A bleak and barren sky watches me, dying
A crow flies over the frozen lake, crying
And I float alone through my day, flitting
Ghost-like and quiet, no single sylable shared
With any who dare approach my broken cross
Not even father sun in his golden sheen
Or laughter's creek-like merriment
Would dare to shake the crusty haze
Of night's darkness burning bright and blinding,
Blinding the vision of one so afraid of life.
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Sorrow's Sweet, Sweet Scent
Eyes lit up like beacons dark
Yet burning soft in twilight glow
No sound oft heard, nor visible mark,
Not love, nor hate did e'er I know
And yet in idle dreams I'd hide
Whilst love's red cisterns bleeding dry
Did give me cause for life denied,
and long sweet exiled hope did fly -
Away from me, from here to there
And sorrow's sweet, sweet scent I'd bare.
Yet burning soft in twilight glow
No sound oft heard, nor visible mark,
Not love, nor hate did e'er I know
And yet in idle dreams I'd hide
Whilst love's red cisterns bleeding dry
Did give me cause for life denied,
and long sweet exiled hope did fly -
Away from me, from here to there
And sorrow's sweet, sweet scent I'd bare.
One for a SIlent Flower
A silent flower beckons me to you
A flower so perfect, in divinity
Created, only by the one who brought us
Heaven's glory here on earth; who yet has
Showered us with beauty and with light.
For you alone of all the flowers known
And yet unknown to man have captured all
My heart. Entirely yours I am, and yet
For all your haunting beauty and your smile,
Which oh-so-gently dares to kiss the world
As does the old, besotted sun, the thought
So tender still remains to steal my sleep:
As lovely you are, in loveliness displayed
Such love will be not mine 'til in my grave I'm laid
A flower so perfect, in divinity
Created, only by the one who brought us
Heaven's glory here on earth; who yet has
Showered us with beauty and with light.
For you alone of all the flowers known
And yet unknown to man have captured all
My heart. Entirely yours I am, and yet
For all your haunting beauty and your smile,
Which oh-so-gently dares to kiss the world
As does the old, besotted sun, the thought
So tender still remains to steal my sleep:
As lovely you are, in loveliness displayed
Such love will be not mine 'til in my grave I'm laid
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Change
Why? Is it to make me stronger? What am I even doing here? Hurting, yes, that's for sure, but is there even something over the other end this time? Is there even a reason? I'm blind, blind, deaf, and sick of crawling. Sick of having to crawl if I want to get anywhere, no matter how near or how far my objective.
But perhaps I'm mostly sick of the way crawling forward has the same effect as running backwards.
When you've turned into everything you despise in other people, and nothing in the world makes sense any more, perhaps it's time to seriously consider what you're even doing here.
And then hope and pray that change is possible.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
A Cure for Alexithymia
Somewhere in the dark there is always a sickening voice calling us. We never hear it. It just knocks on our hearts, constantly trying to pull us away from contentment. Each knock chips away a little more resolve than the last one, weakening each tightly-bound fiber. It is not until the final strand of fiber breaks loose that everything finally falls apart in its entirety. For a split second everything simply pauses; a single note ringing out like a physical heart flatlining.
And then the explosions come.
I've never been fully alexithymic, and yet personal confessions always come easiest when played in a lyrical form in front of sixty-odd people or blurted out on the internet in front of potential hundreds of friends and family members or billions of English-speaking strangers. There's something comforting about the fact that people may not even see what's written. Or if they do, and/or if it's in a song, that the personal application may not be immediately obvious.
Don't kid yourselves.
It's true for everyone that each song, poem or emo journal entry, no matter how stylized and stereotypical is usually not simply a song, poem or journal entry. No one writes sad songs if they aren't sad. If someone writes suicidally, it has to have come from somewhere.
The problem is, we live in a culture where these things are taken for granted. As though they are simply things that affect humanity in general, but they could never touch our loved ones. As if there's no way my friends could have felt suicidal even once in their lives. As if it's in no way plausable to suggest that our own siblings might (from time to time) have taken a knife to their wrists for any of the many reasons why people do such things. And I'm speaking here strictly as someone who's mood has been known, on occasion, to shift entirely out of the realm of reasonable explanation as "teenage angst".
I don't even know where this is going.
And then the explosions come.
I've never been fully alexithymic, and yet personal confessions always come easiest when played in a lyrical form in front of sixty-odd people or blurted out on the internet in front of potential hundreds of friends and family members or billions of English-speaking strangers. There's something comforting about the fact that people may not even see what's written. Or if they do, and/or if it's in a song, that the personal application may not be immediately obvious.
Don't kid yourselves.
It's true for everyone that each song, poem or emo journal entry, no matter how stylized and stereotypical is usually not simply a song, poem or journal entry. No one writes sad songs if they aren't sad. If someone writes suicidally, it has to have come from somewhere.
