a few brilliant specks; a few sweet dots

[accionpoetica24]

http://accionpoetica24.tumblr.com/

[mypsychology]

You see a child play, and it is so close to seeing an artist paint, for in play a child says things without uttering a word. You can see how he solves his problems. You can also see what’s wrong. Young children, especially, have enormous creativity, and whatever’s in them rises to the surface in free play.

Erik Erikson (via psych-facts)

[littleheartlings]

update: more cool thing.

so, i found this as well. and this is a Langauge Style Matching (LSM) scanner. What is does is it scans two sides of a dialogue (Im, email, or simply two texts from two people) 

it looks at basically the same criteria that its brother LIWC (langauge word count and inquiry) does and it tells you how closely matched the two texts are.

it says that the average for friends is about .75-.95.

which can just mean how close your friend is paying attention to what you’re saying, or something along those lines.

I found this as immensely interesting as I found the first.

love love love

people, your words COUNT. and your mind is more naked than you think.

[tinythoughtlings]

the thing about romantics

There is romanticism, which is the looking so deeply at the details; romanticizing things is, in a sense, holding up this wonderful delusion that things as they seem now may stay that way for a substantial amount of time. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there is realism. Realism is the looking at the bigger picture of everything that is going on- it looks not closely, but it embeds the minute details quietly. One distinction from realism is that it holds a certain presupposition in itself- which everything as it seems now is in constant flux and only matters in reference to the essence of things that are immutable despite time.

Though romanticism is typically placed in such an ignorant and impractical light, it has a unique ability in its perspective to view things at the most distinct and minute level. Romanticism offer a relief, when juxtaposed with excessive realism, from the burgeoning thoughts of what will truly become of the beautiful things all around; romanticism has the ability to forget the inevitable flux that drags us into being grinded into the void of utter meaninglessness. Though it may be looked down upon for not always looking things dead in the eye, it has the hope to look past things and their prospective and unstoppable change, to stop and cast wonder at the beauty of how things are at the moment.

Romanticism, as it is criticized for, can look too closely at the details and forget to implement the big picture. Realism can look at things in a far less clouded respect; the constant change that is occurring is constantly being viewed through the realist lens, this awareness may result in being able to oversee the constant change and see where everything is going.

On the spectrum of seeing things far too up close, or with the awareness of change, a blend of both ideas would be the prospective result of a qualified philosophical lens. The most beneficial blend of both ideas would include being able to see things with the peaceful forgetfulness of the flux, as well as being able to enable the thoughts of the bigger pictures and where the projections seem to lead. 

we should always remember the pink lens, we just shouldn’t forget about it hanging out in the back burner- then it will simply burn up. 

[littleheartlings]

don't apologize for who you are

yes it is true

that we shouldn’t apologize for who we are or anything.

but it is also true that we should remember a few important truths:

the first is that we are not bodies, we are souls. we do not always treat are bodies perfectly, and they have come

already- some of them- with their own maladies, in contempt of us. 

these maladies interfere with the good that we have tried to contrive, in some ways, as well as clouding some of the best parts of our soul. 

we forget, i forget, that some of the most awful parts of us are not even really us- they are filthy smudges that have gotten there from one way or another; there are splashes on our windshields that keep us from seeing out as clearly as possible- but the splashes, though they are on us, are not necessarily us. 

and just think, another lovely truth being one of my favorites, is that one day we will have all these splashes be washed off our windshield- and if we are lucky it will be in this life.

you see, there is a God, and he the great cleaner. because he not only steadfast and constant about his love or cleaning, but he is absolute about it: though he could just as easily absolve the whole of you in him, he absolves the muck in him- if we let him. 

and he goes so deep and so far, until it gets painful and we get to the parts where we make faces, like children with cuts being washed with lye soap. and we say ‘no, stop, you don’t understand how painful this is!’ and we make quite a fuss pushing him away so that we might be spared some pain. and if we do, it is an awfully Pyrrhic victory, in that we will continue to have distresses in one form or another for the rest of our lives. 

