Echoes of Eternity.
The weather is warm and the shade from the Oak lends a helping hand.
We are the weather and storm, discovering the sky come alive. Watching seasons collide, blankets and clouds unfold before our eyes. Luminous stars compose ballads of hope, while the seascape and ocean scribble furiously and recklessly, glacier and incendiary, erudite and literary. Volumes and volumes and volumes are written; hardcovers of words and carefree coffee, Sunday mornings lazy and afternoons breezy.
Life is a crooked path to navigate.
Mindful and wary, cautious and guarded, we are all fearlessly afraid of the unfamiliar romance travails, irrational and circumspect. “It’s burdensome work” we cogitate. Not for us, fairytale inadequacy, surface incompatibility, bury the beauty. Yet the resolution abides not in confidence, but in the chance taken, the ending open, the length and journey: exclusivity and fidelity. One and same, freedom and in. Calling and province:
Love.
The provenance of providence, the outlier of the source of the root of the tree of the great cause that is. Mover and initiator; her eyes, a footprint to the trace of the fragment of proof: divinity and imagery. Knowledge truly worth knowing, desires really aligning. We are quick to forgive, and unafraid to be. There is a key to the lock to the blueprint of the core, the secret to loving another without fear and with ardor:
Walk through the door.
True love requires inestimable risk and an enduring affinity of spirit.
One thread through many unknowns.
We are one, together, and alive.
We are consistency, the harbor ever deepening.
Rainy days and rainy words, pen and paper, dear and specific.
Closing the door to old words and old emotion.
Handwritten Notes: Unbreakable Hope.
The music and the blank slate: the words fall like snow.
Let’s write.
Ideas cause us to operate, motivate us to act, and energize us towards movement. They weigh us inside and mark us with purpose. Ideas are unpredictable, and (I think) gloriously so. They have a tendency to sneak up on you, and they attack with vigorous spontaneity, inspiration from the deepest cracks, the darkest corners, and the longest tunnel. They never cease to infiltrate our convictions and impact our priorities; they color our directions, play our affections, and win our loyalties.
The strength of an idea lies in its premise, and its premise is its mission; that life-defining, purpose-orienting, all-consuming drive that mobilizes, enables, and enacts. Light from darkness, heat from arctic, it gives motion to madness and tears to sadness. It is because of the premise that we speak in different voices, and it is because of it that we live harmoniously and violently; carefully constructed arson.
One optimist to another, the world burns with hope; and it’s such a happy affair.
While the germ of our inspiration grows, ideas tend to jar our lives from stasis; bedrock normality reordered with meteorite defiance, rigorous rearrangement. Ideas don’t just change people, ideas define people; people embody premises, and we are the people. We are arranged in one movement, with different melodies. A paradigm of electricity, current of idealism and heart infrastructure, we are a tidal wave of delicate wreckage and hope-filled debris.
We are incarnational, we are everywhere, and we don’t play by the rules.
We are the war bringers, world changers, culture molders, and stereotype breakers. We hold honor in our hands, significance in our grasp. We are a broken image coming into focus, and we are enamored with what we have. Our premise is messiness, our catalyst is grace (the purest kind), and our idea is growth. We believe in providence, happiness, and explosions of development. Mistakes made boldly, forgiveness extended quickly. Like a rocket from the ground up, we dream like no one has dreamed.
We are cavalier and we have nothing to hide. We cling to transparency, and have everything to show. We are the pressure building, and the hope given. We are an organism growing, a monster sleeping. We navigate a relativistic world with absolutes that dismantle foundations. We are a body expanding, with new destinations and fresh designs for the future. We’re disarming, disconcerting, and forever forming. We are a movement; souls searching.
We are the happy ending, the hand grenade and the earthquake.
Hope walks hand in hand with fear.
Handwritten notes and invincibility.
Finale.
Together: with one word, every resistance falls away.
In the background, the tide makes happy harmonies, composing nature’s summer soundtrack. In the foreground, sand slips through our fingers and quiet grips the beach. Windows down, the ocean receives our stories; heart-level breaks and misplaced tear-stains. Possibilities wash ashore, wave upon wave, and thoughts crash over thoughts. Breath and a romance, every puddle is a shifting sand. It’s magnetic and thrilling, the progress and chase. Beautiful back and forth, one and the same: dreams interlaced.