The problem is, we live in a culture where these things are taken for granted. As though they are simply things that affect humanity in general, but they could never touch our loved ones. As if there's no way my friends could have felt suicidal even once in their lives. As if it's in no way plausable to suggest that our own siblings might (from time to time) have taken a knife to their wrists for any of the many reasons why people do such things. And I'm speaking here strictly as someone who's mood has been known, on occasion, to shift entirely out of the realm of reasonable explanation as "teenage angst".
I don't even know where this is going.
I just know that this superficial kind of culture is not helpful. It's passively, and even at times actively, harmful. People learn to shut themselves off and fill themselves with emotions so tightly that they are constantly boiling below the surface, but unable to express it. That's where serious conditions such as clinical depression and the various anxiety disorders are born.
I'm just sorry that, for all my bitching, I don't have a viable solution.
Human nature is fundamentally flawed.
Don't get me wrong, I do wish I were not such a cynic. But unfortunately for myself and all who are subjected to my company, I discover more support for this philosophy every time I interact with others.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Some Mornings: On Issues And Recognition
Some days I wake up and don't recognize my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It usually lasts only a second or two as I stare quizzically at the face before I snap out of my half-tired reverie and realize with a start 'oh! that's me!' Life is like this sometimes. Sometimes we don't recognize where we are at for a little while, but suddenly it all comes clear.
A few months ago, I had a dream. I did something wrong, and I can't remember what. But that doesn't matter. Jon Foreman from Switchfoot was chasing me, and I ran into a hut. I shut the door, but he came right on up and knocked on it. I opened the door, and looked at him. He lectured me about what I'd done wrong. I replied with "I know, I'm a Christian, but it's hard to be good all the time!" And then he went on for a little more, but one line that stood out was 'you can sing the dark song, or you can sing the light song.' I woke up from that dream, and I felt like crying. So I did. Just like that. All in a split second I woke up, felt I needed to cry and did so. So I woke up crying.
Sometimes we don't recognize where we are at. Sometimes we won't see that we may not be 'singing the light song' on a certain issue. Often that's our own desire to keep singing the dark one. The dark song sounds so good. That's the point. Most of the time we realize we're singing the dark song, but we tell ourselves that it doesn't really matter all that much. We tell ourselves lies and let ourselves believe them. Because the dark song sounds so much better than the light one.
And then we get woken up with a start. Suddenly it all comes clear, and we wake up, realize we're so painfully wrong, feel like crying, and then cry. Straight away. In a split second. We literally wake up from life crying. Crying out to be healed.
God doesn't want you to feel broken. Brokenness is part of confession and forgiveness, but it's not the whole point. The moment you confess and ask for forgiveness, there's a God that's ready to take that sin away and burn it. Burn it like so many sheets of note paper with so many sins scrawled each. And we get to watch it burn its way into heaven for God to deal with.
Here's the kicker: He already dealt with it when he sent Jesus to die for you.
A few months ago, I had a dream. I did something wrong, and I can't remember what. But that doesn't matter. Jon Foreman from Switchfoot was chasing me, and I ran into a hut. I shut the door, but he came right on up and knocked on it. I opened the door, and looked at him. He lectured me about what I'd done wrong. I replied with "I know, I'm a Christian, but it's hard to be good all the time!" And then he went on for a little more, but one line that stood out was 'you can sing the dark song, or you can sing the light song.' I woke up from that dream, and I felt like crying. So I did. Just like that. All in a split second I woke up, felt I needed to cry and did so. So I woke up crying.
Sometimes we don't recognize where we are at. Sometimes we won't see that we may not be 'singing the light song' on a certain issue. Often that's our own desire to keep singing the dark one. The dark song sounds so good. That's the point. Most of the time we realize we're singing the dark song, but we tell ourselves that it doesn't really matter all that much. We tell ourselves lies and let ourselves believe them. Because the dark song sounds so much better than the light one.
And then we get woken up with a start. Suddenly it all comes clear, and we wake up, realize we're so painfully wrong, feel like crying, and then cry. Straight away. In a split second. We literally wake up from life crying. Crying out to be healed.
God doesn't want you to feel broken. Brokenness is part of confession and forgiveness, but it's not the whole point. The moment you confess and ask for forgiveness, there's a God that's ready to take that sin away and burn it. Burn it like so many sheets of note paper with so many sins scrawled each. And we get to watch it burn its way into heaven for God to deal with.
Here's the kicker: He already dealt with it when he sent Jesus to die for you.
Leaders vs. Those Who Lead
There are leaders, and then there are leaders.
Anyone can lead. But it takes courage and integrity to be a leader. Those who lead simply do that. They lead. Real leaders, on the other hand, are built on a firm base of strong character. The way a true leader acts around his or her own peers is the same as the way they act around those they lead. That's the way it has to be. If the standard a leader holds amongst his peers is lower than the example he sets to those under him, it only serves to undercut that example. You can't live with double-standards.