C.S. Lewis pulls readers into a fantastic illustration where a boy has been turned into a dragon, and this boy has had his fun being a dragon and now desperately wants to be a boy again. so the old man helps him, by simply taking off his dragon skin- so strange! eventually he has to get deeper and deeper in the layers of skin, and the boy is almost crying from the pain. But then, even after so many layers have been penetrated, an incredible thing has happened: the dragon is once again a boy. after so much pain and shedding of layers, he is finally restored. 

and many times, even when we are willing to grow, it is a a quite painful process- but unlike the story, ours never completes. it wears out the day we die, because as fallible human beings full of anger and bitterness and jealousy and envy and all sorts of pitiful things.and though some of these things really are parts of our Natural soul, many of them are products of a thing called biology and another thing called the environment we live in. 

and, if we let the process run its course, we become like the boy- eased through pain to our smaller and cleaner and softer state; the softer state is unnatural, but natural to our soul, and the place where it is from.

if any of you have ever had something deep inside that you have been not sure what to quell it with, and have not been able to, this is a clear result that we have been mislead from our home country.

i have, on some night, been drunk on books and food and drink and thoughts and shifty characters and high thrills, and gone home at the end of the night, or at some point and found myself waiting, still. And waiting for what, I don’t know. waiting, still, for something that will have made my night ‘worth it’, or ‘wholly satisfying’. so i tried to fix that by reading more books, going more places, eating more food, and feeling this feeling in even more profound ways- so unsatisfying and deeply unsettling. 

so now that it has been established that there is something in us tied to somewhere else, like a tiny beacon constantly pointed homeward bound, we must address this and try and listen to the tiny tones that sing where it belongs. this would be some of the most help in the curing of our terrible and constant distresses. understanding this, is absolutely key. we cannot relinquish our distresses, and more significantly attribute them to the parts of us that our the least parts of us, this gives us a foothold for accepting the awful are-not’s that compose the intricate cracks within our day. so there is some sort of peace in all these facts: that we are not completely awful of our own accord, that these awful qualities may be removed on our own accord, and that the aching responsible for some of the terrible parts is a shining remnant reminding us that some part of us was taken from something bigger, and we are from someplace else. 

so we should not apologize for who we are, but we ought to give ourselves the chance to brave the stinging layers just enough to see which ‘parts of us’ ought really to be labeled as ‘parts of us’. so we should, then, rightly apologize for the awful parts of us born of our own volition, the parts we can certainly help- and simply try to dissolve the parts we can do nothing about in the stringent known as good, also as growing- or a combination of the two.

and this good, the really incredible good that fix even the muckiest parts of us- it is also important to note- does not come from us. kintsukuroi is a japanese word for something that has been broken then consequently repaired with gold; we are are a broken plate, still, though we are fixed. and just as the muck that found it’s way on our windshield is not us, so the gold between our cracks holding us together is not truly us, but something greater (of course you need something greater than the broken thing to fix the broken thing). 

so who are we, and we do wish to become, are important questions to think about as well as:  do we want to be gold and glistening? do we want the muck gone? do we want to be better?

[tinythoughtlings]

