Wish. . . I wish I wrote this. Enjoy–It’s my sentiments exactly, and I couldn’t let it get away.

"You feel a gradual welling up of pleasure, or boredom, or melancholy. Whatever the emotion, it’s more abundant than you ever dreamed. You can no more contain it than your hands can cup a lake. And so you surrender and suck the air. Your esophagus opens, diaphragm expands. Poised at the crest of an exhalation, your body is about to be unburdened, second by second, cell by cell. A kettle hisses. A balloon deflates. Your shoulders fall like two ripe pears, muscles slack at last.

     My mother stared out the kitchen window, ashes from her cigarette dribbling into the sink. She’d turned her back on the rest of the house, guarding her own solitude. I’d tiptoe across the linoleum and fix my luch without making a sound. Sometimes I saw her back expand, then heard her let loose one plummeting note, a sigh so long and weary it might have been her last. Beyond our backyard, above telephone poles and apartment buildings, rose the brown horizon of the city; across it glided an occasional bird, or the blimp that advertized Goodyear tires. She might have been drifting into the distance, or lamenting her seperation from it. She might have been wishing she were somewhere else, or wishing she could be happy where she was, a middle-aged housewife dreaming at her sink.

     My father’s sighs were more melodic. What began as a somber sigh could abruptly change pitch, turn gusty and loose, and suggest by its very transformation that what begins in sorrow might end in relief. He could prolong the rounded vowel of oy, or let it ricochet like an echo, as if he were shouting in a tunnel or a cave. Where my mother sighed from ineffable sadness, my father sighed at simple things: the coldness of a drink, the softness of a pillow, or an itch that my mother, following the frantic map of his words, finally found on his back and scratched.

     A friend of mine once mentioned that I was given to long and ponderous sighs. Once I became aware of this habit, I heard my father’s sigh in my own and knew for a moment his small satisfactions. At other times, I felt my mother’s restlessness and wished I could leave my body with my breath, or be happy in the body my breath left behind.

     It’s a reflex and a legacy, this soulful species of breathing. Listen closely: My ancestors’ lungs are pumping like bellows, men towing boats along the banks of the Volga, women lugging baskets of rye bread and pike. At the end of the day, they lift their weary arms in a toast; as thanks for the heat and sting of vodka, their aahs condense in the cold Russian air.
     At any given moment, there must be thousands of people sighing. A man in Milwaukee heaves and shivers and blesses the head of his seconds wife, who’s not too shy to lick his toes. A judge in Munich groans with pleasure after tasting again the silky bratwurst she ate as a child. Every day, meaningful sighs are expelled from schoolchildren, driving instructores, forensic experts, certified public accountants, and dental hygenists, just to name a few. The sighs of widows and widowers alone must account for a significant portion of the carbon dioxide released into the atmosphere. Every time a girdle is removed, a foot is sumerged in a tub of warm water, or a restroom is reached on a desolate road . . . you’d think the sheer velocity of it would create mistrals, siroccos, hurricanes; arrows should be swarming over satellite maps, weathermen talking a mile a minute, ties flapping from their necks like flags.

     Before I learned that Venetian prisioners were led across it to their execution, I imagined that the Bridge of Sighs was a feat of invisible engineering, a structure vaulting aove the earth, the griders and trusses, the stay ropes and cables, the counterweights and safety rails, connecting one human breath to the next."

 Bernard Cooper, The Fine Art of Sighing.

Sigh. . . how might it better be said? Ah, I love the sigh.

"The other day an acquaintance of mine, a gregarious and charming man, told me he had found himself unexpectedly alone in New York for an hour or two between appointments. He went to the Whitney and spent the "empty" time looking at things in solitary bliss. For him it proved to be a shock nearly as great as falling in love to discover that he could enjoy himself so much alone.
     What had he been afraid of, I asked myself? That, suddenly alone, he would discover that he bored himself, ot that there was, quite simply, no self there to meet? but having taken the plunge, he is now on the brink of adventure; he is about to be launched into his own inner space, space as immense, unexplored and sometimes frightening as outer space to the astronaut. His every perception will come to him with a new freshness and, for a time, seem startlingly origional. For anyone who can see things for himself with the naked eye becomes, for a moment or two, something of a genius. With another human being present vision becomes double vision, inevitably. We are busy wondering, what does my companion see or think of this, and what do I think of it? the origional impact gets lost, or diffused.
     "Music I heard with you was more than music." Exactly. And therefore music itself can only be heard alone. Solitude is the salt of personhood. It brings out the authentic flavor of every experience.

