So...what does practice make...?

Recently, my aunt and uncle came to visit.  My uncle has been a psychiatrist for upwards of 20 years, and, eventually, the conversation drifted toward--what else?--Myers-Briggs personality types.  A few moments after discovering that I am an INFJ, my uncle posed a question to me.  "So," he began with a fleeting smile, "I'm sure you don't succumb to one of the INFJ's greatest weaknesses: obsessive perfectionism.  Or do you...?"

I can't remember exactly how I responded, but I'm sure it went something like this: laugh, shrug, give a brief (and ambivalent) reply, and wait for the moment to pass.  And it did.

A few days later, though, I was discussing my writing with someone.  When I apologized for not having any completed pieces of work to share, I received the following response: "No, that's okay!  I know for you that 'completed' is often synonymous with 'perfect.'"

Hmmm...I'm beginning to see a bit of a trend here...

I guess--for better or for worse--I've always been somewhat of a perfectionist.  I can assure you that before I post this blog entry, I will proofread it at least once to weed out any grammatical errors/stylistic issues (Also, I just spent the past 30 seconds looking up the word "proofread" to ensure that it is, in fact, one word and not two...  Uh oh.  Perhaps this is problem is more serious than I had thought...).  I guess that's why I enjoy editing things for people...

With my writing in general, I tend to sit and ponder the best possible sentence structure, and I will often read sentences aloud (but only when I'm alone...if...that makes it any less...deranged...) to determine if they flow smoothly enough.  I frequently reread my writing and change certain words and phrases...only to change them back again moments later.  For this reason, I rarely read over my writing once I've dubbed it "finished"...because, inevitably, I'll be dissatisfied, and I'll want to rewrite everything...

Similarly, I have a sketchbook of drawings that I'll never finish.  Typically, I draw until a certain point, and, then, I find that I can't continue...because I just want to go back and "fix" certain details over and over...and over...and over again.  And where's the fun in that?  Artistic things can easily become a chore for me...because I can so rarely make them "just right."  And if I do force myself to finish them, I can almost guarantee that I'll always regard them with a hint of disappointment: "Ugh.  Look at all the flaws..."

Well, now that I've shared with you a few of my more disgusting tendencies, let me say that this latent (or...perhaps...overt) perfectionism isn't always a bad thing.  It certainly gives me that extra push when I'm working on something (especially when it's sometime around 4 a.m.)--that unrelenting drive to avoid just giving up and saying, "Who cares?  I guess that's good enough."  And, hey, if I ever do manage to meet my unbelievably high standards for my work, I can tell you right now that that is an amazing feeling!

At its core, this obsessive perfectionism probably isn't the best thing in the world...but I know that there's at least some part of me that enjoys it.  There's just something fulfilling (oddly enough) about having an unattainable goal...and knowing that I won't let myself rest until I've at least come close to it.  (So...maybe it's sort of a masochistic, obsessive perfectionism...but that's another issue for another day, I think.)  I mean, if I really hated being a perfectionist, I'm sure I could change it (or...at least that's what I'll tell myself for now).

So, I guess this is the point in the blog entry where I make some sort of resolution to dispell a small portion of this issue.  I mean, I suppose I could start by promising that I won't go back and proofread this blog entry...at the very least!  But, then again, we all know that that just wouldn't be true.

Hello, my name is Andrew Hart, and I'm a perfectionist.

Twilight

Well, I really wasn't sure if I would ever find myself back on this website, typing my thoughts into this little, white text box. I can't say I'm certain, even now, what drew me back here... I think maybe it's the idea that blogging allows me to write--to record my thoughts and expend some creativity--without feeling the pressure or the need to actually accomplish anything. I guess it's glorified journaling, really.

Blogging has always presented an interesting dilemma for me, though...because unlike journaling, blogging allows other people to read me thoughts. I'm not simply rambling off things in a little book for the sole purpose of clearing my mind. I'm sharing. I'm opening up a part of myself. And, being the fairly reserved person that I am, that's not always the most appealing idea to me.

So, of course, this becomes a problem. I'm reluctant to make these entries overly personal...but I feel like there's very little point in blogging at all if I'm going to hold back all of my thoughts and feelings about things. So, I constantly find myself at the junction of "this is too personal for me to post online" and "this is so impersonal that it wasn't even worth writing."

I guess the real issue, though, is that I'm so concerned with what I might be revealing about myself in these blog entries that I lose focus on why I'm even writing at all. Instead of using this blog as a means of catharsis, I often find it to be draining because I'm so determined to be insightful and witty without ever actually letting my guard down. So, then, "no pressure" writing quickly transforms into "maximum pressure" writing...and, frankly, that's no fun.

The funny part, though (and I use the word "funny" very loosely here), is that I'm not really sure what I'm so determined to conceal. I can never pinpoint why I've built so many walls or what exactly they're protecting. I mean, I suppose you can chalk it up to my personality traits--I'm an introvert, always and forever--but there's more to it than that. Trust issues? Maybe. But I suppose that's a whole new set of problems for a future entry...

Either way, I'm vowing in this entry that blogging for me will no longer be a struggle. I'm not going to create deadlines for myself, I'm not going to strive for some unattainable degree of insight in each entry, and I'm not going to fret over whether I've said too much...or too little for that matter.

The real reason I bother to write down my thoughts at all--whether it be in a journal or on a website--is just to understand myself better. Maybe there isn't a wonderful transition between each different idea, maybe I'm not saying anything new, and maybe very little of this makes sense--or interests you--at all.

But that's okay.

So, essentially, you've been warned. I don't have any idea what I'll be writing here in the future...or how often I'll even be posting an entry...but I feel much better about it already. And that's what really counts, right?

Was a long and dark December
From the rooftops, I remember
There was snow, white snow.

Clearly, I remember
From the windows, they were watching
While we froze down below.

Hope on a Rope

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

It’s so easy to lose faith in things. If there’s one thing I can say that I’ve learned countless times over the past few years, it’s that things fall apart. Things fall apart when you least expect it and when you’re the most vulnerable. Somehow, I always manage to be surprised when life displays its alarming tendency to prey on any frailty I leave exposed. Then, of course, my natural instinct is to mutely withdraw from everything around me—to detach myself and heal my wounds in private…on my own.

But that’s not the answer, is it? It’s hard for me to see sometimes—especially when my path starts to get rocky—but I’ve realized that I can always, always take joy in God’s love for me and in all of the blessings He has given me.