The atmosphere hangs heavily, and the city sleeps in flame, blazing with optimism. Life and the line, collision is the course we were swimming. I am the child of trials, long stories, and half-smiles; through and through, turned down sinner, depraved and misused. Beauty is easy, but love is the elusive piece; everywhere and nowhere, everyone wants it and none have it. Most fake it, but rarely live it. All seek it, few find it. Lightning strikes and shadows. Both weary and weighty, we are ready.
Authentic.
We’re the unabashed dreamers, confidently fearing what we long for most: shelter in the storm.
Escape: I’ve been looking for a way to end this one, and there seems to be no more appropriate way than to simply unpack the idea I’ve been building to. The thought that I haven’t been able to get away from is, “We are the shelter.” Shelter in this sense could be replaced with comfort, hope, or trust; storm meaning the rough patches of life. With some explanation, perhaps this metaphor will make sense.
When weaving this story together, it hit me (from left field, mind you) that when two lovers find each other, they actually become each other’s shelter. In other words, although I myself have been skeptical about ever finding “shelter” in someone else (paragraph 2), the whole idea of romance and matrimony does not only involve finding shelter, but also becoming shelter for another person. In this way, both lovers form one haven, one for each other and vice versa. Brilliant? Why yes, I think so.
Another way to say this is: being a comfort for someone else is also a way of being a comfort for yourself. Giving is receiving. Loving is being loved. Comforting is comforting. Teaching is learning. And (my favorite) hugging is being hugged. See it yet? :)
Oh shelter, we are the shelter! My comfort and my friend, I hope you saw the sunrise on the eastern skyline. Because it reminded me of our lives, separate but mysteriously intertwined. Because truth be told, we could have gone without, drawn the line, surrendered to doubt. But conversation was breezy, and hope kindled security. We are our safety. We are our refuge. Surreality.
The lights gave way to salty air, I looked up from the sand, and a familiar old friend was sitting there.
Her name is hope.
And we’re worth holding on to.
Legacy.
Decaf espresso roast; press.
I’ve existed twenty years and some change. 10,533,600 minutes give or take, and that’s a solid chunk of time.
Time: what a frightful word.
Elusive, escapist, brilliant, and valuable. It’s is a priceless commodity, necessary luxury, unattainable property; gone quickly, and saved shrewdly. All want it, few strive for it, some fight for it; most seek it, but none know how to wield it. It’s our most valuable human resource, yet it’s squandered too readily, given too freely, lost too easily. And you’re equally guilty. How much do we have, and what will we do with it?
We’re scared to die, when the fruit of our life is contingent upon the answer. Think. Don’t pretend.
Where we invest our time is indicative of our priorities. The idea is simple, refreshing, and life-altering. Where do we spend our time and why? This is especially relevant, because when it comes to life, I don’t want to look for the next “good time.” I want to leave a legacy, something real, tangible, significant. I want to prepare my life for the transition out. How am I assembling my future for myself, for my family, my kids? A design properly architected is beautiful. So plan well. Pray well.
Paradigm shift: you are a mist that appears for a little time then vanishes. In other words, life won’t be defined by the next weekend, but by four and five generations into the future. Out of this, I have a heart for preparation, even in the small things. I’m not referring to preparing for an exam, preparing for work, or preparing the table for dinner. I’m speaking of a road map for the future, blended in wisdom, percolated in honesty. Where I want to be, and the steps necessary to get there.
Practically, this looks like finding the right books to read, devoting my time to the right endeavors, evaluating my available (free) time, and assessing my own needs. This entails knowing myself and my own personal limits: how much sleep I require to operate, how many credits makes a fruitful semester, how I’m seeking to develop, what opportunities to pursue, what learning to tap into, what sin to repent of, and what relationships to cultivate.
It’s an interesting brew, this experience we call life. Real electric stuff, I’d say.
Therefore, ink.
Yukon blend, french press.
This is an arrangement.
Set-up: cautiously delirious, because the fog is blurring the view. Gentle, gentle, pitter patter. Dew dampens leaf, and silence is beautiful because solitude equals relief. Introvert by choice, we set our own stage. Sleepless in the fairest field, we’ll open the window and expect the breeze, paint the portrait and plant the seed; fireworks are distant and future thoughts are present. Half a league onward, wistful mindset deepens the romance.
This playlist is perfect; we dive in.