     "Alone one is never lonely: The spirit adventures. walking / In a quiet garden, in a cool house, abiding single there."
     Lonliness is most acutely felt with other people, for with others, even with a lover sometimes, we suffer from our differences of taste, temperment, mood. Human intercourse often demands that we soften the edge of perception, or withdraw at the very instant of personal truth for fear of hurting, or of being inappropriately present, which is to say naked, in a social situation. Alone we can afford to be wholly whatever we are, and to feel whatever we feel absolutely. That is a great luxury!
     For me the most interesting thing about solitary life, and mine has been that for the last twenty years, is that it becomes increasingly rewarding. When I can wake up and watch the sun rise over the ocean, as I do on most days, and know that I have an entire day ahead, uninterrupted, in which to write a few pages, take a walk with my dog, lie down in the afternoon for a long think (why does one think better in a horizontal position?), read and listen to music, I am flooded with happiness.

     I am lonely only when I am overtired, when I have worked too long without a break, when for the time being I feel empty and need filling up. And I am lonely sometimes when I come back home after a lecture trip, when I have seen a lot of people and talked a lot, and am full to the brim with experience that needs to be sorted out.
     Then for a little while the house feels huge and empty, and I wonder where my self is hiding. It has to be recaptured slowly by watering the plants, perhaps, and looking again at each one as though it were a person, by feeding the two cats, by cooking a meal.
     It takes a while, as I watch the surf blowing up in fountains at the end of the field, but the moment comes when the world falls away, and the self emerges again from the deep unconscious, bringing back all I have recently experienced to be explored and slowly understood, when I can converse again with my hidden powers, and so grow, and so be renewed, till death do us part."
    

 ~ May Sarton, The Rewards of Living a Solitary Life, 1946

I love this little article of writing. I’m trying it on, and find it suits me well. Very thought-provoking for me. I need to learn to embrace my singleness wholly, and still somehow embrace my relationships. It’s one of those things wonderful in the learning. You, my friends, are teaching!
 

Those last three posts are so long, they frighten even me.

Honestly, this will be the last thing I post along this line. You don’t even have to read it. It’s just a bunch of quotes. I’m actually putting it here because blogs are handy places to keep things for yourself. Come back a few years, and it’s still here for you to read. Grow up, and it’s still here. Forget about it, and well, you get it.

     The Lord’s hand has been reached out in tenderest compassion and love; but they do not care to trust Him. They want to feel fully able to devise and plan for themselves. . . . The Lord marks out a way in which He would have them walk. He has lent them talents to be used for His glory, to do a certain work for the Master; but Satan says, "I will countermand the order of Christ. I will find another line of work for active brain and busy hands, whereby they shall serve me. I will eclipse eternal interests before this youth, and attract his mind by worldly interests. . . . I will bind him about with worldly allurements like the finest threads, whose power to bind will become at last like ropes of steel, and he shall be bound in my service. . . ." 
     Let the youth critically examine their motives, by prayer and searching of the Scriptures, and see if their own will and inclinations do not lead away from God’s requirements. . . . 
     Young men and women, inquire in your business relations, Am I where God would have me to be? . . . Am I in the line of my duty? The blessing of God will be upon those who are just where God’s plans would have them be. Has the Lord given you light that He requires you to do a certain work? If so, it is not safe for you to be disobedient. Let there be serious thinking on your part. Ask yourself, Am I serving my Master, Jesus Christ? Or am I pleasing myself, and failing to please God, and to bring honor to His holy name? 
     If each one realized his accountability to God for his personal influence, he would in no case be an idler, but would cultivate his ability, and train every power that he might serve Him who has purchased him with His own blood. 

     The youth especially should feel that they must train their minds, and take every opportunity to become intelligent, that they may render acceptable service to Him who has given His precious life for them. And let no one make the mistake of regarding himself as so well educated as to have no more need of studying books or nature. Let everyone improve every opportunity with which in the providence of God he is favored, to acquire all that is possible in revelation or science. We should learn to place the proper estimate on the powers that God has given us.
     Through the grace of Christ, the highest attainments in character are possible; for every soul who comes under the molding influence of the Spirit of God, may be transformed in mind and heart. In order to understand your condition, it is necessary to study the Bible, and to watch unto prayer. . . ."Ye are laborers together with God." This being true, how earnestly should each one strive to make use of every power to improve every opportunity for becoming efficient that he may be "not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord." 