Sure, sometimes, life sucks beyond the telling of it. That’s the nature of our world: things fall apart. Everything falls apart—except God’s love for us. That’s one thing—in a world of uncertainties and hardships—that will always remain constant.

I’m not trying to sound preachy, so I’m sorry if it’s coming off that way. I’ve just realized how often I fall into the trap of saying, “Well, God, I’m having all of these problems right now, and I just need to deal with everything before I can devote more time to You.” Talk about a skewed perspective.

Recently, I remember stumbling upon this quote: “You don’t drown by falling in the river; you drown by staying there.” Eh, marginally clever at least, don’t you think? So often, I let my problems consume me, and I allow myself to dwell on negative things. I chastise myself for my shortcomings instead of simply recovering—recovering by getting out of “the river.” But come on. Have you ever tried swimming your way out of raging river…full of crocodiles…and…sharks? Okay, well…maybe most rivers don’t have those things…and I suppose I’ve never actually tried that myself…but I assume that it’s probably not up very high on the list of “Most Fun Things to Do.” And it’s probably not very easy, either.

Lately, I’ve realized that the only way to get out—to really be free—is to grab the life preserver (and…the crocodile/shark repellent, I suppose) that God is constantly throwing to me. No matter how hard I try, I’m not going to be able to save myself; without God, I’m going to drown.

Fortunately, though, even when I thrash around in vain and try to rely on myself, God will always be there. In the end, as long as I trust in Him, I’ll be saved.

So, maybe the whole “life preserver” analogy was cheesy or cliché…but that’s alright with me. It keeps me afloat (ha), and that’s really what I need in life.

And, so, yes, I’ve realized that life certainly isn’t the tale of perfection that I often imagine—but, with that said, I know I have so many things for which to be grateful—friends and family, especially. God has given me so many blessings, and, as long as I don’t lose sight of that, things will always be okay. My faith in Him allows me to always trust, always hope, always persevere.

God’s love gives me the strength I need to endure.

Slippery When Wet

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to just feel nothing—not physically (but I think you gathered that already), but emotionally. It’s always seen as such a negative trait: cold, heartless, unfeeling. I’m not saying that any of those things are positive by any means, but, sometimes, I think I just need to be more rational.

In one of my classes, we recently took a “StrengthFinder (2.0!)” test, and one of my strongest traits was empathy. I wasn’t surprised by this, really, but I was a little confused about how they defined the term. They seemed to say that being empathic is merely understanding others’ emotions, but not necessarily feeling them. Empathy implies a certain amount of detachment that I’m not sure I’ve mastered. Apparently, to actually feel the emotions is sympathy. So, perhaps I’m more sympathic than empathic (But, then again, “sympathic” isn’t even a real word…and “sympathetic” just doesn’t seem to create the parallelism I had so fervently desired here. Perhaps that means it’s time to move on…).

When I’m completely honest with myself, I know I never would want to lose my sense of em(sym?)pathy. It’s definitely a large part of who I am, and I can’t imagine life without it. All other things aside, I know my writing would suffer tremendously if I were constantly detached from the world around me. I write best when I’m feeling—good or bad (usually bad, actually). Without these feelings, I imagine my writing would look a little something like this:
Mary was sad, and her tears fell to the ground at a velocity of 2 m/s (Yes, Mary has alarmingly fast tears).

So, at least I can take comfort in that, right? Besides, I highly doubt the above sentence would fit very well in any sort of literature…except maybe a physics book. And even that’s a stretch.

I guess my main problem is that I’m just hurt too easily and too deeply—even by trivial things. I overanalyze, and I punish myself for things that I really can’t control. And, then, the negative feelings just fester until I manage to push them aside (to be kept for later use, no doubt).

One good thing I’ve discovered is that I’ve learned to heal myself quickly. No matter how horrible I feel, I can usually pick myself back up again before too long. Even now, I can feel myself bouncing back…like one of those obnoxious little “whack-a-mole” creatures after you’ve clubbed it over the head 50 times, and it simply refuses to die. Okay…maybe not quite like that.

So, what have we learned today? Hmmm…nothing substantial, it seems. I guess our lesson for today—as evidenced by my little writing sample in the third paragraph—is merely that life is more complicated than physics (Note: This may not be true for “Physics 3”…but I will never know for sure because I will never take such a nightmarish class).
And…that’s a wrap.

A Looking Glass

“My father always used to say, you know…‘mind the gap.’”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s just the distance between life as you dream it...and…life as it is.”

Let me just begin this blog entry by stating that I should not be writing this right now. I woke up this morning with the full intention of reading countless pages of my Spec Mind book…but, hey, I’m already over a week behind on that. What’s one more day, really? Also, I have a French quiz tomorrow…but this is vastly more important than simple French phonetics, I’m sure. Ha.

Alright. Now that I’ve shed my guilt about shirking various responsibilities, I suppose I can truly begin.

I’m certain I’ve written before about optimism and pessimism, along with their corresponding advantages and disadvantages. (If you don’t believe, check the dreaded blog archive…or, worse yet, wander over to my old MySpace blog.) I’m also certain I never came to a firm conclusion on the matter. Is it best to be boundlessly optimistic and risk disillusionment from a harsh reality, or should we exhibit a guarded pessimism, giving reality a chance to outshine our initial expectations? It’s a matter of personal preference, I suppose…but, recently, I’ve given the subject a little more thought.

As you might recall from previous entries (and also from actually knowing me on a personal level), I’m an optimist at heart. Oftentimes, I display a certain amount of cynicism on the outside, but, inwardly, I expect the best in every situation. I’m an idealist through and through.

For example, I completed an internship in the public relations department at Light of Life Rescue Mission this past summer. When school let out in mid-May, I had a very distinct vision of my job: I would spend the summer using my writing skills to benefit the organization, and I would constantly be busy with new assignments—creating brochures, taking pictures, interviewing clients, writing press releases—which would make the time pass very quickly. I would truly be helping people, and my overall experience would be extremely rewarding.

Poor, naïve Andrew. My experience was…not that…at all. Not only was I very rarely “busy,” but to say that the time passed slowly would be like saying that a gunshot to the face “stings a little.” Not exactly what I envisioned, needless to say.