The truth is, I’ve seen the up and the down, the shore and the swells. I am the dusty book on shelf. The cover is wearing, the words are fading, but the pages require new writing. Somewhere inside exists a story that is to be written, a lead that must be taken. The protagonist must have clarity, nobility, and intentionality, the desire for higher qualities. It will demand careful plot progression, like hide and seek; here but not there. Inconsistently consistent; irony and wit. Brilliant and cryptic, skyline and seasick.
Therefore, ink: spilled onto page, fine-point, fountain pen.
Careful calligraphy unravels this memoir.
It’s a kind of book that smells of romance and vintage thought. Fast dreaming and bright love, it goes against his every fear, I know. But it’s a calculated risk and a decisive chance all at once, adventure and a moment. She takes his hand, and they look twice before running the race; fumbling through the heartache, embracing the second takes. It’s dynamic and static, one and the same, forward progress. Sanctification: progress through misstep.
Write it down.
Etch it into the fabric of your thought.
How I Read.
Play. Reading is an adventure, writing is a ball, and reading your own writing is both. I’m currently reading a book called “How to Read a Book” by Mortimer J. Adler. The general idea is that you are to get in the book. You know, mark it up. Scratch notes in the margin, circle mysterious words, and make connections. This is brilliant, really, and my thought is that everyone should read this way. I used to hold those new books in high reverence, enjoying the feel and smell of freshly printed pages, eager to receive the package, hesitant to harm the cover, and reluctant to spill coffee on the pages. But no longer. Our culture often moves too quickly to appreciate true verbal artistry, the master wordsmiths. I’m afraid to say that most people consider reading a leisurely activity, something you just do, skim through, and forget in a week (tweet, tweet). Yeah, yeah. I’m guilty too, but there’s quite alot at stake if you think about it. How often has a book really worked on you? Left a mark, prompted growth, entered in, made you uncomfortable? Twisted your arm, had you in a checkmate, or brought you to tears? Perhaps never, and that’s a shame. Because that’s what I want from a book. Grip and realness. Delicate and vintage, fire and glass, honest and real. It’s the true wear and tear, the good and the bad, that makes a book really come alive. It’s buried in the re-reads and constant seeking, bloodhound thought; coffee stains and worn parchment. And maybe this is speculation, but I think it has to do with the interaction. You know, really experiencing the book, and putting your hands in the dirt; highlighting phrases and re-living paragraphs. I want to seek the author’s purpose, discover new things, and then get back on the bike. There’s authenticity at it’s roots, and the whole process is classy. Pause. It’s called learning. And every word is an opportunity.
Abstract & Figment.
I’m tired of writing in metaphors; abstract and figment.
I want realness.
Clean-cut edges, yes and no; black and white photographs with sepia tone, low saturation, and high contrast. You know, acne scars, mixed emotions, and an air to distract: acoustic verse with chorus of confidence. Fancy coffee and guided unpredictability. Out of this league. We’re not trying to change the world, but we’re somehow changing everything. The fast eat the slow, and we’re learning at lightning pace. Agressive expansion, quick adjustments. Young and gritty.
We’re thinkers, scholars, innovators, trend setters, and culture makers. We live upstream and sleep next door. We’re the new avant-garde, the crest of the wave. We’re radical, old-school, daring, and brave. Conservative and liberal. But not democrat or republican. We’re fresh, experimental, and state-of-the-art. Champions of the past on the forefront of the future. We like big buildings, and artsy things. We value big ideas and meaning. Long books, documentaries. Honor and difference: significance.
We read all the books, but we also write them. We listen to music, but we also create it. If something isn’t working, we refine it. Retrospect is our weapon. Evaluate, re-evaluate, follow-up, implement reconstruction. Formulate new ideas, pioneer fresh perspectives. What’s working? What’s not working? We introduce progress and innovate transformation. This isn’t just a business rule, it’s far-reaching, across the board; global thinking. Make a move. Take a risk. Hope and hope. Stir the conversation.
We read books with a highlighter and pen in reach. We marvel at creation, appreciating simple existence with powerful magnification. We reject goal-oriented thinking, seeing the journey as the greatest reward. We know people will fail us, and we embrace it. We see the value in pursuing our doubts in order to disarm other’s. We’re always growing, always learning. We don’t believe what we’re told, we defy the odds. We’re quietly on the move. We’re transparent and unafraid.
We’re not victims, we’re the rebels. We’ve seen the other side, and we’re bulletproof.