     Every talent that has been given to men is to be exercised that it may increase in value, and all the improvement must be rendered back to God. If you are defective in manner, in voice, in education, you need not always remain in this condition. You must continually strive that you may reach a higher standard both in education and in religious experience, that you may become teachers of good things. As servants of the great King, you should individually realize that you are under obligation to improve yourselves by observation, study, and by communion with God. The word of God is able to make you wise, to guide and make you perfect in Christ. The blessed Saviour was a faultless pattern for all His followers to imitate. It is the privilege of the child of God to understand spiritual things, to be able wisely to manage that which may be intrusted to his charge. God does not provide a way whereby any one may have an excuse for doing slipshod work; and yet a great deal of this kind of work has been offered to Him by those who work in His cause, but it is not acceptable unto Him.

     The Lord, who made man perfect in the beginning, will help you to cultivate your physical and mental powers, and fit you to bear burdens and responsibilities in the cause of God. 
   Individually we are here as probationers, and the Lord is testing and proving our fidelity to Him. 

      Considering the light that God has given, it is marvelous that there are not scores of young men and women inquiring, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?" It is a perilous mistake to imagine that unless a young man has decided to give himself to the ministry, no special effort is required to fit him for the work of God. Whatever may be your calling, it is essential that you improve your abilities by diligent study. Young men and women should be urged to appreciate the heaven-sent blessings of opportunities to become well disciplined and intelligent. They should take advantage of the schools that have been established for the purpose of imparting the best of knowledge. It is sinful to be indolent and negligent in regard to obtaining an education. Time is short, and therefore because the Lord is soon to come to close the scenes of earth’s history, there is all the greater necessity of improving present opportunities and privileges.
     Young men and young women should place themselves in our schools, in the channel where knowledge and discipline may be obtained. They should consecrate their ability to God, become diligent Bible students, that they may be fortified against erroneous doctrine, and not be led away by the error of the wicked; for it is by diligent searching of the Bible that we obtain a knowledge of what is truth. But the practice of the truth we already know, increased light will shine upon us from the holy Scriptures. As we surrender our will to the will of God, as we humble our hearts before Him, we shall earnestly desire to become colaborers with Him, going forth to save those who perish. Those who are truly consecrated to God will not enter the work prompted by the same motive which leads men to engage in worldly business, merely for the sake of a livelihood, but they will enter the work allowing no worldly consideration to control them, realizing that the cause of God is sacred. Jesus has pointed out the way of life, He has made manifest the light of truth, He has given the Holy Spirit, and endowed us richly with everything essential to our perfection. But these advantages are not acknowledged, and we overlook our privileges and opportunities, and fail to co-operate with the heavenly intelligences, and thus fail to become noble, intelligent workers for God. Those to whom their own way looks more attractive than does the way of the Lord, cannot be used in His service, for they would misrepresent the character of Christ, and lead souls away from acceptable service to God.

Quotes from Ellen G. White.
Topic concluded!

I’m sorry. I forgot to say what started this rampage. It’s a combination of things, continually growing. If I sound like a lecturer, it’s because that’s how I talk to myself. Maybe you don’t want to listen to the inward ravages of my mind. Then don’t read this post. I’ve just got to get it out, especially since it’s growing, and those of you who live around me may taste the fruits of it. 
   I was lying in bed, composing a post and listening to my grandmother’s deep breathing in the next room. She sounds like–what’s his name? Darth Vadar, at night. Or was that my sister? She now sleeps in the bunk below me. Who it was, I could not tell. Anyway, I got to thinking about my grandmother, and how much you learn about yourself while taking care of someone else.

I have this dream of doing what nobody wants me to do: of not getting a degree in college! of never marrying! of going to a foreign country and working passionately for real people with real needs, and then single- adopting (adopting while unmarried) my seven children (yee-haw!) and living happily ever after. I’m sick of our plush American psychosomatic problems. I’m sick of our useless, self-indulging  solutions. I’m tired of the frivolities of society, tired of time wasted, money wasted, youth wasted. Me wasted.