Now, before I go on a rant about how Light of Life stocks “rotating knife machines” in their kitchen (No lie; I took inventory for about a week, and I found many horrifying contraptions), let me try to make my point. Certainly, my experience was nothing like I had expected; I wasn’t running around, creating publications left and right, holding photo shoots, or even interacting with the clients very much. It wasn’t the “dream job” I had imagined from the get-go. In fact, it was rather awful.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I simply drifted into the “this sucks” mindset too quickly. I wonder if my experience was somehow lessened by the fact that my lofty expectations hadn’t been met.

Now, perhaps my internship at LOL (ha) isn’t the best example…but I think you see what I’m trying to say, anyway (unless I’ve been even less coherent than usual). I set expectations all the time—we all do, I’m sure. We expect certain things each day and each night—during classes, when we’re with our friends, and even at meals (but I wouldn’t set your expectations too high if you’re dining in Hicks Cafeteria).

So, we’re back to square one, aren’t we? We set expectations, and we’re disappointed if they aren’t fulfilled. But the problem, really, might not be the expectations themselves. Lately, I’ve been trying to tell myself that—even if everything doesn’t go exactly how I imagined—things are probably just fine. More than fine, actually. Things are probably great, and I just fail to realize it sometimes because I’m so focused on what might have been.

Again, it’s a simple concept, and I’m astonished that it always takes me so long to work these things out. So, maybe I didn’t get the highest grade possible on my exam, and maybe I’m not feeling 100% well, and maybe my day wasn’t quite as magnificent as I dreamt it would be…but things are still—more than likely—pretty great.

So, what’s my conclusion? Things are pretty great. Period.

Thanks. That’s all.

Return to Sender

Downtown, in certain areas of Pittsburgh (and possibly elsewhere, I suspect), there exists a powerful entity, who I have dubbed “the rose man.” I have encountered the rose man on several occasions, and each experience has been a bit more unnerving than the last. Usually, our meetings go a little something like this: I am walking down the street with my sister, and the rose man materializes a few feet away, clutching an armful of roses.

“A pretty flower for a pretty lady? It’s free,” he croons, beckoning me to take one of his precious roses to give to my sister.

Typically, at this point, I notice the sinister glint in his eye and simply decline his cunning offer. It’s much safer this way; however, on one fateful occasion, I decided to accept his “gift.” I mean, it was a free ROSE, people. I’m sure my sister was just dying to have one. And, really, what harm could it do? (Ha. I was once a fool.) Squealing with glee (well…perhaps not squealing, per se…but you get the point), the rose man placed a bright red rose in my hand and told me how beautiful my sister was and how she deserved an equally beautiful rose (of course, by now, my sister--being the more intelligent of the Hart children--had already ducked into a nearby bookstore). I’m fairly certain that I chuckled nervously at this point and started to move in the opposite direction, mumbling my thanks, when he placed an arm around my shoulder.

“Now, how about donating some money to _________ organization?” he rasped in my ear. Sadly, upon hearing that I was, in fact, a poor college student who had no cash, he plucked the rose out of my hands, snarling something about how nothing’s really free and how, if my sister really meant a lot to me, I would have coughed up some money.

A pleasant experience overall, I’d say.

Now, I didn’t disclose the tale of the rose man merely to warn you never to accept flowers—or candy, for that matter—from strangers (although…come to think of it, that’s probably a decent lesson to learn, as well). I was just pondering the complexities of life (or something similarly vague), and I realized how rarely we give without expecting anything in return.

Please understand; I’m not saying that the world would be a better place if hundreds of rose men peppered the streets, hurling flowers at everyone just for the joy of giving. That…would actually be immensely frightening, I think. But it occurred to me (and I’m sure many of you have already thought about this before) how easy it is to simply give, but how difficult it is to give without receiving any sort of praise or reward in return. I’ll admit that, even while I might believe that I’m giving selflessly, I still often expect some sort of acknowledgement for my efforts—even if it’s just a simple “thank you.” Is that inherently bad? Probably not… I mean, it’s nice to be appreciated, certainly. But that’s not the point of giving.

So, what’s the solution? I’ve often thought about how much better it would be to give anonymously—to do something kind for a friend without letting him or her know that I was even involved in the act. In essence, this would benefit the person just the same, without allowing any unnecessary praise for me…because, really, it’s God who should be glorified for our acts of kindness—not us. And that’s what really needs to shine through in my life, I think.

I guess the whole “giving anonymously” isn’t practical in every situation. I mean, I’m not going to buy a birthday present for someone and then leave it on his or her doorstep, unsigned…encouraging him or her to think that I forgot about his or her (note: I am thoroughly SICK of this singular pronoun agreement...) birthday entirely. Nor would it be possible to, say, help someone with his or her homework anonymously (unless you left a series of post-it notes all over his or her desk, detailing how to complete the assignment…but…somehow, I doubt that that would be very highly appreciated) or hold the door for someone anonymously… Still, it’s a challenging thought—difficult to put into practice. It’s something that I want to work on.

Well, I'm sorry that this post has been bogged down with so many disjointed thoughts...and no real conclusion. I think I’m still getting back into gear with the whole “blog every week” thing. Oh well. Just beware: the next time I hold a door for you, I might flee the scene before you can see me, thus…allowing the door to swing shut…in your face. Giving…anonymously…right? Hmmm…I suppose I need to work out that plan a little better, don’t I?

Anyway, thanks for reading!

Daylight

Lately, I'm alright.

And, lately, I'm not scared...

So, it's been an eternity since my last post. I know. I've been meaning to write something for a while, actually, but I just haven't had anything insightful to say. My thoughts have been muddled lately, and I suppose my writing has suffered as a result.

Anyway, today, I decided that enough was enough. I’ve been throwing around some ideas for a new short story, but I thought that blogging would be a bit easier for now. So, I sat down a little while ago, determined to write a new entry. I wanted to expound upon some deep, psychological issue--something dark, something complex, something different. Nothing came to mind. Longing for some sort of inspiration, I moved into the living room and gazed out the window for a while. I didn’t see anything particularly interesting or thought-provoking, save for a monstrous child in a snowsuit chasing his little brother around the yard. I thought about informing the local authorities, but, soon enough, the kids had disappeared around the back of their house, so I assumed I was too late to prevent any real damage, anyway.

