Being a self-proclaimed English brat…I love this.
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, and invincible summer.
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in a room. There were no distinguishing features in this room save the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read “Girls I Have Liked”. I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.
And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn’t match.
A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named “Friends” was next to one marked “Friends I Have Betrayed”.
The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. “Books I Have Read”, “Lies I Have Told”, “Comfort I Have Given”, “Jokes I Have Laughed At”. Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: “Things I’ve Yelled at My Brothers.” Others I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Done in My Anger”, “Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents”. I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked “Songs I Have Listened To”, I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked “Lustful Thoughts”, I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.
An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: “No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!” In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title —- “People I Have Shared the Gospel With”. The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.
But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn’t bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?
Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn’t anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn’t say a word. He just cried with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.
“No!” I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was “No, no,” as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine.
It was written with His blood.
He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, “It is finished.”
I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
WARNING: This note is not and will never be known for it’s grammatical correctedness nor it’s evenly flowing poetic sound.
I have a friend named Tanner.
He’s really kewl it’s true.
The only thing that he is not,
Is amazing like a Jew.
His hair blows swiftly in the wind.
And his smile is astounding.
It’s kinda funny I’m writing this
Cause from over my shoulder he’s hounding.
He doesn’t use nearly enough whip cream
When he works with me.
So if your frap is servirely lacking,
just know it was not from my slacking.
(uhhh to be cont. when creativity begins to flow 😛 )
Perhaps you were not listening
As I screamed “I love you”
With my eyes
Perhaps you were not listening
to every “I hate you”
In my Good-byes
Perhaps you were not listening
Or maybe I just forgot say aloud
How more than anything in life
I just want to make you proud
Perhaps you were not listening
That is something I cannot change
There are times I wish I was as emotionless as Emily the Strange.
I wish that no one in the world had the capability of breaking my heart, but without that capability who would I love?
—Sarah Kaylan (Sorry if this sounds totally depressed I’m really not like that lol)
I have an issue and it’s come to my attention that this could be an common problem among…well, humanity. I was exhaugsted all day, but once it hit about 2pm I become completely fine. Why must this happen? It’s just a never ending cycle of insanity!
Step 1: Become extremely tired.
Step 2: Get approximately 4 1/2 hrs of sleep.
Step 3: Drive sluggishly to school.
Step 4: Complete work with 110% more effort than originally needed.
Step 5: Rejoice when the bell rings.
Step 6: Come home to realize you’re completely allert.
Step 7: Go to a dance class or fulfill some other sort of activity requirement to become even more exhaugsted.
Step 8: Crash in bed way later than originally intended.
I published this poem before, but I just recently edited and added onto it. Hope you find some meaning in it because it’s packed full of meaning for me.
Subway stations are curious places.
They showcase people from all walks of life.
The trains found in them take people everywhere or anywhere they so choose.
My limited experience proves that to me.
I have seen many people get on the subway.
They all head in different and wonderful directions.
Yet sometimes those directions are selfishly depressing, from my view.
You would think I would be used to seeing them leave,
And being left alone on a once cold metal seat.
I…I am still sitting on the bench beside the subway.
I have been for what seems like forever.
As you can see…I can be a little indecisive.
I have searched the trains maps over may times.
I absolutely must make a decision soon.
I can not continue to live off of the hot dog stand set up by the ticket booth.
And I can not bare to listen to the guitar player in the corner pretend he can sing any longer.
But I must know where I am called to go first.
Or at least I assume I need a plan.
I mean, even just the next place to stay the night would be acceptable to me.
I finally think I have found an option, a place to lay my head.
I may not stay there forever, but I think it’s the right place.
But first, I must stand up.
I have to let people know, by my position, that I am leaving.
Then in an act that seems so easy to some…
I must take a step onto the subway.
I have no experience actually on a subway.
My lack of knowledge scares me.
Although, what could possibly be worse than watching another leave?
Once I step onto that car I wonder,
Will I get knocked down by the sheer force?
I have seen those cars race off.
Nevertheless, I persist, and step on.
Last year for New Years my family was secluded in a chalet in the gorgeous mountains. At first I wasn’t happy about that fact, but I was appreciative of the time it gave me to think about the past year, and on the year coming up. I’ve never been one for “New Years resolutions,” but last year I told myself I was going to use 2010 to gain knowledge, and a heck of a lot of it. Well, it’s Christmas Eve now, and my question is, have I honestly learned that much? I guess that’s a question you can’t look up in the back of the text book. It’s hard to get an answer to it. I mean, you could argue that my grades have been good, but that wasn’t the goal was it? I know plenty of kids who do really well in school, but don’t retain the information. I know as many of those kids probably as the kids who are extremely intelligent, but are the laziest beings I’ve even seen in my life. I receivedrewards for Earth Science, Biology 1, Digital Communications, and perfect attendance at the end of my 10thgrade year. This year I’ve enjoy my English III Honors class probably more than any other class I’ve ever had. I have to credit Mrs. Czechowski with that. Some people have even said I’ve become a little bit of an English brat. I would agree with them. I also began learned Spanish in school this year. I’m not exactly used to learning a foreign language this quickly so sometimes the class can be difficult, but I love it. Spanish is worth my time. I wish I had taken some sort of a test so that I could truly tell if I’ve accomplished my goal completely. I think I made a decent effort. Maybe in 2011 I’ll make an effort that should be recorded for future inspiration. If hunger is the best pickle, just like Franklin said, then I want to be the seed in need of watering for as many teachers who are willing to ramble as possible.