don’t waste your life.

{photo credit: flicker}

{photo credit: flicker}

Dust gathers on my keyboard, maple leaves stick to pavement, tests keep me awake at 12:30 a.m., shuffled papers and empty coffee mugs clutter my desk by the window, and I sit, staring into space, with so many thoughts I cannot fathom into words.

Sometimes I have to wonder if the world really does spin faster as we get older, time slips between our fingers like sand, and the ticking of the clock never slows, never wavers.

We as young people are told our goal in life should be to follow our hearts. Pursue our dreams. Find true love. Do what makes us happy. You only live once, so we should wander blissfully and aimlessly through life like a paper airplane doing what we want to do until the hourglass stops.

But is that really what God has in store for us?

(read the rest here!)

a page from my journal in april

{unknown credit}

{unknown credit}

Jumbled words. Raw. Unedited. Straight from my brain.

4/10/14

I was made for another world. I know I was. I think my love of writing has stemmed from more than just the passion and joy it gives me.

It comes from this ache, this longing, not just to write, but this … cry for beauty. I crave it. I crave it in my daily life. I crave it when I wake up. I crave it when I read great works like Till We Have Faces. I crave it as I gaze at purple sunrises in my rear-view mirror every morning. I crave it as I go through the mundane, the serious, the repetitive parts of life. I crave it in sweet, dimpled smiles, starry skies, baby’s laughter, daily bike rides, cricket’s song, summer’s kiss, the blank page, cursor blinking, I etch the words that flame my soul as my heart trembles like a violin string, and I crack like the spine of a book. This flame, longing, nestles itself deep into my psyche. The pursuit of beauty that calls me from the ocean’s shore, the mountains around, roses reaching rooftops, running wild, the everywhere, the now, the memories past.

This urge to write is my way of reaching for the incorruptible beauty found in the simple joys of life, fingertips caressing heaven’s gate. Why didn’t I see this before?