After a few more minutes, I gave up and decided to empty the dishwasher, instead. That’s when everything just kind of clicked. I don’t know how to explain it, really, but perhaps you know what I mean, nonetheless. I was just kind of struck by how good life can be—by how many blessings I have. The timing of this little epiphany didn’t make a whole lot of sense… I mean, it’s not like emptying the dishwasher brought me any sort of great joy or that I saw a particularly shiny dish that brightened my day. Nothing had changed, really, except my outlook.

So, yes, this is going to be another sunny, “don’t get mad, get glad!” (err…that’s something else entirely, isn’t it?) entry. If you’ve had just about enough of those, then I suppose this is where you should stop reading.

It’s not that life isn’t bleak sometimes…or…even most of the time. Perhaps the amount of bad news even greatly surpasses the amount of good. But I’ve noticed just how powerful good things can be—even if (or perhaps especially if) they’re surrounded by the worst problems imaginable.

I’ll insert an unnecessary (and overly simplified) anecdote here to illustrate my point.

Long ago, when I was a child, I went into work with my mom. While she was busying herself with things around the office, I decided to explore the kitchen in the back of the building. I found a number of dirty dishes sitting by the sink, so I thought it would be appropriate to use the ancient, rusted dishwasher in order to tidy things up a bit. So, I loaded it up with dishes, squirted an entire bottle of detergent inside (wait…you mean that’s not what you’re supposed to do?), and pressed “START.” A few minutes passed (the calm before the storm, I suppose), and I was extremely pleased that I had been able to help out around the office. That’s when I heard an eerie rumbling coming from the dishwasher. Seconds later, bubbles began to erupt from all sides of the machine, and the rumbling turned into a sort of guttural shriek as the dishwasher slowly died in front of me. Meanwhile, the bubbles seemed to become sentient creatures that consumed everything in their paths. The kitchen had vanished, and all that remained was a soapy winter wonderland—not exactly what I had envisioned. At this point, my mom rushed into the kitchen (probably to verify for her co-workers whether or not the building was being bombed) and caught a glimpse of my handiwork. I’m fairly certain that she wasn’t pleased, and I’m fairly certain that I was punished; however, as we were cleaning up the soapy mess, my mom smiled at me and said, “Well, the kitchen needed a good cleaning, anyway.” And that’s all I remember. I don’t recall the harsh words or the whippings (kidding!) that undoubtedly followed because that one, little comment was enough to negate any ill feelings I had had.

So, maybe that story just illustrates the fact that I wasn’t the brightest youth in the world…but it’s just amazing to me how powerful something small—a simple smile from a friend or an encouraging e-mail, for example—can be. In the midst of so much darkness, the tiniest bit of joy can turn my entire day around. How incredible is that?

In short, I’ve concluded that my blog entries are becoming increasingly corny…but I don’t really mind. I need to let my inner optimist shine through more often, and I suppose this is a good place to do that. I doubt I’ve said anything that you haven’t heard before or that you haven’t thought of yourself…but, still, I’ve found that it’s nice to be reminded of these things.
So, that’s it, I suppose. Nothing overly complex or deep. I’ve just decided that I’m going to focus on the blessings in my life—even as I blow up dishwashers or clean up cat vomit or deal with the bleakness that life so often throws in our faces—because, at the end of the day, those blessings are what really matter.

Carousels

Isn't it funny how much we let little things bother us?  Oftentimes, we become so caught up in problems that really don't matter.  We worry, and we fret, and, then, eventually, everything works itself out in the end.  Even when things don't go our way, we pick up the pieces, and we move on.

Before I truly begin this post, allow me to divulge a brief anecdote about life when I was five.  I remember waking up early one morning before anyone else was out of bed.  I crept downstairs, undoubtedly clutching my tiger shark stuffed animal (who needs teddy bears, really?) and appreciating the rare tranquility of the household at 7:00 AM.  Rather enjoying my newfound solitude, I pulled a bowl out of the cupboard (a REAL bowl, mind you...not some plastic kiddy bowl) and poured myself some Fruit Loops.  Carefully, I added a bit of milk to the bowl and grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer.  I imagine I was quite pleased with myself at that point...but can you feel the impending disaster, ladies and gentlemen?  Yes, that's right.  As I lifted the bowl from the countertop, I felt it slide away from my fingertips (note: I really don't know how this happened...  I have freakishly bad luck with these types of things.  Just ask me how I broke my hand...except...don't...because it's an embarrassing story.).  Anyway, a veritable explosion of milk, glass, and Fruit Loops shook the entire Hart household that morning...  And with the shattering of that bowl came the shattering of my dreams.  It was the end of the world.  It really was.  I stood there, amazed that the residual splatter of the skim milk had not only soaked me from head to toe, but had also managed to coat the entire back wall of our kitchen.  And, if that wasn't bad enough, I had broken a BOWL.  Back in those days, you didn't break a bowl and live to tell the tale.  In fact, people were killed for much less.  So, tears brimming in my eyes, I began to blot up the soggy mess with some paper towels, awaiting my inevitable doom.  Sure enough, Mom entered the kitchen a few minutes later, and I knew my moment had come.  At the very least, I would be flogged with the wooden spoon (did...your parents ever hit you with a wooden spoon...?  Mine did...and it hurt.  A lot.).  But, then, a funny thing happened.  Mom knelt down beside me and started helping me clean up the mess.  Was this some sort of ploy to catch me off guard...?  Did she have the wooden spoon hidden behind her back?!  Nope.  Turns out breaking a bowl (and spilling a little milk and cereal) wasn't punishable by death after all.

So, I assume by now that you understand my point.  No?  Well, perhaps that's because I've made it wildly unclear.  Really, it's just what I stated in the opening paragraph.  Far too often, I worry about the most trivial things.  Granted, they seem important at the time--so important that I lose my focus on other much more important things.  I just really need to let go of so many problems that have been stressing me out.

More and more, I'm finding that things have a tendency to work themselves out, anyway.  Even when something blows up in my face, I usually realize later that it wasn't that bad in the end.  Even when I'm certain that nothing could be worse, I tend to look back later and wonder why I was so bothered in the first place.  Most of the time, once I finally stop worrying and just forget about my problems, they come to a resolution (note: this does not work well with exams).  It's kind of a strange cycle, really.

So, I've decided that I'm going to stop stressing out over things that I can't control, and I'm just going to be happy.  It bewilders me that it has taken me so long to come to that conclusion....because, really, what else can I do?

So, there you have it.  Today's lesson: don't cry over spilled milk...or...something similarly cliche.  Hey, whatever works, right?