My written lips

The pen might be mightier than the sword, but the mouth is sometimes louder; sometimes in even our courage, we are heroic cowards. We discard the idea of jumbling and fumbling through our twisted thoughts, because they have little been untangled. But sometimes the raw and awkward is exactly what we need, exactly what everyone else needs to see. We get enough make up and written scripts and built homes and people on screens on screens from lenses, but where are our eyes? And what happened the last time we legitimately looked something in the eye? Perhaps the world needs to all this feel this raw and awkward sense of being- maybe we will drag it into the muddy ground, and we will all live there. Until then, keep coughing up words on words and hoping to pull the right one out- like reaching in your bag blindly searching for the Chapstick for ten minutes- and you will find them. Oh valiant words, oh words, I believe they will find us all. Words, they are beautiful and strong and take you home and know what song you need to hear when you are gone and gone. They don’t deserve your pity or half eaten explanations- they don’t deserve company sought out in loneliness. They deserve reverence and how are you and deliberately and opening the passenger door. Sorry if they come out wrong sometimes, but they are the same ones from way back when and sometimes they get confused. They have been through a lot. They have been on your mothers tongue when she sat in the rain once, and that time you scraped your knee. They have unburied themselves from your garden- last winter, when your dog and that car and- they have walked all the way back from Oregon. And the funny thing is that I’ve never heard them utter the phrase ‘homesick’. They miss nothing- though they’ve seen so much that could use missing. They, in every syllable and high pitched inflection, through the hums that break the silence- they are their own home. And maybe sometimes- like when shimmery brown eyes are staring down at you- you feel like maybe they owe you something, that they are not living up to some unspoken agreement. But you forget that nobody owns them, and they owe no one anything. They swell like the tide, at times, and rush around inside of you. They race, like a drum- in other times-, and urge you to go and do it. Sometimes, they lean on you and pet your hair the way your mother would and remind that the world is still here for one more day, and that you are a part of it. They remind you that even the willow trees hush their tears at night, and that scientists have still not found a cure for all the cruelty. This is the greatest unsolved mystery. Sometimes, though you won’t quite know what I mean until you’re older, they listen. They say what you have been trying to say your whole life in so many different ways, and with that powerful syntax that envelops them- they stop, and listen. Though our whole existence imparts meaning on the keep going and never shut up and what should I say, they stop- they give meaning and glow and golden to the hush and tell me about it. And they show you things in the interstitial sound between the syntax and your own heartbeat. They teach you how to wonder and remind you to dream, and they never stop, o pervasive words. They chase you until their feet bleed. They run on nothing but the recycled breath that looms forever in our atmosphere- the unwanted breaths, from words we never said and silences that shook us. They live and move and wake us, and teach us how to dream awake. They are the tension that makes stopping difficult, o enduring words. These friends of mine, they turn the sounds of millions of hearts shattering into music and remind us of the symphonies. They play music, and it swells. There is nothing more lovely.

[tinythoughtlings]

the language of the flowers

there are

(inside of the eyes that you have looked through and with and)

upside flowers that sometimes forget to 

flip themselves up 

the right way and only take in the colors that they understand

sometimes 

and sometimes they turn things right side up 

and leave the rest to my imagination/

here i am 

placated and 

dominated by

the language of the flowers and people tell me 

that I think the way i do because of the seeds i was born with in 

my head 

and i will only hear blue and see blue and 

plant blue

because i was planted blue/

and maybe there are blue seeds

that have been scattered into mind-pots

and sometimes people spend their whole life 

thinking they were born with yellow seeds and use their

mind power

and spray paint 

and try to be yellow and make yellow flowers-

but only come up blue/

because maybe they grew up in a garden that

once saw a yellow flower make someone sick- 

(because it wasn’t meant to be eaten)

and yellow yellow yellow stigma eaten swallowed

and wrong

so you paint yourself 

colors/

and grew up thinking some colors

can be right and some are wrong- 

like keys on a piano, 

you can’t be wrong if you just try to sing along/

plant your flowers and 

don’t snip them

paint them

taint them

the seed is beauty and cannot be tainted 

broken/

can you dig so deep inside a flower

that you can cause it to be a cloud?

or a leaf?/

we dig deep and leave it not broken

but in pieces, 

as only a recompense

for our doubt that these floral beasts 

are the evidently beautiful invaders of our mind

(though they were born here)

and have struggled winters and famines and droughts

but here they are, and still making more

and breathing through filthy paint spats/

these pieces serve only to show

that we have something that we can rip 

apart with our hands

something we can still grab and hold onto

something real and 

damn 

these hands are shaking from trying so hard to hold on to 

these wisps of vacant thoughts

of burnt endeavors and 

liquid ventures/

may we hold up our seeded fragments and

bless our broken hands

that they may have something 

to break, to hold, to feel

to remind us that we are not only alive

but we have reason (a colored petalled reason) 

