Not like us...

He really wishes there was a movie of his life. Or like a short miniseries he could turn on when he wanted to know what was coming. Even if it meant he'd know the ending, at least he'd know what to do next. But there aren't movies for boys like him. Growing up he could never find himself in the Hollywood endings or music montages. He wasn't giving speeches at prom, or racing to the airport. He grew up watching movies for other boys, learning from the wrong playbook. Stealing notes from someone else's paper. Maybe that's his problem.

I need some help...

This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise. I am not yet what I shall be, but I am growing toward it. I need more time, and more patience, because the process is not yet finished. So many moving parts, always in motion, being arranged and rearranged and built up and shot down, and repaired and destroyed again. It's going on, this is not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified. Somethings is coming. 

Birds of a feather...

I want you to stay,

until I'm in the grave,

until I rot away, dead and buried,

until I'm in the casket you carry,

if you go, I'm going too.

One thing at a time...

What's done is done. What's gone is gone. One of life's lessons is always moving on. It's okay to look back to see how far you've come, but keep moving forward. The journey to your dreams and your greatest self will bring you down thousands of times, and this will be the very sign that you are on the right path. Getting started is the easy part. The difficult part is the struggle to keep going when you are not motivated. Get back up because it takes commitment, discipline, and sacrifice to get to where you are trying to go.

Karr shut his eyes. His heart pounding, he sat floating in the darkness behind his eyelids, resolutely trying not to think of his losses. But the face of failure appeared against the blank screen of his closed eyelids anyway - not smiling at him but looking sidelong, and he could see the scar at failure's temple, the uneven curl at the corner of the mouth, and the silver line on the throat. A bright light lit his vision to scarlet, and he fell back against the grass, wondering if he was going to pass out - or maybe he was dying - but he didn't want to die, not now, not yet. He needed to be jolted out of it. So he kept repeating in his mind, hoping to spring himself awake. Karr. Karr. Karr! Open your eyes.

Won't let the sun go down on me...

Already lost the game...

I call foul...

Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray. And the browns gone gray. And yellow. A terrible amber. In the cold streets, his warm body laid out for everyone to mock and pity. In whatever room his warm body, on display for everyone to see as a warning. Among all the people, his absence rings over any semblance of dignity that might be left. The people who are always there, except him, now with a washed away soul. He has been easy with trees for far too long. Too familiar with mountains. Joy has been a habit. Now, suddenly, this rain.

Like cold ice tea and warmer weather...

I know sleep is friends with death,

but maybe I should get some rest,

because I've been out here working all damn day.

Blueberries and butterflies,

the pretty things that greet my eyes,

when you call and I say, I'm on my way.

Please spare me the time...

I sit and ponder my existence: how I'm here, what put me in these thoughts, these feelings, birthed from a timeless sleep, what it felt like, or rather the lack thereof, to not have been and now to be. And suddenly, I realize how absurd I am to exist. I then wonder why the supernatural, the thought of other beings, of the universe, must be distinctly absurd - by which I am no longer sure. Perhaps it is true that in a wandering head such as mine, one full of wonders and fantasy, the natural becomes supernatural and the supernatural becomes within sight of discovery and explanation, just as the return home after a life-long journey feels, for a moment, because of all the weight of new experiences, foreign and utterly lonely. 

On a highway to never...

Do it for the plot...

This voyage of ours is lonely, 

the more so if we find a companion, 

only to suffer the bitterest loss. 

In truth we are alone.

The suspense: the fearful, acute suspense of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, seems to be going in a disastrous direction; the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety to be doing something to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections of endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, help us, help the one we love most?

One more time for all the good times...

When things aren't black and white...

This song has started now,

and you're just finding out,

now isn't that a laugh?

A major sacrifice,

but clueless at the time.

Enter, Karr,

just trust me, you'll be fine.

Carrying the weight of the rift...

I am a believer in the power of endless action and reaction. You know those beautifully rounded pebbles which you gather on the sand and hold in your hand and marvel at their exceeding smoothness? They were chiseled into their varied and graceful forms by the ceaseless action of countless waves. Of a consistent set of giving and taking a way. By workers who never tolerate, without certain rebuke, any contradiction to their wise example. That's why my current inaction is so frightening. For I know that inaction is followed by stagnation. Stagnation is followed by pestilence and pestilence is followed by death.

After the daily grind...

For a fortnight there...

I recognise my surroundings. I'm at the pivotal moment in any story, where I have to actively silence my inner voice. Where I have to push back on my deep rooted fear of failure and embarrassment, and just endure. Then even if I'm stopped in my tracks, even if I'm cast out and my dreams are shattered, at least I won't be full or bitterness and resentment. At least that's how it's supposed to work, right? But is there really any difference in quitting or being told no? At least if you quit, you get to say it was your own choice. Being rejected has a finality to it. The death of ego. And maybe I just want to hold on to it a little longer.