Thanks for reading.

If you ever feel like something's missing
Things you'll never understand
Little white shadows
Sparkle and glisten
Part of a system, a plan.

Smoke Signals

Do you ever get that hollow, sinking feeling?  You know, the feeling that presents itself when you know you're making a huge mistake or going down the wrong path.  You can see all the red flags, you can hear all the alarms, but you just can't seem to resist pressing onward.

It's like a scene from a horror film.  The naive (and rather mindless) character is evading the bloodthirsty serial killer, only to take a reckless turn down a dark alley.  Now, the killer is no where in sight, and our hero(ine) has every opportunity to go back to the well-lit, crowded street behind him or her...  You know he or she must be thinking (if...these characters are capable of such thoughts), Okay...dumb move.  Dimly lit, unpopulated areas of the seedy underworld are NOT good safe havens.  I should head back to civilization...  But they never do.  They scurry down the alley, undoubtedly making all sorts of commotion as they stumble through the darkness.  And then...surprise!  Mr. Chainsaw pops out of a nearby dumpster (how he got there, we will never know), and...  Well, let's just say that chainsaw vs. flesh is not a very fair match-up.  We'll leave it at that.

Okay, now that we've gotten our overblown illustration out of the way, I suppose I can continue my original line of thought.

I make lots of bad decisions--maybe not even decisions really, but a lack thereof.  I can see myself heading down the same foolish path over and over again, and I rarely do anything to prevent it.  It's not that I don't know that I'm doing it, either.  I repeatedly tell myself, Don't do this, Andrew.  This is dumb.  You can see where this is headed, and you know you're going to hate yourself for it later.  But, very much like our ill-fated movie star, I turn away from all things rational, and I wander down that dark alley, fully aware of the agonizing death that awaits me.

So, what's the problem?  Why do I do that to myself time and time again?  For the most part, I think it comes down to apathy.  I know where I'm headed, and I realize that it's going to suck, but I just don't care enough to prevent it.  I allow myself to be hurt because it's easier that way--at least temporarily.

And what of the consequences?  Eh, they're still a few days away...

Now, as is often the case in these blog entries of mine, I've arrived at the point where I've confronted the problem and am in dire need of a solution.  The sad part today is that the solution is simple: care.  Recognize the warning signs and take action.  Save yourself for once.

Everything looks so clear as I'm writing this, and you're probably wondering how this is even a problem.  Essentially, I've told myself, Don't be stupid, Andrew.  That's all.  Unfortunately, I've noticed all too often that, once you've already set foot in the alley, it's easy not to look back.

And I'm not so afraid,
lost at sea,
as I should be...

L'Attente

Dans mes rêves agités,
Je vois cette ville : Colline Silencieuse.
Tu as promis que tu m’y prendrais encore un jour.
Mais tu n’as jamais fait.
Tiens, je suis là, tout seul, maintenant
--dans notre place spéciale—
Et je t’attends.

Nothing Better

Today has been an awful day.  Let's see.  In my free time, I've been exploring the wonders of Gary B. Ferngren's piece of literary genius, Science and Religion--a quality read if you're hoping to delve into the complexities of the Laplacian nebular theory of the solar system or the innumerable cosmologies that were discussed by various 16th-century philosophers.  Of course, for a large majority of the time, I've also been struggling to remain conscious, often plunging face-first into my table at the SAC (if I have a bruise on my forehead tomorrow, that's why), occasionally blurting out incoherent strings of words to those unfortunate enough to be around me.  Right now, I'm shaking from the lingering effects of a Starbucks DoubleShot, knowing full well that when I crash from this caffeine high, I'm going to crash hard.

So, like I said, today has been an awful day.  But when I think about it--when I really think about it--I realize that I don't feel awful at all.

It's hard to describe.  I'm so quick to dwell on the negative, and I worry about things all the time.  I worry about my problems.  I worry about my friends' problems.  I worry about things that aren't even problems yet.  Whenever I have an idle moment, I think about problems that should be fixed--problems that I tend to not even express--because some part of me just can't accept that things might actually going well.  I excavate some deep source of dread from the back of my mind, and I let it consume me.

So...why, then, did I just say that I don't feel awful?  It's not very complicated, actually.  Despite everything I'm thinking--despite every problem that I feel bearing down on me--I know that it's all going to be okay.  I know that everything is going to work out.  And, at the end of the day, I know that I'm truly blessed.  I'm blessed in so many ways that it's overwhelming to me--blessed with family, blessed with the most amazing friends.  When I really sit down and think about it, how could I not be happy?  Even as I write this (and as my Science and Religion textbook leers at me from just a few feet away), it's hard not to smile.  It sounds corny and horribly cliche, but...life is good.

So...careless optimism again?  Maybe.  But it gets me through the day.  

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Quand rien ne bouge...

I watch the patchwork farms'
Slow fade into the ocean's arms.
And from here, they can't see me stare,
The stale taste of recycled air.

Lately, I've come to the realization that I'm bothered when nothing is happening--when things become entirely stagnant.  I'm not talking about boredom, exactly; in fact, I think I'm fairly easily contented.  What I'm talking about is a complete stagnancy in life--a period of time when everything is just at a standstill.

Admittedly, I'm a perfectionist, so I'm always looking for things to improve, whether they be things about myself, things around me, or even problems other people are having.  I don't often feel like things in my life are entirely "settled," and that's okay.  I enjoy having something on which I can focus: something to improve.

So, whenever everything is completely at rest--at peace, even--I really don't know what to do with myself.  I feel lost when I can't satisfy these restless thoughts.  Consequently, I often have a hard time relaxing because I'm always plagued with the thought that something needs to be done.  Something needs to be improved.  I feel lazy if I'm just sitting around while opportunities for improvement are lost.  Very rarely do I actually lie back and rest--and if I do, I'm usually plagued with some degree of guilt--and, as many of you know, I'd sooner gouge out my eyes than take a nap during the day (even when functioning on frighteningly low amounts of sleep).  It's not that I'm this amazingly productive person who can't stop until every bit of work is complete.  I just feel restless.  That's all.

So, is there a solution?  Perhaps.  The solution comes in the form of "mini-projects," for lack of a better term.  Mini-projects encompass all sorts of things--from drawing a picture for someone to writing a note and sticking it in a friend's mailbox.  Mini-projects are things I can do to make other people feel good; plus, doing so simultaneously makes me feel better.  I've discovered that, if I give myself something to attend to--especially if that something involves improving someone else's day--when I really don't need to be attending to anything, I feel a whole lot better.  I feel fulfilled.