When the example you set isn't consistent, you should probably reconsider what you're doing in the place you're at. Especially as a Christian.
Can both fresh and salt water come out of the same well?
If the way we speak and act reflects nothing of Christ, if we say things in during the week we would not say at church, if we with a single breath abolish one thing but then affirm it with our actions... Why do we think we deserve to carry Christ's name?
And in a way I suppose I disgust myself. Sure, I'm only human. But worse humans than myself can manage a life that's free of hypocrisy. Even ones that don't have the same moral base that I do.
Example is everything. People are meant to see Christ in us. Not reflections of the utterness of human depravity.
Anyone can lead. But it takes courage and integrity to be a leader. Those who lead simply do that. They lead. Real leaders, on the other hand, are built on a firm base of strong character. The way a true leader acts around his or her own peers is the same as the way they act around those they lead. That's the way it has to be. If the standard a leader holds amongst his peers is lower than the example he sets to those under him, it only serves to undercut that example. You can't live with double-standards.
When the example you set isn't consistent, you should probably reconsider what you're doing in the place you're at. Especially as a Christian.
Can both fresh and salt water come out of the same well?
If the way we speak and act reflects nothing of Christ, if we say things in during the week we would not say at church, if we with a single breath abolish one thing but then affirm it with our actions... Why do we think we deserve to carry Christ's name?
And in a way I suppose I disgust myself. Sure, I'm only human. But worse humans than myself can manage a life that's free of hypocrisy. Even ones that don't have the same moral base that I do.
Example is everything. People are meant to see Christ in us. Not reflections of the utterness of human depravity.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
If My Dreams Were Concrete
If my dreams were concrete, they wouldn't blow away. As it is, everything's so damn whimsical, and eventually one gets sick of watching things float away. The balloons analogy springs to mind far too readily. Is there even a point any more? Does anything ever work out?
We don't know. You never know. I can't say.
But I'm sure it does. There has got to be some place you can sit and know things are working out. The key is probably something to do with giving up those hollow, unrealized dreams. And finding more realistic avenues.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
But maybe, just maybe, you aren't ready to give up.
So don't.
So don't give up.
Keep hoping and praying, and there's a chance that you will break through one day if you keep trying and don't give up.
There is nothing wrong with dreaming.
We don't know. You never know. I can't say.
But I'm sure it does. There has got to be some place you can sit and know things are working out. The key is probably something to do with giving up those hollow, unrealized dreams. And finding more realistic avenues.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
But maybe, just maybe, you aren't ready to give up.
So don't.
So don't give up.
Keep hoping and praying, and there's a chance that you will break through one day if you keep trying and don't give up.
There is nothing wrong with dreaming.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
You
Why would you actually want that?
I don't know. I'm not sure how much I actually know for sure anymore. These days, everything seems cloudy. But you wouldn't think like that, not unless something was wrong. But no, no, you're fine.
Don't worry.
Smile.
Be what they need you to be. That's what helps you sleep at night, thinking you're so damn self-sacrificing. Thinking you're so selfless because you're willing to help your friends but can't bring yourself to ask for their help even if you desperately need it. And God knows you do sometimes.
God knows.
And maybe He isn't even the only one.
But you're not everything you pretend to be. Hell even your facade is slightly translucent. Just enough to offer people a glimpse. But not enough to make them stoop down and give you a hand. Because that's what you want isn't it? Because you're too damn proud and arrogant to ask.
It's almost like you're two people, isn't it?
There's one man, strong, eager to live.
And then there's another who barely even deserves to be called a man. And you... You make me sick. And ashamed. Ashamed to be me. Scared to put my name to that part of me, scared to own up. Terrified.
But you can't own me forever.
I don't know. I'm not sure how much I actually know for sure anymore. These days, everything seems cloudy. But you wouldn't think like that, not unless something was wrong. But no, no, you're fine.
Don't worry.
Smile.
Be what they need you to be. That's what helps you sleep at night, thinking you're so damn self-sacrificing. Thinking you're so selfless because you're willing to help your friends but can't bring yourself to ask for their help even if you desperately need it. And God knows you do sometimes.
God knows.
And maybe He isn't even the only one.
But you're not everything you pretend to be. Hell even your facade is slightly translucent. Just enough to offer people a glimpse. But not enough to make them stoop down and give you a hand. Because that's what you want isn't it? Because you're too damn proud and arrogant to ask.
It's almost like you're two people, isn't it?
There's one man, strong, eager to live.
And then there's another who barely even deserves to be called a man. And you... You make me sick. And ashamed. Ashamed to be me. Scared to put my name to that part of me, scared to own up. Terrified.
But you can't own me forever.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Shadow of the Bright and Clear
Have you ever felt like all you are free to do now is to sit back and let life happen? Just let it drift on by like so many toy boats in so much water? All because the thing that, rightly or wrongly, made your world keep spinning has itself spun out of your life?