I’m so afraid that I’ll take the normal route of life and end up unhappy, still searching for what I want to be when I grow up. . . when it’s too late and I’ve grown past my chance to risk, my chance to throw away normalcy and catch what matters. I don’t care if I end up without material possessions in this world. I find emptyness in what’s being offered. I watch old films about Mother Theresa, and I think of how fulfilled she muust be. Her life had actual use, true worth and meaning. And, so simple. Can I do the same? I propose no extreme, just something different.

Look around at the rest of us. What are we doing here? I’m sick at my own uselessness. I could die right now and it won’t matter. No one needs me, and no one’s life quality, so far as I’m aware, has been made better because of me. Don’t speak up and try to be nice now. It’s true, isn’t it? I don’t mean better as in feel better. I mean to MAKE better, in some tangible way, a persons daily existance. I can’t go on in this purposlessness! But where can I go? And–do I have the strength? Am I fit? Too lazy, I suspect.

Bam! God must be testing the sincerity of my frustration.  With my grandmother here, I get to embrace what I have long craved: Reality. Sweating actuality. I have to get dirty. I have to work hard. I have to feed her, dress her, clean her. My siblings can avoid work, but I can’t. It’s for me. Now I know the shallowness of my heart. The depth of my selfishness. I love her. Or do I? What is love, God? What will I do for her, my own family? I get to watch my own mother. would I do this for my mother if she needed me to? Of course I would–it’s my duty–but how? With cheerfulness, joy? If I cannot embrace the uglyness of the people I love, I cannot embrace the world.

   She’s getting better, little by little. I’m getting better, I think. I understand more fully that love is not mere feeling, but action, even against emotion. I’m wondering, almost all the time now, about love. I find real love beginning to flow more, out to the invisible people. Nearly every one is or has been an invisible person. I pass by them, my mind rapt by my own thoughts and dreams, my heart overwhelmed by the emotions of me. We complain about this tough, lonely world, not noticing that it’s our fault for not looking past our own thick, translucent skin.

No body else is quite like us, and therefore nobody else is quite so important, right?  It took years to realize that my parents are not beings to take for granted, but that they are real people with real thoughts and feelings like myself (They were children like me, once?). I want them to realize the same about me. I don’t want to be too much taken for granted, or assumed upon, or passed by. As for love, I’m afraid again. Afraid that I’ll marry the perfect person I don’t love. Afraid that I am the perfect person I don’t love. All my life I’ve been a good daughter. A nice sister. One who will make a good wife. That’s what the people think–what do they know of me? They see . . . a good machine. A nice robot. One who will make a good housecleaner and cook. But I’m a person, a person, a person! Sigh, forgive my anger. I guess soul-eyes must be grown. There’s nothing to be seen except our outsides. But I’m a person ready to sow to the wind, to reap the whirlwind. To trample expectation and embrace passion, and sweat, and blood, and tears. I step off solidity and step into a dream, and will I do it right? Will I even do it?

Okay, I’ll let you breath now, and post something less strenuous.

Oh, yeah, another thing that started this: I read Sesquipedalien’s post,"Atithi," (6/9/06) and it suprised out a passion I didn’t know was in me. I feel that this time of our life is crucial–every decision made now, will be lived with for at least the next seven to ten years, some for life.

Those decisions have to be made fast; people want to know what I’m going to do with my life, and people want to tell me what to do. How can I say that I know exactly what I want to do, and yet don’t have a clue about what I will do? Wow, do I feel stupid (Stop nodding). I’m caught by duty, I’m caught by dreams; they both demand a place–I’m sure they can be merged togather. But all these things come from outside. . . what about the dreams of God?

It’s confusing, but I find myself between my past and the future, and they are two different emotions and mindsets. Past: I had no life, no desire to live, no hope or plan or dream. I was walking into the void of self-destruction. Enter God, Future: I love life, I want to live more, and more abundantly, I am overwhelmed by hopes and dreams and plans. Enter God again, Present: I know that life is no longer mine, because I would have ended life. Since I don’t care about my individual self, and I just give it over to God, for He has plans for it. Part of His plans is bringing me to care. I’m afraid I sometimes care overmuch, and get in the way. How can I care and not care all at the same time?

Now you think I’m over-obsessive, but that’s not so! I often worry because I hardly care at all about things I ought to care about. . . uh, this is only convincing you, isn’t it? Torn between these two selves, caring and not caring; torn between man and man’s opposing opinions, between God and man, between who God is and what He requires of me and what He’ll let me choose. Dreams of God. . .
 Aghhh! I have to quit! I know I’m saying everything I’ve said before, just in a different way. I’m  sorry, I’ll stop.

