God is real.

Just some thoughts about heaven.

Perhaps heaven isn't only just a place. Heaven is a collection of things that you love, things that make you feel like you're made from string and gold and released from God's palms. Things that have formed you as a human; experiences that have lifted your heart and opened your eyes. A collection of the songs you grew up listening to. The CD named, "Dad's Old Westerns" that your grandpa's mother listened to. A collection of moments that peace was spoken to your mind. Or the state of contentment, flowing bliss. Or the times when every one is gathered around the table, smiling and laughing and talking about old jokes and old love stories. How often are we mistaken that heaven is a reward for the life we have lived? That heaven is a place? Heaven is a state of being, a piece of time. Heaven is always present. Present in the daily acts of acceptance and progression. It's presented wide fields. It's in clear eye sight and clear minds. It's in freedom and in quiet car rides. In hand holding and safety. In the low vibrating tone that your father's voice holds.

God breathes your words Darling.
God is in your words. 

Nothing in this world is concrete.
Everything can be destroyed.
Anything can be created.

-xxxoxo

Impressions from summer

05.11.14
The sky is pale and unrested.
The birds are singing, or perhaps panicking because they can feel the heaviness of the potential.
The sky has become too big for it's bed.
and every time it rolls over the bed is pressed into our thin atmosphere.
I hear the more than occupational moaning of thunder.
It's a deep moan with the echo of it's own call.  
The birds and I shall wait until what we desire falls.

Brosandi
Hendumst í hringi
Höldumst í hendur
Allur heimurinn óskýr
Nema þú stendur

Educate me.

Sometimes I get really sad about my life; and then I remember it's almost summer.

Honey bee, Honey bee

You fly so loud,

Close your wings;

Lets run more quietly.

No. 2

Knees crossed, fingers white.
Pavement black with tar. Baby, I'm beaten and empty while you're placed in front of me by more than Earthly forces.
I was there when God created the spaces between your eyes. When you fell from the static and gold. God quakes at the thought of the beauty you possess.
His greatest master plan.
The contrast between you and me is something strangers notice and lovers laugh at.
I'm broken and your beauty.
My skin and bones have sunk through my bed and sheets and have fallen beneath the floor boards where I keep my childhood innocence and compressed early sadness.
Childhood sadness sealed tight in the unfinished brown bags. Sealed with concern, unfinished prayers from my mother, and staples.
You're beauty and forever.
I'm broken and defeated.

Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed.
My soul is also sore vexed: but thou, O Lord, how long?
-Psalms 6

I'd sell you for half a pizza

These are the times that everyone talks about. The time of their youth. Living young and living cheap. Pay check to pay check. Spending hours doing absolutely nothing but wasting time and developing cramps from sitting in one position from now until you're laid straight for the first time in your short life; and the lid is closed over your face. But quite frankly, that's not the point here. The point is that we have less than few moments to live and address our sadness and the scarcity of  the solutions. We all dreamed of these times. Being  seventeen  with our friends and cars. With our reckless ideas and productions. Our curled hair and blackened skin. How everything we see sits quietly in our pupils, rolling around in circles, pacing back and forth creating black holes in our eyes. How the patterns on our skin will smooth out and be pulled tight as we try to find our identity in our stretched out finger prints. All the same. Our stamped identity on one paper with the black ink that turns blue after a while.

We'll all tie our childhood memories on the tips of our hair and on the ends of our noses. We'll drag them around until they become part of us and we stop being embarrassed about that fact. We bet on luck and lend out too much money.  We'll tell our kids that an ice-cream cone was only a buck fifty and that the road north of the gas station was where we had our first kiss.  Being seventeen and cheap is basically everything we've heard it would be. Calling our friends, but still feeling a little too lonely. Giving away our heart too quickly while trying to guard everything about it. Wanting everything but being too afraid of having it all. Giving too little or too much and only noticing the distances. Counting days and classes, texting mom or dad to "get your outta this joint." Ditching class and complaining of a failing grade. Caring too much but pretending to not notice. Being seventeen and cheap is everything and nothing it's cracked up to be.
Being seventeen and cheap is hard and simple.

God has spoken to my heart one too many times for me to question my humanity.

Treasons and Territories

Gun shoots.
Gun sounds.
Sounds of cries.
Sounds from town.
Town of people.
Town of territories.
Territories that limit.
Territories that are blind.
Blind men cry.
Blind men make messes.
Messes of greed.
Messes of life.
Life that is cold.
Life is tangled.
Tangled are our souls.
Tangled night speeches.
Speeches based of loneliness.
Speeches of dry words.
Words of sorrow.
Words of desolation.
Desolation we experience.
Desolation we crave.
Cravings we listen to.
Cravings we leave.
Leave this country.
Leave me be.
Be humble.
Be strict.
Strict situations.
Strict habits.
Habits of pushing.
Habits of denying.
Denying the goodness.
Denying our dependence.
Dependence on stereotypes.
Dependence on benefits.
Benefits of needing.
Benefits of worry.
Worry about the future.
Worry for our souls.
Souls of times.
Souls owned by demons.
Demons put into words.
Demons turned to friends.
Friends with solitude.
Friends in common figure.
Figures for the future.
Figure for thought.

Rewind

Thoughts from January 31 2014

My birthday.
17.
Somehow I still feel like the red-cheeked-blonde-haired-counting-bugs-and-cigarette-butts 7 year old. I feel scared and reckless and young. I'm almost an adult now, but I can still remember when my biggest concern was whether or not someone would carry me into the house when I fell asleep on the car ride home. The days where I would sit and play under my bedroom window, collecting raspberries and peaches. Making up terrible stories about our Mexican neighbor and his sunken-in trampoline. Where I would carry around my porcelain dolls, brushing out their frizzy hair and trying to glue their toes back on. Where I would be sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with my fingers and running string and lint in between the tile grout; asking my mom if she believed in the tooth fairy and how God puts babies in her stomach.
Now I know all the answers to my naive child-like questions, but I still feel just as unsure about the unknown as I did when I was 7.
I'm scared to grow up.
I'm scared I'll feel disappointed forever.

Things in my bed tonight:
dictionary
movie case
lotion
blankets
2 half eaten poptarts
new ear buds
2 shirts
jacket
tv
pens
phone
walmart sack.


January 31 2015
Daily Haiku

Winter skies compress
She howls through the turning moon
How simple we are