I don’t know who we are, but I know I am one of us.
And we’re an interesting breed.
Do you need a story to tell?
Decaf. My darling, accept love of the deepest and purest kind from one who is not prone to exaggerate. Twitter messages are good, but I like to be expansive. You know, BIG. I like it because it happens. It happens because I write. And I write because it seeps through the cracks, and bursts through the seams. The process is organic. Earthy green. When I write, it happens, then I tend to reverse plan. Return to the text, add and subtract. Meanwhile, nothing and everything I say is intentional. It’s irrational and lovely. I can say lots of things, but instead I say what I write, and what I write is an organism in itself: growing, learning, and living. Je t’aime, you know? French! My writing is expansive because I love. But it’s a gorgeous kind of love. Breathy and free, very sweet, fresh, and all that. Artsy and stuff, ramble ramble. Slow jazz. Contented yawn. Learning: the hard and the easy way, it’s a life-long hobby. I love things that I don’t understand immediately. I love things that I understand, and then re-imagine slowly. I love apologetics, and explaining things that mean something. I love knowing people and wondering why they do alright. I love wondering why I say things, like the world is hanging on my words. I love wondering why I don’t say things, like the world is hanging on my words. Why don’t you say things? Why do you say things? Ohhh, so philosophical and deep, man. Just riveting. You could try to write one, or you can realize that yours has been written. Yes, my eyes ache for sleep. Fly away, and live the story. Now that’s tweet worthy.
Door to door, life in my eyes, and twenty behind.
And: we’re on.
Set the mood, windows open and cool breeze adrift; things straight and coffee in hand; acoustic music, and a field of stars above us. It’s a crooked road, this life. To and fro, sway and sway. But it’s a safe home in the storm enraged, rudder shifting. Back and forth, back and forth with every generation. I’ll confidently hum the anthem of a comfortable pace, slightly slower than walking and making sure to take in the details and enjoy the passing thought. Reading slowly and re-reading carefully, not a letter misplaced, no meaning unintended. Unpack it, and embrace each word.
Pensive.
I could do this all day, I feel like a child.
Spin an analogy, set the ship on course, shape the words. Learn as we go, choreograph the movement, ink the map. Pause and sip, gaze out and re-read. Laugh at the pain and fail to sleep (it’s probably the caffeine). It’s life on the short, breath and a moment. Here and then there, gravitas of the ages: largely unnoticed. So yes, thirty and one days was the deal I made, one humble document per, preferably unscripted to keep things organic. And I prefer it this way, although I always go back and read everything (you know, just to make sure). So yes, writing is a thrill, man. Never gets old.
Anyhow, 20 years old I am. It’s been some time now, and I feel like an aged soul. I’ve seen little of anything but most of everything, if you get my meaning. I always feel my age but somehow not so. I’m a constant learner, and that might be it. But the fireworks make the most sense and the matches surprise me most. Simple things get tricky, and inside screams for the out. You know, complicated is easy and small is mystery. It’s crazy, and I may not understand, but I love our humanity, even in depravity; we express ideas, coordinate meaning, shape emotions, and play the heartstrings. It’s beauty. Perhaps otherworldly (!)
Can you see it?
I see it everywhere, in the trivialities too. I see it in people. I hear it in their voice. I sense it in their nervousness and hear it in their silence. I feel it in their hands and receive it in the air they breath. I see it in their eyes, and in their longing for perfection (unattainable, I might add). It’s in the throes of their relationships and the intricacies that tag along. It’s in the germ of their thought, inventive and spontaneous, intentionally creative. There’s only one explanation: human in appearance, but divinely imagined. Entity of infinity’s forge, image of eternity’s fashion; a fearfully and wonderfully made crowd.
Not the stuff in the movies, but the real nitty gritty. The stuff you’re made of, defined by. You’re sacred and one of a kind. Lovely and trying, but somehow short of the goal. It’s wonderfully tragic, the rise and the fall. Through one man the sin, and one man the remedy. We’re like two apples on a tree, always delirious and ever healing. This life is a confusing privilege, friend, but an enjoyable living. So snap a photograph of the merciful sunset, and come face to face. Yours to me, and soften my countenance with our heartbeats. We’re alive, love is strong, and we’ll write this month into history.
It’s at the roots; steadfast, immovable, and mesmerizing.
We all long for it deeply, I would say.
The end.
NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