to live//

[littleheartlings]

the city doesn't sleep anymore

and in a city there are people

and they have conversations

but many of them may think:

i want someone to say

‘yeah you’re cool, you’re whatever’

i want someone to not spend that much time on me

i want someone to put plenty of things before me

i want someone to spend their days in class thinking about

what the teacher is saying

i want someone to shower and not forget that they’ve shampooed already

i want someone to drive by a place we went and

completely forget

i want someone to ask to borrow something from me because they want 

to borrow the thing

i want someone who has a million things on their mind

i want someone who meets me twenty-five minutes late because time got away from them

i want someone totally distracted

by other things

and not me

i don’t anyone’s mind poring over my actions or sub-actions

or about what i’m thinking or doing or why

or who i could be with

i don’t want to be the center of anyone’s world

i want to be the thought that flashes by quickly and runs away

i want people to forget i was at that party

i want to hear what people have to say in the purest form, objective and

untainted with implications of their audience

i want people to explore things and run away and breathe

and tell me stories that aren’t about me or with me

i want to hear different colors and taste different smells

i want to know the you that has no me

the empiric

but mostly 

 i love being on the back burner, silently watching the world float on

i love hearing leaves and whispered arguments

because as hard as some people may seem, we

are only scared of being plundered again- without warning 

without consent

we are scared of the faces of our city as the walls are broken into

silently, politely

because we are just now putting back the pieces

and can’t imagine doing it again

we are a city of cowards

we’re afraid

that any moment

that we sleep with our eyes open

with a knife beneath our pillows

so keep looking past us when you talk

because it keeps us feeling safe that our walls

are just where they need to be

[littleheartlings]

the home song

you think you’re leaving

but you see that nothing passes you by

and the clouds up high 

have taken quite greatly to the gray and the delays

we’re goinggoingoinggoing; always going

but where are we leaving to 

and where have we come from

and why are our eyes weary-

no sleep and we have seen the blacks of 

beneath our eyelids for weeks at a time

and the inside of too many vehicles and buildings

that are not

and we wait and carry something with us

and we hold these pictures in our hearts

of a was and of a hope to be

and of a thing called destination

and we have lost so much of this so long ago

covered in dust, covered in storms

and there are flames that keep licking up 

the darkness in these caverns

and we get held few times 

and each time we shudder and look

away

because these arms and these

are not are not are not

and we look into where are my footsteps going

because they may creak and shuffle but never whisper the word

and we look back and see this trail we leave behind

of nothing; of something; dear god, what is it

so we are forced to look up at the stars with the sounding

reminder- the only thing staring back at us- 

that we are already in the only place we have ever been

we are travelling vessels; forever nomads

you look forever for this thing, 

so strange, when we carry it on our backs

and for all the ‘LOST’ signs, with pictures of nothing

and the maps, of novelty, sold as a joke

because you can never not be, 

and you will always be-

it cannot be lost, 

only forgotten:

home, ah

[tinythoughtlings]

what you mumble in the morning

i’m in love with the uneven and not quite and the unfinished

i’m in love with your unfinished outfit, before you finish getting ready

and the smiles of uneasiness in less than kosher company

i’m in love with the words you don’t say when you’ve been given every opportunity

and the handshakes that turn into hugs that turn into your best friends

and the late nights that we fill with burnt thoughts of half-lived expectations

i’m in love with the spinning stars and the anxious thoughts that never get carried out because 

your legs find a better direction to walk in 

i’m in love with overanalyzed microthoughts 

i’m in love with the tension that is so barely visible in the twitches in your mouth that come between fast words and gilted smiles

i’m in love with sleepy morning eyes that veil so much but speak volumes

i’m in love with refrains and abstains and don’t and nots and the whole because of

and the fast walking of so much something and something and fire in eyes that flame but remember

damn remembrance

it is the fault of all the wars inside your hands, because it speaks to the tiny phoenix inside you

it remembers the phoenix in her and him and them and there was war and where 

and so you put your fire in a lamp and make a way 

and it unsettles you to be waking up to the damp cold dark dark dark 

i love the uneven and unfinished, 

there is something so attractive about the unassuming and unmeaning to and i just thought

something so lovely about the i can’t quite put my finger on it and still seeking to understand

and the way the sunlight has bruised your face with humiliation on some all too expected mornings

and i love the way you can just 

[tinythoughtlings]

