For real—isn’t there a decaf cutoff @Starbucks? Just curious. I went in at 9.56pm right before close and ordered a vanilla latte, assuming it would be decaf. I’ll admit, even as a Washingtonian by birth, my Seattle coffee snobbery isn’t quite as advanced as others, and I can’t tell the difference between decaf and regular.
That latte plus 2 cups of diet pepsi/coke (same diff y’all!) is kind of a caffeine clustercuss (gracias “Fantastic Mr. Fox” for the pseudo curse) and still has me up doing nothing at 2.36am.
What a dangerous time to be alive. 2.36am. Gloves off. Write what you want, say what you will, dance to your own drum while the world sleeps, perchance to dream.
Wow. That sounded either very meta or very emo—once again my Seattle spidey sense should kick in—but it’s too late to think so philosophically.
Now it’s beyond thought. Beyond care. Simply stream-of-consciousness. I’m pretty sure only me, Jesus, and Fuller will ever read this. What a relief. No one else should have to put up with the ramblings of a late-night junkie. High off caffeine and thoughts that won’t rest.
Thoughts of everything at once. My brain isn’t as awesome as my Mac; my brain is more like Safari. Sometimes I work, sometimes I “encounter a problem” and have to close. I’d like to reopen but chances are I’ll just break again.
Too much going on. Pushing my future away from my conscious thought. Sending homework to the back burner. Running down the upward escalator as it ascends to the real world.
Like treading water. It’s not about getting anywhere. It’s just about staying alive. You gradually let everything go; deciding you don’t need arms/legs/eyes/ears/looks. All that matters is keeping your mouth above water; gasping for air as commitments threaten to drown me.
Gosh 2.36am is a vicious self-pity party. How disappointing. I apologize; and yet who am I apologizing to? Come on self: no one else will ever read this. They’ll see your twee little profile picture and move on to someone with a more awesome tumblrarity. Or whatever it is.
Snow Patrol makes me feel so reflective. Shuffle and Play.
In times like these I move (as usual) to Conan. Who just this last Friday said words that struck me deep in my psyche: “Don’t be cynical. It’s not a good quality. It gets you nowhere.” And…raise my hand. I am a cynic.
Burned too often. Burned by preachers, leaders, friends, boys, girls, family, by myself. Burned into an ashy, cynical, hard heart that is two sizes too small. Promises made/Promises broken by me, by others.
I’m not dead; I’m easy coaxed into belief again. Breathe a dream into these embers and they’ll fight as hard for you as possible. But every time is a little harder. Every time remembers the last little death, the last disappointment. I wonder when it will ever end and remind myself that it probably never will. People (myself included) will be fallible and insecure and dishonest for as long as humanity exists.
I just recently read Erik Mirandette’s book “The Only Road North.” Books like that stick inside your soul. They aren’t a brief airport read or a read-for-fun story. They are questions that stick to your ribs, your lungs, and remind me of questions. Books like this, Nate Self’s “Two Wars,” Marcus Luttrell’s “Lone Survivor,” and the story of those ladies captured in Afghanistan sink deep and take root in me. These are real stories, real people with questions for God. They question God and receive few answers but still hold fast.
Why am I—who have walked through so easy a life—Christianity handed to me, walked like a child hand-in-hand, an intact and loving family—so eager and ready to push away a God who has been nothing but faithful to me? I have such a short memory that I forget him. He comes last in the long list of priorities: eat/sleep/missions/tv/movies/friends/family/twitter/talk/facebook/homework/graduate that I know it breaks his heart. Yet I ignore my bible. Ignore my alarm. Just try to sleep off my questions. Sleep off brokenheartedness.
But it’s 2.36am and I can’t sleep.
I’m afraid to post this. Despite my claim that only I will ever see this post I recall my last big burn and remember the last time I was so openly honest. Honest with wounds carried deep inside. I remember. I remember 7 people telling me how much it was appreciated/necessary/needed because I wasn’t alone in my thoughts. That such a post would help other people too. But when it came down to the line—the person I wished most for approval instead thought I was crazy/confused and my loneliness was a danger to myself and the girls I was a chaplain over.
I remember. And it’s become it’s own hurt, it’s own fear that should be written about. That deserves a post saying “when those in authority trample your dream—FORGET ABOUT THEM.”
2.36am has made me a false William Wallace. The caffeine combo provides me courage I know I wouldn’t have at 2.36pm. How ridiculous Alyssa. How silly Bailey.
Silly. Silly. But honest.
Go to bed. Sleep, perchance to dream. And forget for tonight your questions, your hurts. Physician, heal thyself.