What if you lost it so long ago, and you kept searching, hoping, dreaming, begging, bargaining with God or with yourself. "Let me find it Lord, I'll do anything..." Until you find it again and everything feels just about complete.
But what if you've felt it slipping away for a while? Clawing its way back out of your life, slithering out. Creeping. Until all you have left is a mere shadow dancing its shadowy dance on the white plaster of the wall behind you, projecting dimly what was once so bright and clear.
But what if you don't want the shadow? What if the shadow makes you feel week and vulnerable because you poured so much of yourself into the bright and clear incarnation? Poured so much out, and now its stuck with the bright and clear, and you are left with the shadow. The shadow of the bright and clear, the shadow of who you were, and the shadow of what you poured out from yourself. The shadow of what you gave.
And now you feel so small.
Lonely.
Scared.
What if you don't know how much more you can take? Would you explode? Or would you simply fizz out like coke-a-cola going flat, because there's not enough of you left to combust? And that being said, would you be missed half as much as everyone tells you you would be?
Sometimes you just need to believe someone somewhere would miss you if one day you just weren't around. Sometimes you just need to believe that for someone, somewhere, love actually works the way it was designed to. Sometimes you have to believe that there's an escape from pain that's so much better than even more pain.
And maybe that would be God, if you weren't too scared to trust Him. If for once you would actually believe all the things you say you do and stop being a hypocrite. Stop lying to yourself. Stop seeing in yourself everything you hate in others. If you could not only listen to, but actually believe the things people say about you... Then you would be strong. You'd genuinely be as strong as you act. It wouldn't be an act just to show people who they need you to be.
If you could let everything go... Then you would be free.
What if you lost it so long ago, and you kept searching, hoping, dreaming, begging, bargaining with God or with yourself. "Let me find it Lord, I'll do anything..." Until you find it again and everything feels just about complete.
But what if you've felt it slipping away for a while? Clawing its way back out of your life, slithering out. Creeping. Until all you have left is a mere shadow dancing its shadowy dance on the white plaster of the wall behind you, projecting dimly what was once so bright and clear.
But what if you don't want the shadow? What if the shadow makes you feel week and vulnerable because you poured so much of yourself into the bright and clear incarnation? Poured so much out, and now its stuck with the bright and clear, and you are left with the shadow. The shadow of the bright and clear, the shadow of who you were, and the shadow of what you poured out from yourself. The shadow of what you gave.
And now you feel so small.
Lonely.
Scared.
What if you don't know how much more you can take? Would you explode? Or would you simply fizz out like coke-a-cola going flat, because there's not enough of you left to combust? And that being said, would you be missed half as much as everyone tells you you would be?
Sometimes you just need to believe someone somewhere would miss you if one day you just weren't around. Sometimes you just need to believe that for someone, somewhere, love actually works the way it was designed to. Sometimes you have to believe that there's an escape from pain that's so much better than even more pain.
And maybe that would be God, if you weren't too scared to trust Him. If for once you would actually believe all the things you say you do and stop being a hypocrite. Stop lying to yourself. Stop seeing in yourself everything you hate in others. If you could not only listen to, but actually believe the things people say about you... Then you would be strong. You'd genuinely be as strong as you act. It wouldn't be an act just to show people who they need you to be.
If you could let everything go... Then you would be free.
Monday, January 12, 2009
All The Crazy Shades of Grey
That my politics is constantly under attack and derision from my (predominantly) right-wing acquaintances is possibly more frustrating than you can easily appreciate. There's a high level of both misunderstanding and (unsurprisingly, given the right-wing leanings) intolerance. I am constantly being informed that "Tim, oh Tim, you sound awfully liberal to me!" as if that's a bad thing. But here's the kicker: I'm not liberal. Perhaps in contrast to my conservative buddies I am... But in contrast to the two or three neo-socialists I know, I am "awfully conservative."
Why is that?
That's because I sit in the middle, dear reader. However 'political centrism' is not synonymous with 'bench-sitting' by any means. All this means for me is that I, unlike most people, am strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to ascertain for myself what fits with the Bible. What fits with my deep rooted sense of justice, ethics and morality. What fits with my own beliefs. I am not afraid to figure things out for myself.
Because of that, I don't need to believe what my parents tell me. I don't need to believe what my church tells me. I just choose to believe what God tells me. And not what my parents or my church or my social circle tells me God is telling me... But what I believe God is telling me consistent what what I read in His word. I make up my own mind irrespective of political or religious extremes, stigma, dogma and so on and forth.
But why do I defend the liberals? Why do I so hypocritically deride the conservatives?
