Mind and Soul
Well, I lost another job, but this time I was let go. I thought it was going ok, but I guess the fact that I was recuperating and not flourishing had something to do with it.
I'm not despairing like I was at Esperanza, but it's still so discouraging. It's still frustrating. I still hate jobs, job-searching, and money. It still feels like a retarded joke.
I'm afraid of writing. I'm afraid that what I write won't be good enough. I'm tired, and I don't care. I don't want to care. I want to… I don't know what I want to do. I don't really know what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to love God and my neighbor – whatever the bloody that means. I'm trying, and God does indeed sustain me, but I feel unhinged and/or directionless.
I feel the nevers and alwayses sticking like broken shards in my mind and in my soul. That sounds pretty. I would like to write so many things, but I'm so afraid – the nevers and alwayses have a bastion.
I should start small, tacky even.
Once upon a time, in the shining kingdom of Mind and Soul, there lived a graceful people. These people were known as the Spirarum. They crafted the most wonderful things. The kingdom itself is too overwhelming to describe, so let's start small. They wove some of the most splendrous garments. Tunics were woven of midnight and embroidered with threads of fire. Glowing dresses were sewn from cumulus and trimmed with stardust. Some of the more tenacious tailors would weave cirrus dresses. Cobblers would craft their shoes from the cores of dying volcanoes and line the insole with summer breezes.
The Spirarum fashioned the most elegant jewelry. They would smith rings from bands of sunlight or braid together wire from the wind of a tornado. Some of the best craftsmen could make you a necklace whose chain was interlocking rings of the moon's reflection and whose pendant was a glowing chunk of moonstone itself.
The food they would cook was unbelievable. You could start off with a salad of crisp silence from the fresh fall of snow, continue to a hearty roast of boisterous laughter glazed in the sound of a waterfall, wash it down with a large tankard of infatuation, and finish it all with the sweet-and-salty treat of a warm shiver.
I could ramble on about their dances, their music, their painting, and so much more, but suffice it to say that it was a glorious land.
Now, in Mind and Soul, there lived a boy named Freedom. His specialty was singing.
I'll start there.
I'm not despairing like I was at Esperanza, but it's still so discouraging. It's still frustrating. I still hate jobs, job-searching, and money. It still feels like a retarded joke.
I'm afraid of writing. I'm afraid that what I write won't be good enough. I'm tired, and I don't care. I don't want to care. I want to… I don't know what I want to do. I don't really know what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to love God and my neighbor – whatever the bloody that means. I'm trying, and God does indeed sustain me, but I feel unhinged and/or directionless.
I feel the nevers and alwayses sticking like broken shards in my mind and in my soul. That sounds pretty. I would like to write so many things, but I'm so afraid – the nevers and alwayses have a bastion.
I should start small, tacky even.
Once upon a time, in the shining kingdom of Mind and Soul, there lived a graceful people. These people were known as the Spirarum. They crafted the most wonderful things. The kingdom itself is too overwhelming to describe, so let's start small. They wove some of the most splendrous garments. Tunics were woven of midnight and embroidered with threads of fire. Glowing dresses were sewn from cumulus and trimmed with stardust. Some of the more tenacious tailors would weave cirrus dresses. Cobblers would craft their shoes from the cores of dying volcanoes and line the insole with summer breezes.
The Spirarum fashioned the most elegant jewelry. They would smith rings from bands of sunlight or braid together wire from the wind of a tornado. Some of the best craftsmen could make you a necklace whose chain was interlocking rings of the moon's reflection and whose pendant was a glowing chunk of moonstone itself.
The food they would cook was unbelievable. You could start off with a salad of crisp silence from the fresh fall of snow, continue to a hearty roast of boisterous laughter glazed in the sound of a waterfall, wash it down with a large tankard of infatuation, and finish it all with the sweet-and-salty treat of a warm shiver.
I could ramble on about their dances, their music, their painting, and so much more, but suffice it to say that it was a glorious land.
Now, in Mind and Soul, there lived a boy named Freedom. His specialty was singing.
I'll start there.
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