My written lips

The pen might be mightier than the sword, but the mouth is sometimes louder; sometimes in even our courage, we are heroic cowards. We discard the idea of jumbling and fumbling through our twisted thoughts, because they have little been untangled. But sometimes the raw and awkward is exactly what we need, exactly what everyone else needs to see. We get enough make up and written scripts and built homes and people on screens on screens from lenses, but where are our eyes? And what happened the last time we legitimately looked something in the eye? Perhaps the world needs to all this feel this raw and awkward sense of being- maybe we will drag it into the muddy ground, and we will all live there. Until then, keep coughing up words on words and hoping to pull the right one out- like reaching in your bag blindly searching for the Chapstick for ten minutes- and you will find them. Oh valiant words, oh words, I believe they will find us all. Words, they are beautiful and strong and take you home and know what song you need to hear when you are gone and gone. They don’t deserve your pity or half eaten explanations- they don’t deserve company sought out in loneliness. They deserve reverence and how are you and deliberately and opening the passenger door. Sorry if they come out wrong sometimes, but they are the same ones from way back when and sometimes they get confused. They have been through a lot. They have been on your mothers tongue when she sat in the rain once, and that time you scraped your knee. They have unburied themselves from your garden- last winter, when your dog and that car and- they have walked all the way back from Oregon. And the funny thing is that I’ve never heard them utter the phrase ‘homesick’. They miss nothing- though they’ve seen so much that could use missing. They, in every syllable and high pitched inflection, through the hums that break the silence- they are their own home. And maybe sometimes- like when shimmery brown eyes are staring down at you- you feel like maybe they owe you something, that they are not living up to some unspoken agreement. But you forget that nobody owns them, and they owe no one anything. They swell like the tide, at times, and rush around inside of you. They race, like a drum- in other times-, and urge you to go and do it. Sometimes, they lean on you and pet your hair the way your mother would and remind that the world is still here for one more day, and that you are a part of it. They remind you that even the willow trees hush their tears at night, and that scientists have still not found a cure for all the cruelty. This is the greatest unsolved mystery. Sometimes, though you won’t quite know what I mean until you’re older, they listen. They say what you have been trying to say your whole life in so many different ways, and with that powerful syntax that envelops them- they stop, and listen. Though our whole existence imparts meaning on the keep going and never shut up and what should I say, they stop- they give meaning and glow and golden to the hush and tell me about it. And they show you things in the interstitial sound between the syntax and your own heartbeat. They teach you how to wonder and remind you to dream, and they never stop, o pervasive words. They chase you until their feet bleed. They run on nothing but the recycled breath that looms forever in our atmosphere- the unwanted breaths, from words we never said and silences that shook us. They live and move and wake us, and teach us how to dream awake. They are the tension that makes stopping difficult, o enduring words. These friends of mine, they turn the sounds of millions of hearts shattering into music and remind us of the symphonies. They play music, and it swells. There is nothing more lovely.

[littleheartlings]