That's because if the world truly was a black and white place, if it were not filled with so many shades of grey, if I absolutely had to choose left or right... I would choose the left. Because then at least I would be free to truly love. To love compassionately. Honestly. Freely. Truly. I would be able to love someone even if I didn't believe what they believe, or even agree with it. I would be able to love someone even if I didn't agree with some things they do. I would be able to love without passing judgment. That is the most pure form of love.
And I wouldn't have to feel guilty for it.
But I like where I am right now. Here I am free to be honest with myself, with no conflicting beliefs. Here I don't have to call myself pro-life and yet still support the death sentence, or support wars and violence in the name of peace, justice and truth. Where I sit, I can be pro-life both before and after birth. Because I am free to believe what is right. Because I am not held back by the constraints of left and right. Liberal and conservative.
Do yourself a favour and think. Read your Bible. Pray. But don't do that through the lenses of many years of thinking through things from one specific angle or another. What do you really believe about things? What does the Bible really say about things? What seems to be the most logical and reasonable explanation?
If I were not constrained by years or decades of one particular way of thinking (be it liberal or conservative, it doesn't matter) what would I really believe?
P.S. I'm not answering any comments, I think I'll make that quite clear in advance. This will probably get very heated,and I'd rather say out of it. I'm not trying to offend anyone, I'm just offering an alternative, or something for you to think about.
Why is that?
That's because I sit in the middle, dear reader. However 'political centrism' is not synonymous with 'bench-sitting' by any means. All this means for me is that I, unlike most people, am strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to ascertain for myself what fits with the Bible. What fits with my deep rooted sense of justice, ethics and morality. What fits with my own beliefs. I am not afraid to figure things out for myself.
Because of that, I don't need to believe what my parents tell me. I don't need to believe what my church tells me. I just choose to believe what God tells me. And not what my parents or my church or my social circle tells me God is telling me... But what I believe God is telling me consistent what what I read in His word. I make up my own mind irrespective of political or religious extremes, stigma, dogma and so on and forth.
But why do I defend the liberals? Why do I so hypocritically deride the conservatives?
That's because if the world truly was a black and white place, if it were not filled with so many shades of grey, if I absolutely had to choose left or right... I would choose the left. Because then at least I would be free to truly love. To love compassionately. Honestly. Freely. Truly. I would be able to love someone even if I didn't believe what they believe, or even agree with it. I would be able to love someone even if I didn't agree with some things they do. I would be able to love without passing judgment. That is the most pure form of love.
And I wouldn't have to feel guilty for it.
But I like where I am right now. Here I am free to be honest with myself, with no conflicting beliefs. Here I don't have to call myself pro-life and yet still support the death sentence, or support wars and violence in the name of peace, justice and truth. Where I sit, I can be pro-life both before and after birth. Because I am free to believe what is right. Because I am not held back by the constraints of left and right. Liberal and conservative.
Do yourself a favour and think. Read your Bible. Pray. But don't do that through the lenses of many years of thinking through things from one specific angle or another. What do you really believe about things? What does the Bible really say about things? What seems to be the most logical and reasonable explanation?
If I were not constrained by years or decades of one particular way of thinking (be it liberal or conservative, it doesn't matter) what would I really believe?
P.S. I'm not answering any comments, I think I'll make that quite clear in advance. This will probably get very heated,and I'd rather say out of it. I'm not trying to offend anyone, I'm just offering an alternative, or something for you to think about.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Villager
The rain drummed away relentlessly against the trees. A figure danced under its weight, running silently. Every footfall smoothed over by the wind’s incessant moaning, and the crash of thunder, and the constant, blinding, pseudo-rhythmic drumming of the driving rain. Every so often, a flash of lightening would light up the dripping forest and everything within it. The running figure would scream at each lightening flash, his voice drowning away with the sounds of the storm. The name he screamed, a woman’s name, did not make his actions any less unusual. His tall frame crashed through the trees towards his goal, pushing onwards as relentlessly as the rain.
Where he’d come from originally was a small village on the coast. He had lived there all his life, barely venturing outside the surrounds. It was a peaceful place. Not like this dark forest in which he now traveled. He had fallen in love with Eidis, the daughter of the village chieftain. He asked her father for her hand in marriage, and it was happily granted, for he was well known in the village as an honest and hard-working young man.
The wedding was planned to be a modest affair, by city standards, but for the village it was immense. Preparation went into it for weeks, culminating in a night of cheerfulness and bliss for the entire village the day before the wedding.
On the day of the wedding, it was humid. The sky was fully over-cast, and it was warm, but not too warm. A couple of hours before the ceremony was due to start, three great sails became visible on the horizon. This was not an immediate concern. Quite often ships came to the village with supplies. Even the unsubtle black shade of the sails did not raise apprehension even among the wisest and oldest of the villagers.
The ships grew closer, and bigger. No one cared. By the time they arrived at the docks, the wedding had begun. No one heard a sound as the dark ships were tethered to the wharf. No one heard a sound as the raiders left their ships and made their way through the village. No one heard a sound until the temple was broken into, and the raiders murdered every last man, woman and child inside. Except for him. Oddly overlooked. And now he was running, though not for his life. He was running to the mountain nearby where it was said that the gods dwelt.
