My Musings

Normally, any entry here would be analytical and thought-provoking (I hope), but I'm in too melancholy a mood for that sort of writing. The only thing that feels satisfying is to fill some sort of emptiness - the emptiness of this page - with meaning. To give intelligence to the void is creation, and creation gives worth to self. But what to fill it with... what intelligence will be the substance? Should I detail all the thoughts and feelings of my heart, of late? Probably not; that would be inappropriate for this somewhat public place. Perhaps the happenings of my first week of school here at BYU Idaho... but I don't feel like writing of events; I never do. Events are cold. The workings of the heart are the true story of any event. I hardly have the skills to make events and the heart of one reality. Then why am I writing? Maybe it's that void thing. Or maybe writing makes me feel like my life is significant. I think we all seek validation in some form from time

accept restless pride genly joining me sense yields stubbornly fleeting love beckon days away

"It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors." Oscar Wilde said it. The art is nothing until it is translated into thought. The significance of the art has its roots in the spectator, and not in the surrounding world or in the art itself. We go through life with the supposition that reality is concrete, that it exists wholly independently as it's true self. The brick, the mortar, that makes up the wall of a home is simply a piece of fired clay stuck to other fired clay by some sand and cement. That is the impersonal reality of it. But is not reality - or what we know of it - just simply the general conclusions which we come to through observation? It is the spectator that gives identity or perspective to existence. Some persons may see the mentioned brick in different ways. One man says it is a brick, nothing more; but another man, an architect perhaps, comprehends the vital purpose that the particular brick - and every other brick - fulfils in the struc

You'll wait for nothing time crossed the reward end cloud and rain longest drought done tonight

Faintly scented breeze sways trees entraptured eyes hidden below shadowed forms pressed together lovers bearing light within

dark sadness ending heavy current reminds renew desire you opened come visit friend Memories

yellow morning inching slowly biting cloudless tears pledged desire ends all comfort waiting wary days

see where last you parted offered strength by night smile tomorrow weep yesterday you're slowly I miss you quickly end my tears with you

common aching quickly yesterday's lonely hands changed as found you talked and night felt parted gone daybreak filled of you

Still awake for nothing and anything. Sight seems beyond touch of the moon. Elsewhere stars break the clouds' strife.

Why is the life too short? Well, maybe it's not. Maybe the things in life are too long. The pain of holding grudges and rending friendships is too long. Lying to yourself and others takes too long to fix. Chasing your nightmare because it's "right" wastes way too much time. The inaction that fear produces takes too long to overcome. So life isn't too short; it's plenty long, but so are the stupid things we waste our time on.