When we mistake the dark for chocolate

i need that that going going must can’t stop because the heart beats too fast and it’s too big to contain so many and wow can you turn down the sun because i’m already feeling so bright and the no walls deep warmth of soft kittens and lilacs in a bouquet on your mom’s kitchen table that you got for her in a big smiles and we have the same hands, well it’s cause of blood, kind of way and i need that wait a second one last thing before you go because it would bug you if you didn’t and the haha because this made me think of you because I do and often and the of glow morning with screaming eyes, that coffee hushes with the and puppy kisses and the go to the mechanic with me and pistachio pudding and blueberry pancakes kind of way, in a hey and chocolate cake and armbands and glasses and red bikes of a there are no black sheep here kind of way with purple heart stamps and open arms that can be far, but never too, and wake up and the always of go with me go with me and never fall too apart because of the arms made of glue and tape and the always fix of the smile with the teeth of bunnies and legos and remember when he killed that snake? and remember when we got lost and that time when they forgot us because and you wanted to play video games and heavy circles under the you looked at me and because of words on pages that you ate in your sleep and thoughts of things and booklights in the late and wow pristine beaches with bests of eyes that were all too bright with wow sunrises on no sleep and we have this purpose of keep going and feet that were going somewhere and remember the big hugs of somethings and hearts that went into something that were going somewhere i need that hugs like prayers to the something in the sky from all the heavy and the is anyone looking and and and and the never stop rumble of the keep going and not enough and too much and wow and does it ever and always with the why, but shut it out, because it’s what we do and the can’t sleep can’t sleep, with the dark things in so find a way find a way and sleep comes but remember? don’t remember but i’m awake now, i’m awake and time to go time to come home time for and hey guys let’s and with and come and okay and here we are always for you always ready with the puppy dog kisses and warm like pistachio pudding and early morning- too early- of come with me to and how is grandma and how are you and pour you a cup of warmth of coffee of i love you of whatever you need and it gets tired old fast quick wrong backwards but blood blood we can’t never no dig it out because of the unfailing of the something that keeps us going circulation or energy or and we all want need the warmth of the glow mornings with no sleep and next week will be better because we forget forget forget that the sun is always right above us//

[tinythoughtlings]

Thoughts on "crazy" people

The things that separate me from the sociopaths and killers and the crazed drug addicts Really just slight things And I think most people can be on the fence to being these kind of people Like: What do you do when you’re really angry Or angry at someone Or when you don’t get what you want What makes you really angry? Or when you become obsessed with something What have you become obsessed with? What gives you big thrills? What do you do about your impulses? Do you really just want the perfect something? What things do you want to be the most perfect? What drives you? Like driving motivations for big things? Do these desire for thrills take you out of your comfort zone or to places you’ve never gone?

Sociopaths- they Harvest things and don’t know the Truth, and that’s why they not only hold on to things, but they form their own truths about them. They become solidified in these truths and act upon them. It is as if they are solemnly following their own made up religion. Though they seem numb, they truly have the deepest feelings about things, which is why they have gone to such great extents- making drastic truths, following them out, and consciously numbing themselves. These people are usually very confident in their actions and go to great lengths to see their visions actualized, in an endless attempt for perfection.

Addicts- they are usually devoid of deeper pleasure and find things that give little pleasures and make their truth here that these things are where pleasure comes from. Instead of might is right, they believe pleasure is right. This is not necessarily bad. They become consumed and obsessed with finding the very essence of things, until they have absorbed all they can. They also are frontier men and go where a lot of other people aren’t willing to go. When they find deeper goodness in things they can more appropriately pour into themselves and absorb good things; these are amazing people when this happens. They are obsessed with goodness, but have only a cloudy definition to begin with- hence drug addicts. But then they may become addicted to a true and whole good. When they find something that not only gives them immense pleasure, but something that heals them and makes them whole as well- something that doesn’t numb them and that they don’t need to numb themselves from in shame. They become amazing when they dig into something that doesn’t kill them, but makes them stronger- makes them whole.