Driven mad by grief and sudden bereavement, he ran through the forest at the foot of the mountain. Even if it were not so dark, his tears would still have not been visible, camouflaged with the pouring rain. As the wet grass gave way to rock, a huge grey mass appeared in front of him, and the forest petered out.
He did not know how long he has climbed. The seconds morphed into minutes, and each agonizing minute became an hour, and each hour became a day. Days became years, years, decades, and decades became as lifetimes. But all true sense of time left him as he climbed. When he reached what was perceivably half way, he stopped and looked around him. He saw a stone table sitting on a ledge, and noticed for the first time the eagles that danced around the mountainside. The bitter air was cold and frosty, and mist hung around him.
Sitting on a stony throne behind the table was an old man. The villager let his blistered feet carry him over to the table, and he stood waiting for the Old Man of the Mountain to speak. When he did so, it was in an aching voice that crackled brokenly with both a deep sense of age, and with an unearthly timelessness. The deep creases of his unequivocally ancient visage seemed to be an attempt at bringing life into an emotionless chasm, and yet it altogether failed at this. His body shook with reticent unease, his snow-white beard and long hair blowing in the wind. He was entirely naked, except for a single cloth draped about his waist.
“Why have you come to see this old man?” he asked, and the taciturn syllables were caught up in the wind, at once entirely unable to break free, and yet apparently glad as though the speaker had not so much as uttered one word in countless aeons.
But the villager had not come to see the Old Man. He made this much clear, his voice quivering with all the emotion the Old Man lacked.
“Then are you here to visit the Old Ones, of whom I am but a vassal?” queried the Old Man with a sigh, almost as though he was lonely. But this was impossible, he had been born without one iota of sentiment in his already frozen veins.
The villager answered in the affirmative, and could have sworn he saw something akin to disappointment in the Old Man’s rugged gaze. With not a single word, the almost lifeless Old Man of the Mountain raised a single cold, frozen finger. It pointed straight up the mountain, and the villager walked on.
And time slipped out of his consciousness once more. It was almost as if he was floating along at a rapid pace this time, and the closer he got to the top of the mountain, the warmer he felt. The blisters on his feet began to heal, and he felt a little younger. Perhaps the Old Man had been jealous, and if it were possible for him to leave the stone chair he was frozen onto, maybe he too would have made this journey to the gods. But his petition would have been for the end of his life, knowing it had existed for far too long.
As the village approached the uppermost peak, he felt a sudden wave of heat and all of the bitterness in the biting wind ceased altogether. This, he knew, was a god. And indeed it was. It was the messenger god, sent from up high to speak to him and relay his requests to the greatest god of all.
“What is it you would have of the gods? Why do you trouble us?” he was asked, in a voice dripping with honey and a thousand years of broken hearts.
“I want you to bring my bride back to me. I want to be with her, and I will pay the price, whatever it may be.” And at this the noble villager began to cry. His tears fell down the mountainside, and splashed onto the Old Man’s head.
“You will be willing to pay the price, whatever the cost?”
“Yes, whatever the cost.”
The Messenger God smiled a sardonic smile. “The price is high indeed for inconveniencing the gods. Your prayer will be granted, but the price must be payed.”
“Whatever the cost, I will pay,” replied the villager. And the Messenger God breathed on him a sweet smelling breath, and he blacked out.
***
Mordant laughter floated down the mountain. A broken body tumbled out of the warm dwelling place of the gods, back onto the hard rock and ice of the mortal realm. The jealous Old Man watched with distaste as the villager’s body crumbled into dust at the base of the mountain.
But if it had not turned to dust, one would be able to see a sweet smile on its face. The villager was with his bride in the after-world, and they were happy at last.
Where he’d come from originally was a small village on the coast. He had lived there all his life, barely venturing outside the surrounds. It was a peaceful place. Not like this dark forest in which he now traveled. He had fallen in love with Eidis, the daughter of the village chieftain. He asked her father for her hand in marriage, and it was happily granted, for he was well known in the village as an honest and hard-working young man.
The wedding was planned to be a modest affair, by city standards, but for the village it was immense. Preparation went into it for weeks, culminating in a night of cheerfulness and bliss for the entire village the day before the wedding.
On the day of the wedding, it was humid. The sky was fully over-cast, and it was warm, but not too warm. A couple of hours before the ceremony was due to start, three great sails became visible on the horizon. This was not an immediate concern. Quite often ships came to the village with supplies. Even the unsubtle black shade of the sails did not raise apprehension even among the wisest and oldest of the villagers.