How is duty defined?
Is duty formed within tradition and history?
Does culture define duty? Does religion? Government?
What about politics, ethics, principles?
Holy scriptures, inspired writings?
Authority figures–parents, older siblings  or elder family?

All have their place in determining my duty. Of course. Honor stands above all but love and truth. I mean, Love comes first. Then truth is to be obeyed at all cost to myself. Then honor to all I am to sumbmit to–parents, law officers, husband, etc. This is my place as a christian female; this is also for my own honor.

But where do I come in, solitarily?
What about my dreams? My hopes and passions and beliefs? My character and personality–don’t they lead to my life path? My talents will tell me the career I should choose. Who I am will make me into who I am becoming. I have freedom of choice in this mater, right? Or no?
What decisions are options? What is mere matter of taste? Is everything doctrine–where is the line crossed between duty and choice?

". . . Duty becomes a delight and sacrifice a pleasure." I threw it in the trash. I didn’t want my parents reading such dangerous material. They were already possesed of radical ideas regarding child labour. Any further propaganda could mess up my elaborate schemes of escape from hosehold chores, and the scourge of yard work. . .  I was nine or ten when I came arcross that article, and promptly thew it away.  Could I have guessed the future, I would have learned earlier what a sense of humor "the fates" carry.

"The voice of duty is as the voice of God." I don’t remember when I read that one, or where I found it. It seemed to offer stability in the search for life direction. I might not know the voice of God, but my conscience sure knew the voice of duty. How could I go wrong? Over time, I came across this:

" The game we play is let’s pretend and pretend we’re not pretending.
We choose to forget who we are and then forget that we’ve forgotten.
Who are we really? The center that watches and runs the show
that can choose which way it will go.
The I AM consciousness, that powerful loving perfect reflection of the cosmos.
But in our attempt to cope with early situations
we choose or were hypnotized into a passive position
to avoid punishment or the loss of love
We choose to deny our response/ability
pretending that things just happened or that we were being taken over
We put ourselves down and have become used to
this masochistic posture, this weakness, this indecisiveness
But we are in reality free
A center of cosmic energy. Your will is your power
Don’t pretend you don’t have it or you won’t."

I didn’t understand it all, and didn’t know if I believed it all, but it struck me, and stuck. And I could not easily deny my response or my abilities or my responsabilities. Then, I read a few pages from My Utmost For His Highest, by Oswald Chambers:
 " The first thing God does with us is to get us based on rugged reality until we do not care what becomes of us individually as long as He gets His way for the purpose of His redemption.We have nothing to do [no concern] with the afterwards of obedience. . . If we realize that obedience is the end [goal], then each moment as it comes is precious."  I’ll finish this later. My mind is in a traffic jam.

Desecrate not my dinner of sound,
Wash thy ears before sitting down!
This meal may not by teeth be grasped;
Open thy mouth only to gasp.

High as a
Soft with the
Sonorous as
What: Indian dream pipe.

Deep as a
Calm with the
Strong like
What? Cello not mine.

Light as a
Delicate with the
Pure to a
What. . . enchanting harp.

Fiery?
Sensual?
Passionate, yes.
What tangy Guitar,
What smooth and fluent and quick violin.

Trembling as a
Demanding with the
Thunderous like the
What? Might-filled Gong, steady drum.

Singer sweet
or deep and low
trill or glide
loud, or hide
What singer, thou!

I cannot speak

or compare or tell.

Let sound alone describe itself.

Fingers bow
and fly
and never stop
or we all shall die
and the starry sky fall
when the laughing, crying, telling, whispering
notes cease.
Who art thou, o player?
Who art thou, o instrument?

Every time I thought of her, I visualized a paper cup with a smudged ring of red lipstick mouth.
Every time I put flower-fragranced conditioner in my hair, I remember a specific place in Black Hills,South Dakota, a specific room and everything in it, a specific time and event and excitement. And how old I was, and what the air tasted like.

It works every time. Every time I see a motercycle I think of Ad Infinitum. Wierd. Virtual stranger, conditioning my mind. That’s a privilage, you know! (Friends all, take care not to abuse it).
Every time I hear the music friends have given me, I think of those friends. I’m growing their taste.
Every time I stumble upon a small sock, anyone’s, I put it to my cheek, remembering my baby nieces.

