Tag: meaning


Am I done yet? Have I completed the tasks I came to Earth to do?

Sometimes it feels as if I’m spinning my wheels. Just taking up space.

Digital collage


Just when I think

Just when I think I have it, I find that I don’t. I probably never will.

Waiting for magic to happen is the worst thing you can do, because while you’re waiting, magic is springing up all around you. You have to allow yourself to see it. Ask for it.

Is this a dark time in history? Or, is there more light shining on who and what we are.

Magic is in birdsong. Listen all you can.

A Live Journal Post from ’06

Bruck wall and hand illustration. 
Oct. 2nd, 2006 at 11:11 PM

I wish that my life could be fiction.

I wish that all of it was made up because this reality is hard.

This reality is wonderful and I embrace it.

But it’s so difficult and so absurd.

All meaningful things are actually meaningless

and all that is nothing

is everything.

I pressed my hand against a brick wall today to test its solidity.

I was hoping to push right through but I couldn’t prove it wasn’t there.

I saw structures made of steel and glass and brick reaching toward a blue sky.

It all seemed real.

If it is.

Then, why?

Words or line or color

I just read this. It made me wish I were a better writer.

Let’s think for a moment about that statement. When I say I want to be a better writer, what do I mean? Do I want to be better than the guy who wrote this?
Of course not. He's trying hard. He wants to succeed. I don't want to step on any toes. I'm not likely to do so if I keep using cliches like that.

Using this language of mine to convey meaning
I try and use language to convey meaning
I give meaning to myself when I use this tool called language.

I know it isn't possible, but I'd like stay quiet. I'd like to stop using words for an entire day–no speaking or thinking in words.

To communicate with colors and lines, sounds and movements, to be only energy_________


Like a big stack of books

Friday came again, as I figured it would. I got through another work week, doing the things I usually do. My ongoing project went on. I went to bed each night. I got up each morning. I did the same things, with the same people, in the same places. This is life.

How is it that we humans have gone on for so long enduring this cycle of sameness? Did our ancestors, who had to struggle every day just to survive, appreciate uneventful days more than we do? I feel as if my spirit is struggling to survive this physical existence, readying itself to move on to that next realm. Truthfully, I really don’t know for sure that I have a spirit. I’ve been told that I do, and I prefer to believe it is so.

Something about this gray, drizzly day is pulling me to introspection. When I peer inside myself I see all of the plans I’ve made this week stacked up like a pile of books. The pile is high, and the book I want is at the very top. I can’t get to it without a ladder. I don’t have a ladder. I could start with a book lower on the pile, but if I try to grab it, the whole stack will come tumbling down. I’ll be in the middle of a mess that only I can clean. Should I forget about the whole thing and just sit quietly in the corner? That would certainly be easier. I could sit quietly and try not to think about being a writer, eating healthier, exercising more, making art.

I could sit quietly in a corner and not think at all, if I lived alone, if nobody loved me, if I loved no one. But that’s not the case. I think I have to get up on that ladder, or topple the stack. I have to get on with bringing some color to this gray life of mine. That’s just the way it has to be.