The ships grew closer, and bigger. No one cared. By the time they arrived at the docks, the wedding had begun. No one heard a sound as the dark ships were tethered to the wharf. No one heard a sound as the raiders left their ships and made their way through the village. No one heard a sound until the temple was broken into, and the raiders murdered every last man, woman and child inside. Except for him. Oddly overlooked. And now he was running, though not for his life. He was running to the mountain nearby where it was said that the gods dwelt.
Driven mad by grief and sudden bereavement, he ran through the forest at the foot of the mountain. Even if it were not so dark, his tears would still have not been visible, camouflaged with the pouring rain. As the wet grass gave way to rock, a huge grey mass appeared in front of him, and the forest petered out.
He did not know how long he has climbed. The seconds morphed into minutes, and each agonizing minute became an hour, and each hour became a day. Days became years, years, decades, and decades became as lifetimes. But all true sense of time left him as he climbed. When he reached what was perceivably half way, he stopped and looked around him. He saw a stone table sitting on a ledge, and noticed for the first time the eagles that danced around the mountainside. The bitter air was cold and frosty, and mist hung around him.
Sitting on a stony throne behind the table was an old man. The villager let his blistered feet carry him over to the table, and he stood waiting for the Old Man of the Mountain to speak. When he did so, it was in an aching voice that crackled brokenly with both a deep sense of age, and with an unearthly timelessness. The deep creases of his unequivocally ancient visage seemed to be an attempt at bringing life into an emotionless chasm, and yet it altogether failed at this. His body shook with reticent unease, his snow-white beard and long hair blowing in the wind. He was entirely naked, except for a single cloth draped about his waist.
“Why have you come to see this old man?” he asked, and the taciturn syllables were caught up in the wind, at once entirely unable to break free, and yet apparently glad as though the speaker had not so much as uttered one word in countless aeons.
But the villager had not come to see the Old Man. He made this much clear, his voice quivering with all the emotion the Old Man lacked.
“Then are you here to visit the Old Ones, of whom I am but a vassal?” queried the Old Man with a sigh, almost as though he was lonely. But this was impossible, he had been born without one iota of sentiment in his already frozen veins.
The villager answered in the affirmative, and could have sworn he saw something akin to disappointment in the Old Man’s rugged gaze. With not a single word, the almost lifeless Old Man of the Mountain raised a single cold, frozen finger. It pointed straight up the mountain, and the villager walked on.
And time slipped out of his consciousness once more. It was almost as if he was floating along at a rapid pace this time, and the closer he got to the top of the mountain, the warmer he felt. The blisters on his feet began to heal, and he felt a little younger. Perhaps the Old Man had been jealous, and if it were possible for him to leave the stone chair he was frozen onto, maybe he too would have made this journey to the gods. But his petition would have been for the end of his life, knowing it had existed for far too long.
As the village approached the uppermost peak, he felt a sudden wave of heat and all of the bitterness in the biting wind ceased altogether. This, he knew, was a god. And indeed it was. It was the messenger god, sent from up high to speak to him and relay his requests to the greatest god of all.
“What is it you would have of the gods? Why do you trouble us?” he was asked, in a voice dripping with honey and a thousand years of broken hearts.
“I want you to bring my bride back to me. I want to be with her, and I will pay the price, whatever it may be.” And at this the noble villager began to cry. His tears fell down the mountainside, and splashed onto the Old Man’s head.
“You will be willing to pay the price, whatever the cost?”
“Yes, whatever the cost.”
The Messenger God smiled a sardonic smile. “The price is high indeed for inconveniencing the gods. Your prayer will be granted, but the price must be payed.”
“Whatever the cost, I will pay,” replied the villager. And the Messenger God breathed on him a sweet smelling breath, and he blacked out.
***
Mordant laughter floated down the mountain. A broken body tumbled out of the warm dwelling place of the gods, back onto the hard rock and ice of the mortal realm. The jealous Old Man watched with distaste as the villager’s body crumbled into dust at the base of the mountain.
But if it had not turned to dust, one would be able to see a sweet smile on its face. The villager was with his bride in the after-world, and they were happy at last.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
In His Arms
There are some things you can change easily. Like hair colours and styles. Clothes. All the physical things that have nothing to do with facial features. Other things can be changed, but it takes time and effort. Like small personality flaws. Still other things can't be changed at all. At least, not by intervention from oneself.
Broken hearts. Broken families. Broken marriages. One's deeper personality. The way one acts, thinks, speaks. The way other people act. We can't fix ourselves. Everyone knows they're broken. Everyone wants to be fixed. But you can't be. Everything that goes wrong, no matter how big or how small, will always leave a little scar. Or a big scar. But I'm not sure how accurate an analogy the whole 'scars' thing is. Scars don't hurt. Memories do.
