I feel like God just opened me up and did some deep cleaning. He found a lot of junk inside. He found rotten things and some things that were good, but didn't belong. He found sharp things that cut. He found things that were too big that it didn't fit.
He didn't just clean up. He laid it all out, He made me look at it. He made me look at my mess; it broke me.
Then He took me by the hand, and He began to place it on different pieces of my mess and He helped me pick them up.
We threw them out.
I feel a bit empty, but a good empty.
I still see a great deal of junk laid out before me. As I continue to see my mess for what it is, He will continue to take my hand and together we will throw each one out.
Chasing pavements. This is what I'm doing. I'm chasing pavements. I've never found a song that can express such hard feelings to describe as eloquently as this one. My pavement is leading nowhere. I know how I'm supposed to feel, but I don't feel it. There's a feeling inside of me that is being illuminated and driving me to points I've never known about myself.
I messed up. And I'm living in it now. Because it hurts. Like no one could imagine.
I still cry, even when no one knows. No effort or words could move him. and my heart continues to break and my tears continue to flow. and my mind keeps wondering and wandering.
I want to get lost. I want to lay my head down, and rest my eyes. Maybe when I awake this time, this reality would be over. Maybe if I closed my eyes tight enough, the tears would run dry by morning.
Time and time, over and over again he tells and shows that love is no more. I'm stuck, in this clear box. I can see everything and feel everything, but I can't move. I can see him moving here and there. I can see him fading before my very eyes. Sometimes I pound on the walls, sometimes I just sit and hug my knees with my back turned forward because I don't want to know. Sometimes I press my cheek on the glass and let my tear run down to the floor. He can't hear me. Or he chooses not to. I wish these walls were bullet-proof. All the bullets seem to hit me still. I feel like the gunfire still has not ended, although the bullets are killing me, they are also the very things that are keeping my body up in its place. My soul has been long gone. I'm waiting for the day when the bullets don't phase me anymore. Then I can just fall into the arms of God. I want to rest in Him.
When life is not precious to you, then you will never know how to treat someone preciously. When you don't love you, then you don't know how to love anyone. When you give general answers, you hide yourself. Be specific, it frees you to be transparent. Transparency brings about trust, love and understanding. So, I decided to be transparent tonight. I'm drowning in a flood of my own tears in this glass box, as you flutter around with your life as if I had never existed in your presence. Yet I'm still chasing pavements.
The eloquent words of Adele: I've made up my mind, No need to think it over, If i'm wrong I aint right, No need to look no further, This ain't lust, This is love but,
If i tell the world, I'll never say enough, Cause it was not said to you, And thats exactly what i need to do, If i'm in love with you,
Should i give up, Or should i just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere, Or would it be a waste? Even If i knew my place should i leave it there? Should i give up, Or should i just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere
I'd build myself up, And fly around in circles, Wait then as my heart drops, and my back begins to tingle finally could this be it
Should i give up, Or should i just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere, Or would it be a waste? Even If i knew my place should i leave it there? Should i give up, Or should i just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowher
The paper boat floated silently in the puddle as the raindrops trinkled down The dark cool night seemed to be full of energy and roaring winds, But her heart sat ever so still inside that paper boat She smiled and they ran around the trees Their feet trampling over the red, yellow and orange leaves that had fallen on the ground Made wet by the rain They caught droplets with their tongues They felt alive, with the wind and rain But in her heart, she stood still Wishing and wondering if this moment could be captured in a bottle Never to fade away or pass her by The world around her spoke so loudly But inside, she was silent Nothing had felt quite like that moment No cares in the world, they let the water soak into their clothes They jumped over and over again creating splashes That spread ripples all round them Even the cold air felt warm to her Even his newness felt familiar to her If only the paper boat could stay dry forever If only it hadn’t been soaked by the puddle on which it floated How she longs for another night like that one Where only the joy of being in the presence of one another was enough When embracing the simple things kept them alive and truly living Dripping and dropping It fell. It continued to fall and soak her boat It became flimsy and lost its contour The silence began to fade And she could hear the gentle, subtle bouncing of the rain Creating an ambience, like she had never heard before How silly to think such a moment could last forever The laughter ceased, and they walked back in silence With only the faint rush of the night’s tears hitting the pavement to fill their ears And the rain continued to fill the paper boat, until it no longer floated, but simply laid on the water.
Sometimes we write stories with a simple pencil. We write and we write and sometimes the lead gets dull, but during those times we always have a way of sharpening the point to enable us to continue. Then there comes time when the story begins to not make much sense or we mess up here or there, and we begin to erase. Sooner or later, we find ourselves erasing a whole sentence, a whole paragraph until we end up staring at a blank page. And though we feel like the page is wiped clean, we still see those pink eraser marks and we can still see the slight indentation where our stories once existed. But I suppose that’s why we chose to write with a pencil to begin with, because we weren’t quite sure what to write, or we knew that this wouldn’t be the final draft. We anticipated the need for an eraser.
Then there are other times when we type out our stories. We get to feel each key being pushed down as we type and type away our letters to form beautiful stories. Typing makes everything appear unified and beautiful. Everyone can read it just fine and we don’t have to worry about our penmanship, or lack there of. It’s more convenient and a lot quicker. If we mess up, we can simply push backspace. We can double-check our spelling and grammar with the standards. Although our story has a put-together look, sometimes it’s hard to know who the author is or what he was really feeling because all of the lines were perfectly straight and the letters uniform. And during those crucial times when we’ve read the story over and over looking for some personalization, only to find that the alias is too strong to read past, we find it empty. We begin to find typos and run-on sentences and instead of backspacing, we highlight the whole thing and we press delete. In an instance, everything is gone. If we get inspired enough, we may undo our typing. But the undoing is only so temporary. There comes a point when undo is no longer an option. It is then that we realize we’re left with a blank document and our only other choice is to exit and delete the entire file.
I’ve written a story with a pen. I can’t delete it. I can’t erase it. I chose ink so that my story could bleed into the paper and become one with it. At the point of contact, I wanted my story to spill into the very fibers of my paper. Mess-ups were not to be encouraged. It made me think about what I wanted to write, before I wrote it. And if something in that nature so happened, at best, I could put a line through my mistakes. They would still be visible for me to see what had been written, in hopes to not make the same error in the next line. I wanted my pen to flow and glide my story along. But, I found myself at the end of the page. As I scanned my work I realized I had more crossed-out words than I had anticipated. I could white it out, but that would leave an empty space, it would break the flow. I could crumble my paper and toss it in the wastebasket, but no, my story is too precious to start over. Besides, I chose ink with an intention of it lasting. So I can’t erase, and I can’t delete. My only other choice is to let the ink settle in and fade with time. For however long my story chooses to tell itself, it will remain visible. When ages have past, I may find my story written to the very bottom, still in its entirety with cross-outs and all, faded into the page until it is no longer a story at all.