Who knew fighting restlessness and improving peoples' lives could be so easy?

Alright, enough rambling for now.  I have a small French composition to complete--something for me to improve, right?!

Ah.  Je voudrais me blesser.  :)

Please Remain Seated

All I see is a beautiful, little town in the midst of magnificent mountains--a place where people have hopes and dreams, even under the hardest conditions.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how latently optimistic I am.  Although it's a trait that I typically veil under sarcasm or cynicism, this optimism flows through my thoughts and ideas, lacing everything with a sort of misguided perfection.  When I envision a future event, I envision it to be flawless, despite the fact that I often voice some degree of negativity to the people around me.  Inwardly, though--and this is something I rarely express--I simply fail to grasp the idea that things might not go the way I've planned.  Some part of me always says, "it will work out in the end."  And it often does...  The problem is that I can't even imagine a less-than-perfect outcome.  I can't imagine it.  And that's what scares me.

Grace paused. And while she did, the clouds scattered and let the moonlight through, and Dogville underwent another of those little changes of light. It was if the light, previously so merciful and faint, finally refused to cover up for the town any longer. Suddenly you could no longer imagine a berry that would appear one day on a gooseberry bush, but only see the thorn that was there right now.

As a result of this intrinsic optimism, it often takes a lot to disillusion me; however, when the disillusionment finally hits, it hits me hard, and I can rarely pick myself back up afterward.  Consequently, I tend to shun things--and people--that have disillusioned me.  If my vacation to Florida wasn't all I hoped it would be, I'll avoid thinking about it entirely--perhaps even disregard the photos that I took during the trip.  If Jane wasn't overly enthusiastic about the gift I gave her, I'll never speak about it again...and I'll probably avoid Jane for the next few days.  In fact, I might even view Jane in a negative light for quite some time.

What's the old adage about time healing all wounds?  Personally, I've never found that to be true.  I dwell on things that bother me, and I never really let them go.  Thanks to my optimisim-disillusionment cycle, I'm constantly disappointed when things don't go quite as well as I've planned (which is usually the case); then, I distract myself with optimism about other future events until I'm inevitably let down again.  It's deranged, really, although I suppose we all do it to a certain extent.

I'm sure I've touched on this before in my various blog posts, but part of me wishes that I were just completely negative all the time.  I wish I would always expect the worst possible outcome.  After all, if someone says they're mad at you, and you expect them to destroy you and slaughter all of your kin, but then they only punch you in the face, you'll probably end up feeling a delightful sense of gratitude, right?  Well...maybe not.  But I think you see my point.

Anyway, it seems that there's no easy solution here.  The optimism feels great while it lasts, and then the disillusionment sucks.  But I guess there's a price to pay for everything, isn't there?

Building Bridges

My thoughts are a bit muddled right now, so pardon me if this post lacks any semblance of logic.  Half the time, I scarcely even know what I'm thinking (or writing, for that matter), so I doubt you'll find any large amount of insight in these blog entries.

With that said, allow me to begin my latest bout of rambling...

Have you ever noticed how powerful anticipation can be?  I'm not talking about mere expectations--certainly not in the negative sense I've displayed in my past few entries, anyway--but more of an eagerness, an excitement.  Anticipation can drive me through the week, giving me that extra bit of energy I need to survive my Science & Religion exam or my Life Science lab or even my extensive French composition (which is what I should be working on right now)!  If I'm anticipating something (something positive, mind you), I always have the strength to push through it all.

Now, this "something positive" doesn't have to be monumental.  It could be as casual as going for a walk with a friend, watching a good TV show, or just taking the time to relax.  I mean, sure, the anticipation is going to be a little stronger if, say, you know you're about to leave for a trip to Europe...but anything works, really.

There were so many times at work over the summer that I just didn't think I was going to make it through the week--so many "I. CAN'T. TAKE. THIS. ANYMORE." moments.  But--despite my frustrations--as long as I had something positive looming, even if it was several weeks away, I was totally fine.  "All I have to do is make it until..." was my motto during those times.  Certainly, anticipation has been my faithful companion through many a bleak moment.

And even better is anticipation during those wonderful, non-bleak moments--just when the anticipation is reaching its peak.  The event itself is about to occur, and I find myself happier than I ever remember being--filled with pure, untainted excitement, devoid of any thoughts of negativity or doubt.  I feel this when I'm waiting to meet a friend somewhere.  I feel it when I'm driving to someone's house to hang out.  I feel it anytime I know something good is about to happen.  It's unbelievable.

Oftentimes, I feel like anticipation can be more energizing than the realization of the event itself--especially for someone like me, who idealizes everything.  I can think of numerous occasions when I built up events so much in my mind that the reality could hardly stand up to my anticipations.  But, again, that's not the point.  The point is that, in those moments of anticipation, in that period of charged excitement, I feel great.  I feel like nothing can go wrong, and, on the off-chance that something does, it really won't matter.  I'm anticipating something amazing.

I guess I'm not exactly uncovering some great secret in this blog entry.  "Hey everyone!  Excitement is GOOD!"  Honestly, I kind of felt like my entries were leaning toward the depressing side of things, and I wanted to gush about something positive for once.  So, I decided to cling to this idea--something that has helped me to cope during all sorts of inner turmoil.

I realize that this may not have been interesting or enjoyable...or worthwhile in any way.  But it really does make me feel better to sort these things out in my head by writing them down...for all the world (i.e. maybe about five people) to see.

In short, this post has helped me to realize that, while I often feel bounded by the past and confused by the present, I would simply do better to look to the future--to the things that I'm anticipating.

Restless Dreams

I'm a mess, I guess.
It's what I've asked for,
it's what I've needed.

Sometimes, I wonder why I bog down my life with so many unattainable goals and expectations.

More and more, I'm realizing that I set a high bar for myself--perhaps too high.  I've created this idealized self-image with certain rules that I must follow at all times.  I know my personality--or at least my idealized personality--and I expect to be able to stay within the boundaries I've established.  Always.  I expect to remain constant, unwavering in the virtues that I hold so high.  And I expect to be able to cope, to be able to sustain myself through any hardships, to be able to press onward, no matter what.  I don't like showing weakness--and I'm not talking about physical or even mental weakness, mind you, but weakness of character.  I'm talking about the weakness that inevitably emerges during times of duress, when we can no longer cope--the kind of weakness that makes people think less of us.  This just doesn't fit in with the reality I've created for myself.  I want to smile, to laugh, to be "fine" at all times.  Not much to ask for, right?

