megan and I never had a relationship like that. Ours was a relationship built around sex, strain and intoxication. I don't really know if I regret the time I spent with her. It lead to nothing besides conflict, with her and with friends that knew her, and I suppose in that regard, I do wish we had been wise with whom we chose to lay with. I also missed a few chances with other girls while Megan was around, but I doubt any of those paths would have lead anywhere relevant.

Really, I wish I had been better to Megan. I wish so distraught all of the time, and I allowed my patience with her to wittle down to absolutely nothing. Never in my life have I argued with someone so often and so fiercely. I have never been one to raise my voice to anyone, even out of anger, but Megan simply brought it out of me like no other girl ever could. We were an extremely physical couple, wrestling often, fucking constantly and always playfully pushing each other around. We never actually raised our fists against one-another of course, but at times, I wasn't exactly sure how long it would be before Megan straight up threw a punch at me. I'd deserve it too. She was unreasonable and obnoxious more often than not, but she was also exceedingly sweet and understanding of my mood swings. She deserved much, much better than what I gave to her. Despite all of that, she still considered me one of the sweetest boyfriends she had ever had. That's so sad, and so unfair.

I managed to further ruin things between Megan and I when I drunkenly tried to get a booty call out of her a few months back. Certainly not one of my finer moments, but considering that she left me and immediately slept with that piece-of-shit that she's always hanging around, I honestly thought it was a plausible attempt (at the time). I regret that, of course, but I think in the end it may have been best to simply remove myself from Megan's life entirely. That's another thing that this last year has been about: the removal of those who are bad for my mental health. That's not to say that I've purged a large amount of my social circle; it really only applies to a small handful of people. But I'm glad to have done away with them, and I'm glad that the splash of their waves of melodrama is no longer able to reach me.

At this point, I'm not entirely sure what I was supposed to be talking about. I'm just practicing a form of writing that isn't poetry. Work with me here.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Neat new layout.

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Back Log Prose

I powered on my computer and waited impatiently for the login screen to appear. The desktop was running slower than it generally does, which cost me a few minutes before I was able to clock-in, but I was a half-an-hour early so it's not like it mattered. The Cincinnati skyscrapers loomed in the distance, catching the orange light of the sunrise which gave them a drastic contrast against the thick, grey clouds that retreated into the morning behind them.

It's the start of another work week at Southwest.

Much of the time, I'm not actually working when I'm at the office. I get enough done so that nobody asks any questions about my production, but more often than not, when I appear to be diligently typing figures into a valuation, I'm actually writing something for myself. When I appear to be deeply involved in an investigation that will hopefully yield some comparable sales to be used, I'm probably reading something completely unrelated to work altogether. If anybody knows, they obviously don't care. I get about thirty valuations done a day, which I'm told is a lot, all the while keeping my mind occupied with other things, listening to music and occasionally wandering off just so that I can look at something that isn't a flat-screen monitor for a moment. Some times I'll e-mail my friend Melissa, usually only if I find something funny about a borrower's name, or if the name of the town I'm working on in North Carolina is something perverted like Climax or Cumming (both of those are real towns, though I can't remember which states they're in).

I do enjoy my job, and I want to succeed at it. Though I do goof off, I am sure to not allow myself to slack so far that my work actually suffers. I think that if I were to completely cut myself off from any and all distractions, that my work wouldn't really improve as I would become frustrated much more often, which, in turn, would make me more likely to half-ass a valuation in order to get it out of my queue.

Maybe I'm just making excuses so that I can keep writing whatever this is that I'm writing at the moment.

Anyway, it was an eventful, drunken weekend. I look back on it fondly, but it also has brought something kind of serious to my attention: I have to stop hanging around my buddy Kevin when we go out to bars. Unless I am the only boy my age in the room, girls almost never notice me. I must have a way of blending into my surroundings. I don't do it intentionally; more than anything else, I want women to take notice of my presence, and to be interested. But when Kevin's around, everything gets worse. The man is over six feet tall, has black hair and dark skin, is in good shape, and man, all of the ladies just lose their shit over him. He never acts on anything, which somehow makes it all the more frustrating, but regardless of his complacency, women absolutely fawn over him. I hate that I have jealousy issues at all, but what can I do? Even Emily, the one-time love of my life, told me point blank, to my fucking face, that Kevin is better looking than I am. I don't know if you've ever experienced that, having the girl that you loved more than anything or anyone else tell you that one of your best friends is more attractive to her than you, but I can tell you from my own firsthand experience that it will fucking ruin you, at least for a while. Hell, it seems like it partially ruined me for good; I can't seem to shake the thought of it no matter what, and even now, it's proving to be completely true.

Do you think I sound shallow, talking exclusively about looks and outer-appearances rather than a person's personality or intelligence? You may not believe me, but these are beliefs that I have acquired and learned quite recently. I mean, I've always been told by friends and family that I'm a really handsome, attractive guy. But people that are close to you certainly aren't going to say that you're ugly as sin, nor will they let it slip that you're simply average unless you beat it out of them. So it must be true then, that my looks are just not good enough to stand out in a crowd, and therefore, I am the constant, accidental chameleon, blurring into the muddled colors of the walls that I lean against.

And here I thought that I'd managed to improve myself enough to warrant a few admiring glances from across the room. But I suppose not. And clearly, that means that I need to acquire fame and fortune as soon as possible. I mean shit, I already have an office job, a decent wardrobe and a nice car, and yet I still cannot get any women to appreciate me on a shallow level, which is the ONLY LEVEL that seems to fucking matter at this point. Girls will let me know man, they will fucking let me know when they aren't interested, and it's always just because I don't look how they'd like me to look. I'm always myself, I'm always kind, I'm never creepy and I never come on too strong. I'm just not good enough to be considered, and as far as I can gather, it's just because of the fact that I don't stand out.

But vast wealth and my name on a Wikipedia page would earn me some admiration no matter what, wouldn't it? Sure, much of it would be completely false or based upon something unstable and ultimately fake, but what does it matter? I'd take it where I could get it, and move on, just like everyone else seems so able to do even now. Maybe if I ever get around to writing my book, I'll get lucky and it'll sell. Then I'll be a published writer, and people will have to take notice of me for something. Women would flock to me because of my "depth" and my "talent" despite the fact that I'm pretty sure Larry the Cable Guy had a best selling autobiography out a while back. Then, afterwards, I can focus on releasing my poetry and continue working on other books. Life will good and complete, and I may, finally and at long last, feel this "contentment" I've heard so much about recently.

On the flip side, if my life were to end tomorrow and I saw it coming somehow, I think I'd be ready. I'd be more than ready; I'd welcome it with open arms and I would happily say goodbye to my friends and family, as this death that comes to embrace me was not a choice that I have made, but rather a choice the fates have made for me. And I'm sure they would be sad, and probably a bit confused by my reaction to my own impending doom, but whatever. Regardless of the cause or any plausible solutions, being constantly unhappy for years is really, really difficult. Thoughts of suicide aside, I still fear death somehow. The thought of being struck by lightning while caught in a terrible storm is oddly terrifying to me some times, despite the unlikelihood.

I think it's clear that I know nothing about what I want in this life.

Well, no. I want love.

It's all very confusing.

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