Fictional.

Maybe our stories are all fictional. Maybe our reason is bred in the stars while we sleep. And for those who don't sleep, their reason is bred in their own minds, a zen and a high and confusion and reason means nothing. And for those who sleep too much, their reason is clouded and vague. But then, most of us do sleep too much. What days can we find if we reach into the depths of our subconscious! What memories will be uncovered, what lost sweater or favorite shirt or childhood crush? What fuel must be burned in order to use this part of our minds where the secrets of the world are stored? And why can't we focus enough to find it? I wonder why we don't see the importance in such small things as steam from a coffee cup or the squeaking of sneakers on a hardwood floor, or that noise that crystal glasses make when you rub the rim. The feeling of skin against skin. The beauty of crows' feet and cursive writing. Colored yarn and weaving and the fibers in a shirt sleeve. Wax crayons and watercolor paint. Paper. Spider webs. Tired eyes and colored eyes and blind eyes. Freckles and papercuts and silverware and cavities. I wonder why we don't take care of our hands. I wonder why our jealousy is so subtle and yet so apparent and so much of our time is taken up by money and money and money and work and politics and power. I wonder why we find it so hard to just kick off our shoes and praise God every once in awhile. I wonder why we can't be comfortable naked and why we think everyone has to be the same. Don't you agree that everyone wants everyone to agree with them? I hope you do. I wonder why  everyone wants to be loved and no one is brave enough to ask. I wonder why no one remembers how to forgive. Why fine art hates pop art and why I love them both. I wonder how one can just get so used to pain that they stop noticing it's even there. How something can be such a huge part of you one day and be completely meaningless the next. How someone can lie to you for so long that you finally start lying to yourself. How you can see so much good in a person and then have it all taken away until you can't even remember why you loved them in the first place. What wonders we contain within ourselves that we will never know of! What a sad, hopeless thought that it will never be found. We will never be found. We are stranded. Personality-wise, I think we could all use some fine tuning. I feel strange and nauseous and slightly tired... perhaps a small hint of longing thrown in there... and I can't quite grasp the concept of time. I spend my weekdays looking forward to weekends, spend my Septembers looking forward to Octobers. I spent age 16 looking forward to age 17, and now that I'm there, of course I'm looking forward to 18. And I know for a fact that once I'm 18, I'll be looking forward to 21, so I'll be out of school and get married or something, and then what? I can't possibly just say okay, I'm satisfied with what I have. I'll always want more. Yes, I will fill those Trevor-shaped holes with Trevor, children-shaped holes with children, and music-shaped holes with music. But I can't fill my God-shaped holes with any of those things, and I can't seem to find time out of my "busy schedule" to attempt to fill them. The key to my puzzle is time managament, or perhaps thoughtfulness, or maybe just self-discipline. I read the Word and sometimes it doesn't speak to me. I think I just need to listen harder or listen for a longer period of time. Get the other stuff out of my ears and just listen in general. Am I selfish? Is wanting to build your relationship with God a selfish thing? Logically, it is. But regardless of all the people that are in need of care, shouldn't you care for your own soul, as well? Can one broken soul fix another? Can they mend each other as dirty hands can clean one another? Sometimes I'm too full of questions to even find one to ask. What happened to love? Why isn't it the most important thing anymore? God is love and love is real! God is first, and therefore so is love. Right?