Along the same vein, I idealize many of the people around me, and I set unrealistic expectations for them, as well--expectations that could not possibly be met.  It's funny (that "oh, that's actually kind of sick" type of funny).  I see myself doing this, and I remind myself that I've set my standards too high, but it doesn't matter.  I constantly find myself surprised and even hurt when people inevitably fall short of my expectations for them--not by any fault of their own, but by the loftiness of these expectations.  It's ridiculous, really...

I certainly hope this blog entry doesn't make me sound horribly arrogant (although maybe I am...who knows?).  I'm just too idealistic.  Despite the sarcasm and cynicism that I employ from time to time, I've always been inwardly optimistic.  I expect things to go well--flawlessly, even.  And they rarely do.  It's not that things are bad by any means; they're just not as good as I tend to expect, and, thus, I'm often disappointed.

It's stupid and naive, really.  I don't know why I let myself get caught up in these fantastic expectations of myself and of others.  Maybe, for a while at least, I'll try coming back down to earth.

Waiting for the rain to stop.
Destination: beautiful.
Seems that I'm still waiting for the sun.

Endurance, endurance, endurance...kids?

I can't believe I'm writing this right now.  I have a paper and a monstrous French assignment looming over me, and, yet, here I am, fulfilling my weekly blog assignment.

I am exhausted right now.  Currently, I've been awake for 45 hours straight (a number that will continue to swell until much later tonight).  As you can imagine, insightful blog entries aren't the easiest things to create when you're so tired that you can barely will your fingers to keep typing...

But let's not dwell on the negative.  There are some joyous things about sleep-deprivation, you know.  For instance, I tend to say/type extremely nonsensical things when I've been lacking sleep for long enough (and these instances make for highly enjoyable stories in the future).  So, you see?  Sleep-deprivation is fun for the whole family!  Now, if only it didn't make me want to simultaneously throw myself off a cliff...

Right now, I'm in that stage where my eyes are continually closing, and I'm mildly unaware of my surroundings.  It's quite enjoyable.  I anticipate hallucinations soon (although, typically, those don't arrive until the 70-hour mark).

Well, dear reader, my brain has not been processing coherent thoughts for the past few days, so I dare not continue this horrid blog entry (for fear that I might unleash something horribly insane).

Thanks for reading!  Sorry this was a disappointment!

Good...night...?!

Windows

Ah, yes.  I've hit the one-week deadline, and, sadly, I really have nothing to say.  I guess that means it's time to ramble mindlessly for a few paragraphs in order to meet my blog quota.  Feel free to stop reading now.  Seriously.

Anyway, sometimes, I wonder why I write.  I'm very passionate about my writing, so I suppose that should be reason enough...  But, for the sake of continuing this entry for more than five sentence, let's explore a little further.

Most obviously, I write to express myself.  I'm not terribly outspoken or opinionated, and I tend to internalize things.  In my writing, I can capsulize feelings and ideas that normally would have been suppressed.  Why do you think this blog even exists?  Certainly, I could go around screaming my blog ideas in peoples' faces (although I can see some potential awkwardness there), but I imagine that that would be fun for no one--least of all, me.  Beyond blog entries, I often create short stories to explore certain aspects of humanity that I don't see in my everyday life; these don't necessarily include things I'm thinking or feeling, but they are a part of me nonetheless.  The stories help me channel my own feelings--which, as I mentioned previously, are internalized a great deal--into something much more complex.  With the stories, I can escape my own thoughts and take part in an entirely different world--a fleeting moment in another time and place.  It's cathartic, really.

So, I droned on about self-expression for a paragraph now.  Good.  But what else?  I suppose persuasion must play a role in there somewhere.  "Hey guys, read this blog entry and listen to my thoughts and PLEASE DO EVERYTHING I SAY BECAUSE I KNOW BEST."  (That was probably one of my more subtle persuasive arguments.)  So, yes, I use writing to persuade--in varying degrees of ambiguity--and to try to solve the problems that I might normally leave untouched.

There's more to it than that, though.  One of my favorite things about writing is that it helps me capture the small, insignificant moments in life.  It helps me remember the time when my friend and I went for a walk and got caught in a thunderstorm, forcing us to sprint home through the sheets of rain and the flashes of lightning.  It reminds me of the time when we had a power outage at my house, and my family sat together and played board games.  Writing can immortalize all of those little moments: a conversation that lasts all night, a newly-developed relationship, or even just a passing comment to a friend in the hallway.  I love writing about things that can't be captured with a photograph--things that we tend to overlook in comparison to grander events in our lives.  Writing does these things justice.

So, I don't suppose I made any terribly important insights into life with this entry.  I doubt it was even worth your time, really.  It was more of a semi-coherent jumble of thoughts than it was an enlightening view of anything significant.  Fortunately, though, it helped me sort a few things out (although that might not have been particularly apparent while you were reading).  I always feel better after I write, whether or not the results are entirely successful.  So, even though you're probably shrieking with disgust (I imagine that's what your natural reaction would be...) about the distinct lack of quality in this entry, I'm satisified with it.

In short, I'm sorry if you were hoping for something shockingly insightful.  Maybe next time...

Say It's Possible

Sometimes, I wonder what's going on in peoples' minds when they say the things that they do. Why don't people think before spouting off whatever meaningless comments that pop into their heads? Is it really that difficult to weigh--however briefly--the impact of your words before you say them?

Stupid question, I suppose.

This is something that has always bothered me. At the risk of sounding like I have a superiority complex, I'd like to assert that I've always handled this issue with great care. It's a personality trait, I guess. My desire to avoid conflict has taught me to be very careful with my words, so as not to offend anyone.

Tact. What a novel concept--a concept that seems, quite sadly, to be foreign to certain people. Whether it's complete disregard for others' feelings or just simple ignorance of the gravity of their statements, many people--in my humble opinion--need to brush up on the art of being tactful.

Let's launch into a vivid, horribly exaggerated example, shall we?
Eugene: Hey guys, sorry I'm late!
Francesca: Oh, it's alright. We really didn't even notice--or CARE--that you weren't here!

