Once again.

It's been a while since I last posted. Unfortunately I haven't gotten any smarter, so these posts will continue to sound as they have hopefully sounded: like me.

A lot has happened and frankly, this blog doesn't yet deserve the expulsion of my feelings regarding said events. That doesn't mean I won't soon write about these things molding me, it just simply means I cannot write the words that are summed to my emotions.

That being said, there are a few things that I have realized that I can now address without reducing myself to emotional mush.

The idea of passion has been racking my mind lately. As a very spectacle-driven society we often encounter passion that is so misguidedly placed. What I have seen is that the importance of our passion is derived from where we place it in.

It's essentially the concept of the boy who cried wolf: when we weep, moan, and die for every moment we are given, no one pays mind when our lives have been truly shaken.

I work with someone who takes passion to everything he does. (Isn't strange that even though I have just proven the insincerity of flippant passion I still somehow sense value towards "placing passion in everything you do?") Any question must be answered with a stomp and a yell; any confrontation must be met with indignation.

How do I know that he means it?

Women are often blamed for this offense but there can be no doubt men are guilty as well. I'm not too badly ashamed to admit that every showing of "My Dog Skip" brings me to tears. Obviously there is nothing wrong with shedding a tear for an adorable puppy that has grown old, but I feel that the concept is expressed.

There are times when we are saddened, and then there are times when we are sad. I think that once we begin to bring emotions upon ourselves we lose touch with what our heart is. I feel that sadness must be just taken, absorbed and suffered. Those times that we utilize sadness however, are going to do nothing but harm.

This passion I started talking about is something that ties directly into the sadness we feel.

When you must weep, you must weep.

When you hurt, you must hurt.

When you do not need to do these things, refrain for the sake of the times that you have no other option.

I am sometimes, terrified.

When I was a child, I had a knack for finding problems that needed my solution. Not only was I the go-to for advice from my advice, I also had strong solutions for the Middle-East crisis as well as the problems in Darfur. I may have been 15, but I knew exactly what had to be done. If only people would have listened.

Thankfully they did not.

Despite my tenacious outlook towards problems in the world during my youth I find myself in old age slipping into apathy towards those problems I once felt so passionately towards. Darfur is still a tragedy. Palestine and Israel now baffle me. From the education I have gained in the last two years, I have successfully learned how all of my plans will not fly.

Sometimes I worry that I will eventually become one of those adults defined by temporary things (work, money, projects, etc.) who simply toil for the nothings that have become so important to them.

I know that since I care enough to write about this topic, there is a pretty good chance I won't be plagued with this ailment. But there is still is that fear, right here in between my sternum and spine. It's like a creature I feel I feed every time I make a concession.

It tells me things like, it's time to be successful, set the groundwork for a life with salaries.

But then again, it may not be a terrible creature, C.S. Lewis says "the longest way 'round is the shortest way home," so maybe I'm just taking the trip. What if this trip leads to a corner office and not to the in-field aid station that I had dreamed would be real, once I was educated. I may be destined to be one of the suited warriors, carrying the cause of equality and justice in our briefcases to board meetings.

Both of these are possibilities and I am choosing to sit and be silent as the Father of all Heavenly Lights to weave my future from His Dreams.

Life’s points to let you know it still happens

I am currently taking a course on English literature from 1920 to 1940-something. To be honest, I don't really care what year it goes up to, I'm just glad that it's my final literature course. The "modern" era, as what we are studying is referred as, is the most miserable of all literature. Every class calls my heart to be broken over things that do not happen. My relationships are called into doubt. Reds and blues become grey and mauve. Fruitless seems to be the only adjective available after WWI. The same plot of the sun rises to noon roasts our barren flesh and then drops into terrible night has really worn me out, quite on purpose.

Right now, we're discussing "Endgame" it's some awful play about an old guy (who apparently was a lord, or king), his depressed servant, blah, blah, blah. It's supposed to be incredibly important because the play actually involves the audience. Admittedly, the play does seem to dismantle the concepts of theatre, allowing the unnatural state to be absorbed until the audience is supposed to be absorbed by the audience. It's apparently supposed to be artificial, I know, but the persistent theme of destitution is something that just does not make sense.

Repetition is one of its main points! The depravity that life may sometimes slip into is to be perceived as what makes sense. Barren destroyed lives are all that are examined. Age becomes a paralyzed man that has become dependant upon a servant who has lost any sort of future goals. This knight has lost his regality and now simply totes a catheter for his master to use. No longer does he seek the valor that had defined him, but now works towards order.

Granted, this work addresses the long standing ideas that those born into power are those that deserve power. It also addresses the "crony-mentality" that had defined so many influential Englishmen. It may call us to find a purpose beyond our perception, but further, it draws a life defined by service into a mockery. A blinded king can be defined as those that follow the then weakened church, his servant the broken congregant. This is the relationship in the play. These "friends" are nothing like the friends we are drawn to. What is the truth then described by this "classic"? We are alone. At the root of it all, we are by ourselves.

My dad is sick. Terminally ill is how the medical community describes it. When I was ten we moved away from the friends he had had since he was young. The other day he got a package from his brother, who lives near those friends.

They had organized a dance to honor him and charged $20 for people to get in. They did some raffles and other things in order to raise more money on top of that. Almost 200 people showed up to honor my father, an everyday man with three kids, a wife, and six grandchildren. Four of the friends are flying down

to deliver the money,

to sit and be silent,

to finally say goodbye.

As long as we are human,

as long as we are breathing

we are never alone.