Crave

I went to a retreat about craving God. Right now I want to sleep, but I hope in the near future we can just talk about Him, and, well...other things I want to discuss. Sometimes I wonder who I write this for. Not often.

No one said it would be easy. I said I want to make the road easier, that I want to help with your burden, that I want to protect you hold you...all true. I am convinced of my love, and yours.

I know we tend to find an issue to argue about, and if there isn't one we might just make one of nothing. I say this only partially in jest. I cannot order my thoughts, the music is too loud in my head and the thoughts too fleeting. Hopefully the inportant parts get across; I love you! Hold me close. Ryan Wassenaar

Something written before. Good to visit you, Ryan.

Wet the fingers again. Then, smooth out the cracks. I wonder how often I have done that with the clay I work on in ceramics, and yet, I know I do it not nearly enough. I can mold it, especially at times when it is the moistest. I can bend it, shave it, score and slip it. But I seem to fail to smooth out the rough edges. The seams fall apart under pressure, the slip slipped, I am stumped on how to describe what went wrong with the stamps. With the effort I put in that class, I could be a failing student. Smooth out the cracks in the clay. My skull came out rather awkward-looking. I hid it, or rather made the oddness more natural, by making the colors as incompatible and unnatural as possible. My mug, however, lacked not in the structure, though it was far from perfect. No, it’s fault stemmed in my lack of innovation, the Muses’ silence made an eyesore. The best thing that can be said about it is something I cannot think of right now, so instead, I will say that I hope the color does something to the mug, just like the paints did for Bronchitis the Monkey Skull. I forgot what the Mug was named; it should be something like Mull, or iSore. Actually, I like that one. Its new name is the iSore. Just smooth the cracks.
Running. Fast, slow, tempo, distance. Warm-up, race, interval, sprint, cool-down. Tough class. Today crunches. 45 and started over on the pushups. Trembling. At 25 team stopped. 2 grass loops. No point in distance, if no distance is run. So run. Hurdles warm-up. Coach cut his practice. Complaint of cut. Peer is injured. He went to Coach Guzman and got the day off, but Aseem practiced. And it seems I practiced. I ran. Wrong shorts. Could not jump. Not properly, anyways. Sprint for hits and giggles. Not bad. Not good. Just Running.
In the locker room, I change back into jeans and my black Hawaii t-shirt with the annoying format of a smaller logo in the back than on the front. Tends to make me start to put it on backwards. I waited. Kind of like at the end of fourth period. Then, I was waiting lucratively for surplus exhaustion in my consciousness to usurp in a slow cat nap. I daydreamed into the direction of Ceramics, it was lunch time. With no lunch. And, worse, no appetite for food. Instead, a teenage boy begged to be released in sentimental compliments and earthquakes. Apparently, I need you around…you who should never read this. You eventually existed, but not before a transcending of present and ribbons of the past. It used to be that Ryan, Jonathan, and Andrew were the three amigos, the three musketeers, the Mafia; now, I am not a single crazy. Jon has lost his athan. And rew the day opera was born. =>Emma the self-proclaimed twin interrupted the scream contest I entered in the seventh grade to tell me existence is not bicameral. A shamble, that. But, the ipod that I am listening to, mine, switched to relaxing Margaritaville. Perhaps the junctions between or of my life are the channels of the Rian Islands. Who knows, less, who believes? I suck at insomnia, I keep keeping myself from fearing the sleep and drifting to remote seclusion of eyelids and esculent opportunities on the Dreamland Express. I wonder what Esculent Means. A book, or perhaps a song. That which, or perhaps which that fulfills, satisfies, replenishes, invigorates, and resolves my spirit.
So, a soul mate, as whole great but, asshole sates nothing. Interesting. Perhaps too strong for me. I prefer seductive pricks, they tend to burn without cause while cuts are flaws without concern. Subtleties are immaculate to the carnation. Depth is density without concern of capacity. I slid my foot incautiously in and down my left-foot-flip-flop, resulting in a left-hurt-skin-flap on the ring toe of what is left. Well, it was left as well. Compared to a wing of a claybirdbox, it is unfinished.
So perhaps reflection is what gleams of significance. Then, God can mock our mocking of reality at his pleasure in his awe-some plans.
Paulina.
No single emotion drives this writing. Don’t get me right, no good reason, single or otherwise, drives me either. I am underwhelmed with the success of my life, and the occasional inundating roller coasters, which are of course rescheduled on account of fires.

The Inside Conflict

To be divided inside. That is my opening statement. Between saying what is on my mind, even if in my reflection on A PART of a peer's post, I write close to 1/3 more than they wrote! ... or saying the expected and minimum comment, get my grade, be as timid/friendly/neutral as possible in a basically bogus bulwark to protect my grade, but in no serious way help my peers in their writing, or at least not attempt to. see, choice A, the obvious choice to me, has a few draw backs: for one, it takes more energey. It also sets a higher standard for future posts, but that could be negative or positive. But the most worrisome aspect is that whether I do end up helping fellow students or alienating myself, it can be bad for me. Helping other's in their writing is beneficial for the community of student's good, a lofty and virtuous goal, if my grade was not tested against their's. But alienating myself turns myself away from the possibility of their aid, the very aid I am debating giving. Further, my grade depends at least partially on group work. What am I to do if no one would work with me, or worse, would not work cohesively with me?
On the other hand, if I do the very least possible to get a grade in a class, I will be tempted to do less, will have a harder time under the pressure of more difficult work, and be less interested with the subject matter (or matters) of the class, which in itself matters. Even the most tepid subject, under the right circumstance and with the right light, can become at the least interesting and on another level might even be vital. Therefore, with various voices voiced, and some speeches suppresed, I am agreed with myself that I made the right choice. Go Me!