Every time you've looked at yourself in the mirror disgusted at what you see, with hatred in your heart. Every time you've given in to that constant driving anger and hurt yourself or someone else, or broken something. Every time you've cried yourself to sleep. Every time you've felt like exploding with hate, anger, shame, disgust, loneliness, heartache. Every time you've felt like no one cares. Each of those things leaves a little cut inside you. You can't escape it. Even if you look perfectly happy on the outside, you can still feel each of those little cuts aching away inside, like psychological bleeding.
There has to be a way to escape from everything. There has to be some way to heal up the cuts into scars. Even the best fall down sometimes.
There's a God up above us all who cares about every little thing that makes us sad. Who wants to help us live our lives for Him without so much self-doubt weighing us down. They say He wants to hold you in His arms like a father. And I think that's right. But I believe we're all in His arms already. Sometimes we just need to know how to realize it.
Broken hearts. Broken families. Broken marriages. One's deeper personality. The way one acts, thinks, speaks. The way other people act. We can't fix ourselves. Everyone knows they're broken. Everyone wants to be fixed. But you can't be. Everything that goes wrong, no matter how big or how small, will always leave a little scar. Or a big scar. But I'm not sure how accurate an analogy the whole 'scars' thing is. Scars don't hurt. Memories do.
Every time you've looked at yourself in the mirror disgusted at what you see, with hatred in your heart. Every time you've given in to that constant driving anger and hurt yourself or someone else, or broken something. Every time you've cried yourself to sleep. Every time you've felt like exploding with hate, anger, shame, disgust, loneliness, heartache. Every time you've felt like no one cares. Each of those things leaves a little cut inside you. You can't escape it. Even if you look perfectly happy on the outside, you can still feel each of those little cuts aching away inside, like psychological bleeding.
There has to be a way to escape from everything. There has to be some way to heal up the cuts into scars. Even the best fall down sometimes.
There's a God up above us all who cares about every little thing that makes us sad. Who wants to help us live our lives for Him without so much self-doubt weighing us down. They say He wants to hold you in His arms like a father. And I think that's right. But I believe we're all in His arms already. Sometimes we just need to know how to realize it.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Love God, Love Your Neighbour Reprise
After posting yesterday, I realized I'd forgotten something important. (Thanks Jason.)
If you're doing something around people that have a problem with it, or around somebody who could be swayed negatively by your actions... Don't do it. Don't wanna bring your brother down. It is all part of 'loving your neighbour' to not do something around him that he finds offensive.
All the best,
Timbo
If you're doing something around people that have a problem with it, or around somebody who could be swayed negatively by your actions... Don't do it. Don't wanna bring your brother down. It is all part of 'loving your neighbour' to not do something around him that he finds offensive.
All the best,
Timbo
Monday, August 04, 2008
Love God, Love Your Neighbour
To be a Christian, there are so many requirements it seems. They come from other people. Not from God. I mean, we're told what music to listen to, what words to use, what movies to watch, what to write, to read... And if we stray from that, it's almost as if we get excommunicated. I mean, my God doesn't give me a list of what to do and what not to do. All He says is 'love the Lord your God' and 'love your neighbour as yourself'. Everything else will follow from those two.
There is a lot of stuff out there that would be harmful to some people. Maybe they aren't mature enough yet to be truly discerning. Or maybe they struggle with a particular area. (I.E., if you're struggling with interest in the occult and in witchcraft, reading fantasy books (and some horror) might make you yearn for that stuff... That's harmful. )
And those are all viable reasons to avoid certain kinds of things. But what about those of us who can cope? Is it anyone's place to decide what we can and cannot do? Well yes it is. It's God's place. And He has told us what to do. He's told us to love Him, and to love each other. But He's also told us that Jesus is the one to judge who is going to heaven or not. So to assume that somebody isn't a real Christian because they listen to Metallica is not only a logical fallacy, but also a blasphemy. Jesus is the judge. It's a blasphemy to assume you can do that too.
I think that as Christians we need to learn to be less afraid. We will avoid so much that is good because we are scared we might somehow get a little tainted.
Love God.
Love your neighbour.
And everything else will fall into place.
There is a lot of stuff out there that would be harmful to some people. Maybe they aren't mature enough yet to be truly discerning. Or maybe they struggle with a particular area. (I.E., if you're struggling with interest in the occult and in witchcraft, reading fantasy books (and some horror) might make you yearn for that stuff... That's harmful. )
And those are all viable reasons to avoid certain kinds of things. But what about those of us who can cope? Is it anyone's place to decide what we can and cannot do? Well yes it is. It's God's place. And He has told us what to do. He's told us to love Him, and to love each other. But He's also told us that Jesus is the one to judge who is going to heaven or not. So to assume that somebody isn't a real Christian because they listen to Metallica is not only a logical fallacy, but also a blasphemy. Jesus is the judge. It's a blasphemy to assume you can do that too.
I think that as Christians we need to learn to be less afraid. We will avoid so much that is good because we are scared we might somehow get a little tainted.
Love God.
Love your neighbour.
And everything else will fall into place.
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