Snippets

I have not been updating this. I blame it on a new influx of diaries and notebooks that have inexplicably entered my life. All that blank paper, I cannot stand seeing it empty. They scream to be written upon.

Anyway, here's some snippets.

Today I went to church, for the first time in a while, hesitant, reluctant to once again have to struggle between being CHRISTIAN-METHODIST and being human. The sermon ended, the song started playing, and the Pastor went up, speaking in a deep, tragic voice, laden with sorrow. Laced with despair.

"We live in a broken world."

And yet, I find myself thinking... "What's so wrong about that?"

You see, to me, We live in a broken world, one that God let break, on purpose. No, I am not condemning the actions of God, and even if I was, I have no right, for He is God and I am Man. But I understand perfectly why God let the world break. God created a story.

Shakespeare could have let Romeo and Juliet live in the end, let one wake up just moments before the death of the other. Orpheus could have not looked back. Orwell could have destroyed his society with the strength of human spirit. Lennie and George could have lived on a farm with alfafa.

Sometimes, when you create a story, it leaves your grasp. Sure, you can pull it back, shape it as you wish, but in doing so, you lose something. Maybe it's the storyteller in me that says this, but... If God did not let the world break, then there would be no story.

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Today, this -

Me: "Tis but the cycle of life, the strong eat the weak. Then get turned into handbags by tool-using bipedal mammals."

AL: "I swear you're a social darwinist at heart."

Me: "How can I be a social darwinist? There's no place in the food chain for artists."

AL: "I'm sure there is... somewhere near the tramps."

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I finally reread The Little Prince recently, now being able to fully appreciate its beauty. Damn, its beautiful.In 78 simple pages, with badly drawn illustrations and spartan vocabulary, a strange french pilot who was no critically acclaimed literary deity did what Tolstoy in was unable to accomplish in 1450 pages, that is to bring me to the point of tears.

"It is the time that you have wasted for your rose, that makes your rose so important."

"I am responsible for my rose."

"And no grown up would ever understand that this is a matter of such importance."