Time stills. Memories lag on their march to the forefront of my line of thought. A heavy thrum thump of cherished moments drag their feet like slow-motion characters on parade. Far gone interactions are grayish and frayed with tintype residue like emotional scars. In circles and one/two step, they dance before my closed eyes: dreamy and luring. What is this show? Am I dead? Is this my life “flashing”? Every jarring experience, every regret and embarrassment, every blunder and joyous accomplishment creep in tandem like a circus stuck to an eternal merry-go-round. Hellish. Profound, but I do not know what it means. My head is spinning – too slowly, like a wooden spoon stirring caramel. The processional quickens. A whirr of the projector hums from behind as all memories blur. I have forgotten. The ringleader grows silent, the tent lights dim, the clowns re-squeeze into their bug. In the morning, only dust and popcorn shells will remain. What does it all mean? Where is the tunnel and light near the end? Does it really only just fade black into nothing? Am I nothing? Was I always nothing?
Do you fear death? I do not personally, but I have heard that this is a common fear. The majority of people fear the possibilities of what lies beyond life. What about you? What scares you most about death? Many fear being forgotten. Some fear hell and torment. Others assume blissful nothingness or paradise awaits, yet fear their own doubts. If someone were able to give you the guarantee of life after death would you take it?
“Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.” ~Jesus
Cannot see past a stranger’s glance
Does not know she’s loved and blessed
Refuses to accept the facts
Hates the lies she tells herself
Dreams of romance and not of grace
Hopes for fame but barfs on stage
Uses men to cling to love
Runs away when truth calls her name
Hurts herself because everyone does
Laughs far, far less than she cries
Mocks faith yet fears her death
Claims to be a failing mother
Drowns in her self-loathing
Rejects compliments and praise
Carves beauty into her skin with ink
Slices off and colors all that’s natural
Assumes she’s righteous; knows she’s not
Blames God for man’s mistakes
Feels shamed for her life choices
Lies to keep her face intact
Screams more than she kisses
Stares at bruises in the mirror
Dying to live; afraid to live
Thinks she’s fat and growing bitter
Hugs a tree but not her mother
Drinks to dull the ache inside
Smokes to glaze her eyes from seeing
Hides in dreams to escape what’s real
Abuses those she says she loves
Hangs herself in private pain
You are beautiful: afraid of the love that calls your name, yes, but loved anyways. You are precious: broken into a thousand pieces, yes, but cherished anyways. You are the shivering child who God found in a ugly heap of regret and burden: filthy and repugnant and wide-eyed with fear, yes, but adopted anyways. You are wanted. You are loved, so much honestly, that God died for you. Even if He knew that only you – only YOU – would need him to forgive you, wipe away your tears, protect you and cherish your forever, he would have still died on that cross. He would have died even if you were the only person in the whole of history that would believe and trust him. Cannot you not see that the girl who you are is not nothing but worth everything?
Does your skin color define you? Does it give you credibility of opinion simply because your skin is a slight or obvious shade darker than my own? Why is it that we call differing amounts of melatonin: race? That is a very competitive word to me. Who coined that term? I look at the world and see an entire humanity struggling for the same things: love, peace and hope. I do not see “races.” Sure, we are all different. The variety of colors and cultures on this globe make us beautiful and diverse and this should spur appreciation, not fear or hatred.
It’s strange how certain people react differently to confrontation. Not aggressive even, but genuine curiosity. Others engage openly and energeticly while others prickle and retreat. I am curious if its personality or trust-based. I think people assume I am a troll at times because they cannot recognize genuine interest anymore from strangers. We are so programmed to become offended or to cause offense that true interest with a sincere attempt at building a more than superficial relationship with someone is deemed annoying or untrustworthy. I judge you. You judged me. What a mentality! Get over yourself. Stop being afraid. There are real people in the world with good intentions if you will get past your blinded presuppositions to recognize it. And what about intelligent conversations? Dang, that prickles people. Like I am trying to be haughty. Please. I read, that is it. I just want to see people get more excited about valid, in depth conversations. But, no, the invitation is too much. It’s off-putting. It’s uncharacteristic. It’s irritating. Is that because curiosity is scary by its own merit or because contending in a real conversation of depth may reveal a lack of credibility on your part to defend or articulate your own perspective of the world and its nuances? Both are scary. Sure, I push people, but to see them try to grow, to learn, or at least, show some desire of doing so. Yet, I am greeted by silence. Teachers must feel like this a lot. They stand in front of a room full of potential and witness these same reactions to what is presented. Am I so far out of the mold that I cannot relate anymore? Or is it that people in general have just given up on relating beyond the superficial? They want to be friends first when the majority of people we encounter will never move beyond an aquaintance. Do we have the right to withhold deep conversations to certain individuals or should we strive to spark life and interest in everyone we come across?
These are questions to plague the mind, but can we answer any of them if we cannot even look past each other’s skin?