My Older Brother

"May we ever follow the Prince of Peace, who literally showed the way for us to follow, for by doing so, we will survive these turbulent times. His divine plan can save us from the dangers which surround us on every side. His example points the way. When faced with temptation, He shunned it. When offered the world, He declined it. When asked for His life, He gave it." Thomas S. Monson

Holden and I

I have never really liked the book Catcher in the Rye. I always understood why it was banned, but never why it was considered a great work by many people. Then something happened last night that I know I won’t soon forget. There was a moment where the world was shown to me not as I have always seen it, but as it really is. Not through the rosy glasses my mother gave me at birth, not through my hopeful eyes, always searching for the best, but I saw it with the understanding given to someone who is meant to realize something. I saw the darkness more clearly than I ever had before, the doubt and the sin in everyone’s eyes. And I not only wanted to be closer to God, closer to what he wanted, closer to His happiness, closer to my Father, but I also began to feel a love, one that I didn’t understand yet, growing inside me. And I knew I wouldn’t understand until someone was completely mine, until I cared more for someone else than I did for me. Until i had someone I would give my life to save from the darkness of this world. Suddenly, I felt as Holden once did. Wanting to stand next to him in that field, desperately trying to keep others from running off. To help them realize what they were running to, not realizing how great the field was. I wanted to be a Catcher in the Rye.

another awesome place to find things that you didn't know you needed

it's been fun... but i mustache

of all the creations in all the worlds that fill the sky, i was able to meet you. i was able to love you. and as i sit here alone, having conversations with the stars, i ask them if you are sitting somewhere, looking up and thinking of me. i ask if you are lonely as well, missing the time when the stars were the background to our musings. now they only have one heart to watch. a heart that misses one beating beside it. maybe beating a little faster than it should. although the heavens are open above me, although the crickets whisper secrets into the wind, although the grass hums and crackles in the soft warm breeze... your eyes, your touch, your voice, your heart beside mine, is all i want.

here is a list that i agree with. except for #10.

i am separate. the stillness and the silence tears me away from all the things that strain for my attention. i travel closer to the natural things of the world. things closer to my heart because they are closer to the raw, fresh, original version of me. it's not my surroundings, but my decisions that distances me. the choice to pull away and dare to be different.

found my choir on youtube whilst looking for this song. :D

To Be a Princess

is it the gown and the tiara or something deeper?

For Now

Turning from everything he knew, he ran. shrinking from touch, from talking. why talk to anyone? he saw the faces he saw every day. familiar. smiling. names. personalities. he felt disconnected. he thought seriously about how he answered the casual "how are you?" Fine. was he fine? did he want others to know? could he trust them? give his mind and heart like he did before? no. look what happened. running. running is always good. blurs. eyes closed. wind. breathing hard. he wasn't running away from them. just her. the memory. lingering like her perfume after a long kiss. Then stronger. The memory of empty eyes. The memory of broken, pale, cold.  No. Run. Let the air brush it out. Broken. Dead. No! His legs running from something he couldn't see. Something chasing him. Right on top of him. Collapsing. Sprinklers buzzing, birds chatting, the cars bloated and disfigured colors in the tears. Gone. No! "how are you?" she's attached to the question. "how are you?" I'm fine! but is this fine? asks the voice. This isn't fine. Look at you. head hung. legs give out. grass poking. poking like a question. what to do? for now? for now the ground is sharp. the sun is piercing. the pavement rocky. for now he would run. That's what he knew to do. numb. alone. that's running. as soon as the pain stops, so would he. but for now? run.

the small umbrella in the rain

like wet leaves falling from a tree far too high for me to see, the raindrops soak every inch of me. the world looks different. i'ts plunged underwater. as if it was painted by an artist who has only seen the world through cracks in a blind. then darkness spins the world further into an unrecognizable state. and i am left. the joy of dancing in the splashing water drips off as the cold sinks deeper than my skin. i look up, trying to find the source. all i am greeted with is tears and more tears. they mingle with mine. but then, a small red umbrella bounces along a further path. the owner is familiar to me, even through the incoming blackness. he calls my name and i struggle to tear myself out of the mud sinking around my ankles. it's you. and you pull me close against your dry coat. i look up. the raindrops bounce cheerfully against the waterproof red. the rain is a surrounding beauty again in the safety of my rescuer.

walking the dog - fun.