Ouch. Again, I admit that that was a fairly unrealisitic bit of dialog, but it merely serves to illustrate my point. I think that tactlessness often stems from spewing out unnecessary comments. If the lovely Francesca had simply stopped speaking after "Oh, it's alright," Eugene wouldn't have been offended, and everyone would've lived happily ever after. What's that old saying...? "If you don't have anything nice to say...staple your lips together and never bother speaking again." Yeah. I think that's it.

I realize that I'm probably leaning toward the extreme side of things here. Admittedly, I tend to sugarcoat things and distort my comments to please others, perhaps sacrificing a bit of honesty in the process. Is that any better? I can't be sure, but I do know that there's a happy medium to be found here, so keep searching...

To me, it's not a difficult concept. I'm not blunt, outspoken, or very outgoing, so I tend to shy away from speaking my mind, anyway. I know that other people enjoy saying what they think, and that's fine, too. But, on occasion, just ask yourself: is it really worth saying this comment or making this joke? At the end of the day, will it really benefit you all that much? And, more importantly, will it hurt someone else?

Think about it.

Keep a tight grip like a child

Holding onto a swing set,

Waiting and hoping to find

What I can't figure out yet,

Please don't unless this is something you mean,

Another nightmare instead of a dream,

Better left alone.

Coming Up for Air

It’s nice to be needed, plain and simple. This is something I really haven’t given much thought—perhaps because it’s a bit of an intrinsic character trait—but I’ve realized lately just how much I enjoy when people depend on me. I like doing favors for my friends—even simple, unappealing tasks like taking out the trash or cleaning up a room. Obviously, I don’t love splashing around in large piles of garbage (though I assume that most people do)…but completing these chores for someone else feels very rewarding to me.

So, why is this, exactly? Well, thanks to an in-depth analysis of my personality (thank you, Myers-Briggs!), I’ve shed a bit of light on the answer:
“ISFJs [my personality type] are characterized above all by their desire to serve others, their ‘need to be needed.’ In extreme cases, this need is so strong that standard give-and-take relationships are deeply unsatisfying to them…”

I’ve never really thought that about myself before, but I think there is some truth to it. I enjoy helping other people with their problems, but I can’t stand asking for favors myself. It makes me feel selfish and lazy, even though I know I’m entitled—and always welcome—to ask for favors from my friends; however, there’s something vexing about someone wanting to pay me back or “return the favor.” It’s not that I don’t appreciate it… It’s just not something I desire.

Now, that’s not to say that I enjoy being used as a doormat, either (I assume that’s fairly obvious). As previous blog entries will tell you, I do appreciate a simple “thanks” for my efforts. But, in terms of receiving some kind of tangible means of repayment, I’d just rather not. I think people sometimes feel guilty when they ask me for things because they don’t want to take advantage of this fact, but they really shouldn’t. I don’t mind.

Perhaps I should also clarify that I’m mainly talking about my close friends in these situations—people who I trust and for whom I care. It’s not that I’m unwilling to help people I dislike or don’t know, but my friends are the ones for whom I will gladly inconvenience myself on a regular basis.

I guess what I’m trying to say, really, is “ask me for things.” Obviously, the request must be somewhat reasonable (“Hey, Andrew, I forgot my favorite shirt back at my house in California… Can you walk there and get it for me?” is not going to fly.), but I really do want to help.

Ultimately, I hope this blog entry doesn’t make me sound like I’m proclaiming, “Hey, I like to help others and I’m a great person!” That’s not what I’m saying at all. In its most basic form, perhaps this request is really quite selfish; I want to feel needed and fulfilled by helping others. In the end, maybe I’m just seeking personal satisfaction. Perhaps it’s even some sort of deranged form of masochism. Nothing would really surprise me.

Anyway, I digress.

If you want something from me, just ask. I’d be more than willing to help.

Deception as a Second Language

Isn't it funny how often we lie? Well, I suppose it's not actually funny per se, but it strikes me now how frequently we try to deceive both others and ourselves.

Now, I think you're probably pretty familiar with the concept of lying, but let's launch into a brief example, anyway.

Jill has just received the most hideous haircut on the face of this earth. Jack is her boyfriend. The following dialog ensues:
Jill: Hey, I just spent $400,000 on this haircut, and I REALLY think it was worth it! I absolutely love it! What do you think?
Jack: Actually, I think it's terrible. It kind of looks like someone placed some roadkill on your head and tried to pass it off as hair.
And, then, of course, Jill would slaughter Jack on the spot and spend the rest of her days in a dark prison cell. Plus, their relationship would be over. That would suck, wouldn't it?

If you hadn't noticed, that was a bit of an extreme example; however, basic principles still apply here. Wouldn't it have been better for Jack to have simply agreed with Jill (perhaps without her undying enthusiasm, though) and then later have suggested--quite delicately--that she try a different type of haircut? I'm not one to advocate deception, but I also think that preserving someone's feelings is important. I guess it's a tough call.

Anyway, let's move on to the subject of lying to oneself. Self-denial is probably one of my favorite forms of deception. Oftentimes, when I have some sort of huge problem, I attempt to push it from my mind and operate under the assumption that it no longer exists. What's that old adage about ignorance and bliss? I think I'd like to employ that here. I mean, honestly, you can't worry about something if you don't even acknowledge that it's a problem. And--while that might be detrimental in certain situations (i.e. ignoring the fact that you have a giant exam in two days)--isn't it better to just put your mind at ease?

Again, it probably sounds like I'm saying, "Lie to yourself and everyone around you! It's fun! It's easy! Everyone's doing it!" But, really, aren't there situations where a certain amount of deception can be beneficial? We can deceive others to spare their feelings (and to save ourselves from their wrath). We can deceive ourselves to cope with situations that might be too much for us to handle. So, isn't lying, at bottom, just a unique type of defense mechanism?

Obviously, I'm not saying, "Hey, you should go around lying all the time, and then everything will work out for you!" It won't. Still, I just can't convince myself that all forms of deception are harmful all the time.

Does that mean that I should start worrying about lying too much? Well--according to my newfound stance on self-denial--probably not.

It takes more time

Than I've ever had,

Drains the life from me,

Makes me want to forget,

As young as I was,

I felt older back then,

More disciplined,

Stronger and certain,

But I was scared to death of eternity,

I was saved by grace,

But destroyed by naivety,

So, I lied to myself,

And said it was for the best.