Anyone’s joy reminds me of her, the woman of joy, and her, the girl of laughter.
Any hint of mystery reminds me of a different her.
Any serious, anylitical statement or reply of thought reminds me of him, and also him.
Any shyness reminds me of. . . several people I know.

Blond? Too many.
Black hair? A few. All of them foreign and enchanting.
Red hair? One, Lauren. Well, and heroines in books.
Curly hair? Me. Headaches? Me.
Blue eyes? Several. The luckies.
Dark brown eyes? Most.
Green eyes? A few, blessed.
Purple eyes? One. Contacts.

Then there is food, especially cultural food, and the colors and scents of a meal that relive events and places and people. Music, as I mentioned, does the same. And little-used musical instruments played by little-known people. Obscure songs, or just old ones are especially strong links to the one who introduced me to them. And stories. It’s a bad idea to meet somone for the first time when you are reading a book that becomes very emotional or distressing. Along with the evil character, that person becomes eternaly attached to the story.

And fabric. Quilts, blankies, dresses, scarves, scraps.
Nearly all of my dresses are hand-me-downs from family, friends, and even strangers. I’ve become the smallest small, so now the clothing that my mom gave to my older sister, who gave it to me, and I gave it to my younger sister, who gave it to her friend, who gave it to her sister, is being handed back to me! The only thing I get to buy or make new is underclothes. Waste not, want not, I guess. Every dress has its story. I’m a worn story.

Things trigger deeply personal memories of people. People trigger interesting thoughts of things.
objects and characteristics, physical appearance, habits, attitudes, emotions, personalitiy, quirks.
I wonder, What reminds you of me? What do you hear/see/taste/feel/ when you think of me? . . .Or do I not want to know?

Every birthday brings serious, "soul-searching" thoughts for me. First because I am alive. Did I ever tell you about my several near-deaths? Or about the time I call my Dark Ages, when I was among world’s many living dead? Well, I’ll tell you one day. Today, know ye that I have much to contemplate of life, for it is a gift. A choiceless gift–So, if God will not allow me to die, shouldn’t I find His purpose and live it fully? So He gave another gift: Joy for this undesired life. Astounding. Joy for me?–I who embraced grief, who esteemed life void and stagnent! Does not Joy belong to those lusting for youth, pursuing passion and hungering for life, experience, all the world? Not to me! But, having joy unworthily, I am given yet another gift: to become one of those people.

I despised Joy once. A poet says thus:

Though Joy is better than sorrow joy is not great;

Peace is great, strength is great.      

Not for joy the stars burn, not for joy the vulture   

spreads her gray sails on the air  

Over the mountain; not for joy the worn mountain    

Stands, while years like water  

Trench his long sides. "I am neither mountain nor bird     

Nor star; and I seek joy."  

The weakness of your breed: yet at length quietness 

Will cover those wistful eyes.

 I agree with him if he means subjective happiness, shallow pleasure, fleeting glee. In such case, he speaks my sentiments exactly! But now that I have joy, I know it to incompass peace and strength. Without it as a foundation, there could be no peace nor strength, only devastation and hopelessness.

I remember my obsession with pain; my consuming desire to understand darkness and suffering, and my distorted belief that in evil’s embrace lies comprehension, solution. Perhaps that time made me the "old soul" some call me. Good? bad? I am marked forever. I was consumed then; life drained, sunshine sapped from childhood. Fear and hate is blind, and prejudiced opinions are cloaks that seem to protect- but can only hide, and cause the wearer to stumble. Pain of a stranger became my own. I craved depressing stories. Stary, starry nights of tears and fear, of torturous, demon-filled dreams. Singing that the people could not understand, do not listen and perhaps never will. Child of the artist, painted too delicate, the silver thorn, the bloody rose, my determination to crush me myself.

Freed from the nightmares, the misconceptions, I grow younger. Life becomes simpler. It revolves around beauty and truth and love and joy. Concerning the ways of mankind: the more I learn, the less there is to seek understanding of. I don’t know why. . . Why lots of things are what they are. Bad things. How they can be that way. Does knowing reasons help much? I’ve got to focus on the solution. On becoming different, better.

The kingdom of Heaven belongs to the innocent child. The ones pure in their thoughts and intentions; simple and free in life and action. When you boil life down to what really, really matters, it’s so elementry, so basic. So childlike. As a child, I long to grow-up. To be mature. To be a woman woman. The way to up is down, isn’t it?