A Starry Night

By Kevin Baldwin

the ground beneath my feet,
the grass between my toes,
the throne on which i'm seated,
the arms that hold me close,
so i'll admit defeat,
she's all i'll ever want to know

a tired heart

you might have the rest of the world believing that you are beat, but i'm not convinced. you say you are at you lowest, with no hope, all alone. but i know different. i know the world feels like it has fallen upon you and has broken into pieces and all you have to put it back together is your tired and worn out heart. but you have my heart as well. and if ours beat together, this broken world we live in might not seem like such a mess. i will strengthen your heart with mine and then you will know what i know. that you are more than this world. you are deeper than this world makes you feel. and when you awake and turn your eyes inward and see the glow coming off you, you will learn that your heart is enough. your soul is enough. and our two souls and hearts are more than enough. so lets stay close and pick up each piece and maybe in the rubble we will find hearts and souls that beat like ours. and then this broken world won't seem so lonely. maybe it won't even feel so broken

to be broken and fixed again

there is a place for broken things. in plastic bags or in forgotten shops on forgotten streets. under the bed, behind garden pots and on high, loose shelves. but where do i put my heart when it is broken? i condemn it to a dusty corner. a lonely island. maybe if it's far off the fear of it being broken wont hurt so much. i lock and bury it. for a heart, even when broken, is all i have
but there also is a place for whole things. where only lovers go. they go to see what awaits them. when i am whole again, there is where you will find me. there, words and nothings become the only way to survive. so, my love, keep whispering, my love. keep holding me, for if you leave, i will fall. i will starve for your words.

possibly the funniest thing in the world

HERE! is the funniest blog i have ever met. i cried. multiple times. not in the sad way. i love how she illustrates everything and i plan on maybe illustrating a story and sharing with you all! except it won't be HALF as funny.. anyway.. enjoy!!

awesome things i have found

date a girl who reads

scribbler

abandoned six flags

focus on what you have

t-shirts :D  

just another tree

There is a spot of ground out next to that young maple where you can feel the memories hanging onto the air. Although this year it has new leaves and bark, although this year the grass is fresh and not yet weighed down by feet as it is by autumn, although the breeze swiftly carries away each word as you utter them, making you doubt they were ever said at all, although this spot looks new each year, it feels old. Phantasms of happenings that occurred in the spot linger, unable to be blown away by the wind. The leaves seem to whisper the stories of the past; a young woman, come to hear what the earth could tell her while she sits in the shade, forgotten book on her lap. A first kiss, stolen by a shy boy from an even shyer girl. A small fort owned by squealing kids daring each other up the soft, new branches. A broken heart, coming to find comfort in the soothing stir of the wind in the leaves. Young hands breaking the soft earth and planting the tree. But most of all, the now-old hands returning and touching the bark of an old friend. Every year the sprinkler buzz, the leaves grow and then fall, new branches burst from the trunk, the sun hits the top leaves and the rain almost reaches the core. Each year, just like a new layer to the bark, more memories are placed on the spot of ground out next to that young maple.

hemlocks and poppycock

From underneath my favorite tree, heavy with pollen, I gaze up at the shifting light through the bursting leaves. The sunlight drips onto my toes and splotches on my face as the branches try to catch the afternoon beams. A spider web glints shyly from an upper twig, but the spider is not at home. She is most likely trying to decide if white or red wine would suit tonight’s supper, which is currently thrashing in the broken strands. The light pollen sinks to the ground in a white swirl, making me dizzy as it traces the trips in the breeze. It becomes a summer snow once it relaxes on the ground, warm and yielding to my curious hands. A fuzzy round bumblebee, searching for any remaining spring flower in the high branches, hums lazily and makes me doubt that the buzz is not from its wings, but actually a tune his father taught him in the spring to drone as he is working. I wonder how long their party last night must have lasted as I see hung-over flies, bleary eyed and confused, swerving through the long grass. I feel like I’m underwater as the dappled light, swaying on the ground when the wind bends the upper branches, mimics the sun hitting the water and sinking in the breaks of the waves. The effect is enhanced as the rushing of leaves break on the shore in my mind. As I close my eyes and the soft watery light hits my lids, the red with veins crossing through it is all I can see. I think of new lives, moving inside of warm stomachs as the birds skip in the trees above, talking to each other in French or Spanish. Either way, it’s a language I will never be able to understand.