My Musings

In the dark years of adolescence, sunshine was not necessarily a preferred form of weather for me. The clouds were much more suitable to my moods, and they made me feel calm. But as I grow older, maturity changes my outlook. Old age brings many mental changes, such as a sober mind not enjoyed in the years of youth, feelings more poignant than before, and a greater desire to obtain the things in life that last the longest. In my case, a change in my favorite weather is what my "old age" has brought me. Not that I don't still enjoy the occasional rainy day excuse to stay inside, but I now enjoy the sunshine. It makes me happy.

I applied for a job today online. After the part of the application that asks for your personal information such as your address and work history, there came the part of the application that asks for your very personal information. I like to call it the psychological evaluation portion of the application process. This is the part where they give you a series of logic problems to make sure that you're not a dummy, and then the interrogation follows. "How do you feel about things you've done in the past?" "choose which word of the group best describes you." "Which statement best suits your personality?" That's the basic sense of what they ask, except it takes about 20 minutes to get through the whole thing. In the end, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and cleared my sinuses. The little internet application therapy session had ended. It's completion heralded a plastic change in the physical makeup of my brain, a revolution within. T...

Whenever I read my old blog entries, they seem to be somewhat ridiculous to me. My tendency toward over-analysis becomes tedious and rarely makes perfect sense. But as I consider this little problem, I realize that the over-analysis in my blog is simply a manifestation of what occurs normally in my own mind. I think most people can relate to what I am saying. At one point or another, we all think too much about something. We play a scenario over and over again in our thoughts. Whatever the issue is, it is never resolved, and somehow, we ourselves become the greatest enemy to progress and the resolution of the issue at hand. What is to be done?

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