A Story

Someone once said (I think it was the British guy from Little Women) that a good writer will write what they know. I think that's good advice.

I'm writing a novel about people who declare war on the ocean and get stuck inside a city made of driftwood, under the rule of a man whom I have described as "being made from the parts of several destroyed people." There will also be a small amount of cannibalism towards the end.

I don't know very much about the ocean.

or cannibalism.

One time, I saw a chicken eat an egg. It was disturbing.

This is a time in my life where I will endlessly (and sometimes pointlessly) question the meaning behind everything, so that I can know my purpose. It's perfectly normal. I've been told this by a lot of people lately, and I fully believe it to be true.  I just can't help falling into its trap from time to time. Feeling like (maybe wishing) I'm the only person who's ever felt this way. 

I think it's stupid to do things when you're supposed to do them. I want to be brilliant when I'm young, reflective and existential in my adulthood, carefree in my middle age, and useful when I'm old. I certainly, certainly do not want to question my existence and purpose in my post college mid - twenties. Seriously, how cliche.

But really.

What am I doing here? How did I get here? Why am I here? Will the things I do with my life have any effect whatsoever? Should I be where I am?

How did I get to be so lame? Just... doing the same thing that everyone else does? Whatever happened to rebellion?

I must have gotten tired. And a little lost.

God said that I was going to tell stories. Did he mean stories about people who declare war on the ocean, and end up in a city in the belly of a giant sea monster? How does cannibalism factor into God's plan for my life? Is it possible that I misheard him? That maybe he meant something else?

I love stories. I mean, it's just how I communicate. It just seems lately that I can't make it work like I used to. It's like that scene that's in every movie, play, short story, novel, whatever. Not every one's favorite scene. The one that comes right before it. Where no one knows what's going to happen. Up against the wall. Every option has been tried. Every favor called in. Stuck. 

This is usually the part of the story that I like best. These are the parts when you scream out loud. Curse the author. Accidentally rip the page. Wonder why this story was ever even told. The conflict is at its greatest. The people are on the edge of their seats. The thing is... no matter how loudly you scream, how angrily you curse, it won't do any good. There are no words that will give you the answers you need. There is only one thing to do.

Turn the page.

See what's next. 

I have a headache right now. I don't normally get headaches, but my brain is beating against the sides of my skull right now. It's like there's some deep realization (or hidden frustration) buried under there that needs to come out. Why can't I do this? Why didn't it happen the way I thought it would? I need to let that realization out. I need to understand that even though I have been trying to tell a story, I should have been listening to the story that was being told to me.

God, you are a storyteller. You were before I was. This is my favorite part.

Stuck.

Turn the page.

Childish

Oh, my gosh, I looooove my new job! I just had my first day today. The kids are absolutely adorable, even though they can't read (or sit still). I just want to pick each of them up, and hug them to death.

But I probably shouldn't.

Actually, I don't think we're allowed to hug them.

It's okay. I can hold it in.

For now.

Why are these children so happy? I don't understand why these children are so happy. I mean, it's not like the world around them is going too well. They are the poorest kids in their school district, and also some of the lowest performing students. Now they have to stay at school an extra 2-3 hours. Why all the smiles?

Better question...

Why don't we smile more?

How do we get like this? Like adults. Like these complicated sets of fears and concerns, like the world is out to get us? Maybe it is. I don't really know, but it seems like these small children know somehow more than I do about what it takes to survive here. Where does their joy come from? Where does it go when they become old? Why do we stop enjoying playing duck duck goose, and rolling around in the sand, and spinning around in circles until gravity plays tricks on us? What in us shuts down as we become adults?

Where does child abuse come from? How could anyone be so devoid of love that a child becomes nothing more than an annoyance that can be silenced with a slap? Are we really that better off when we grow up? 

It's not really about being carefree, and devoid of responsibility. At least I don't think so. It's seeing the world for the first time. It's thinking that adults know everything and can fix everything, if you only ask. It's getting to say, in a word, what you want to be without worrying about what you are.

"I want to be a fireman."

"I want to be a movie star."

"I want to be an astronaut."

The stars aren't as far away, when you're younger, when no one tells you not to dream.

I think that children are a wonderful gift from God, and that anyone who abuses a child should be punished severely. There is one abuse, however, that cannot be punished, and that we are all a victim of. 

The worst childhood abuse is growing up.

3 reasons I'm happy today...

1. I ate all the boba in my drink before I finished my tea (very rare for me)

2. My friends are going to help with my art show. They are awesome in many ways.

3. Quickly. Brian Adams. Summer of 69. Need I say more?