Conjoined, addicts and sociopaths both have this innate desire- it would seem- to strive towards perfection. Though the sociopath strives for external perfection of their vision, and the addict strives for internal goodness from pleasure, they both silently acknowledge this disturbing truth in us that perfection is a real thing. It’s as if we’ve all been cut off in a cliff hanger though and we all seek to know who to look to and how to find this evasive divinity. Notice how both of them seek death; a sociopath may seek to kill his fellow men in a way that is the most perfect representation of what he saw in his head. The sociopath would greatly benefit from being introduced to art- to express your emotions- to turn something raging and ugly inside to something beautiful externally. The addict seeks to kill himself with greater and greater pleasure that the body cannot contain. He would greatly benefit from just about anything else, as there are so many things that can bring us pleasure. The thing about the addicts though is that they want continuous and deep pleasure. They would benefit from a fulfilling project, from pouring their lives out, from daily hugs- which send oxytocin to our brains and physiologically make us happy. But not even art and projects can make us truly happy, not infinitely. We need more. Forgive me for using the unsaid slogan of America. But we can feel it in every bone of us. We need something more here. You can feel this when you leave a conversation with someone you thought you were close with, or after a heavy night of partying. You can feel it after you poured your soul out on the page and only feel emptier, or after having nothing left from trying to please everyone. But where can we find more? Does this mean we’re actually living all wrong and we are truly made for more? Perhaps. Maybe we all desire a kind of life that blends art- relieving the garbage in our soul each day- and projects and moves constantly and deeper into something. Maybe we all need a reason to get up in the morning and to not kill people around us- to not kill ourselves with drugs. Does that even exist? We have a thing called ‘thirst’, and then what? Also a thing called water. We have a thing called hunger, and also a thing called home. But so many of us have this thing beating in our chests and it beats dissatisfaction with so much of mediocrity and lack of soul and purpose in everything, could be that we are thirsty for a thing that does indeed exist? Everywhere I turn I can only come to this conclusion. In Romans 1, john explains for us. It is these invisible attributes, we can feel God all around us. And do we believe it? Do we answer him? It’s too good to be true, so we shut down the thought and walk away. We want more and more and so much- and when did wanting a reason to live become needy and outrageous? But it is now. When we are younger, our fathers or mother told us not to touch the stove. But why? We’d say. Because we will burn ourselves and it will hurt. Or maybe you were like me and ended up playing with your brother and accidentally setting your hand on fire. It was painful. What did the pain tell me? Get this fire off me! Do something! This is not good! And maybe we have this pain, this discomfort, because he is saying Do something! Get this fire off- this fire that is eating us alive- this fire of purposeless tasks we are making our lives about and drugs that we die for. Maybe we were not made to live in pain. Just maybe.

[tinythoughtlings]

It takes a lot of strength to be Little. To speak up about your little loves, Because you know you need to understand how to protect the little ones when they talk about their little loves.

[tinythoughtlings]

Find the Good thing and hold it tight.

[tinythoughtlings]

I was just watching the very last Harry Potter movie and was moved at the scene where Harry has the elder wand in his hand, after the death of Voldemort. He's explaining to his friends that he is now the rightful owner, since he overruled the last owner. They are deciding what to do with the wand- since it is the most powerful wand in existence. Harry breaks it in half, and tosses it over the bridge. He almost cries, and his friends embrace him. This scene was reminiscent of Jesus being offered the world- the power- by Satan, and later refusing; Jesus had been ordained co-authority with God. Though this scene illustrated an emotional depth unseen in the bible. In the scene you see Harry's face fighting back tears, as if to say: this power is no good, and will not bring back the people we have lost, it will not mend the holes in our hearts. Why go to the very thing that caused the damage? Harry seems to almost vengefully toss it off. Jesus had probably been in the same manner towards Satan, as he did have human emotions. Jesus probably rejected the power with a vivid forefront in his mind of the souls who also thirsted for the false power, and what it had done to them. He probably rejected that power with a love so deep, for the goodness- the love- that goes far deeper than a power. As Harry tells Voldemort in the fifth book: You will never know love or friendship! And surely, he doesn't. He is made of hate and lies, feeding this and false power to those living in fear, blinding their own faith to the love so powerful that it stopped death- to Harry and to Jesus. And right when Voldemort arrogantly announces that "Harry is dead!", Neville bravely goes to the front to announce that it doesn't matter, because he is in their hearts. And they choose to live in that honor than to abase themselves and all they've lived for, for the fear that it has stopped mattering. Neville said, "it still matters!" And because he believes so, it does.

[officialiwrotethisforyou]