Frost Past Midnight

My grasp on the abstract is like the music of Muse: portentous, histrionic, and willfully eccentric. I dwell and suffocate in the tangible conversations of reality, bask in the glow of my imagination, taste déjà vu daily, and savor the salty tears that escape from the fissures of my tri-colored eyes.

Time is a dictatorship; I am haunted by its tyranny. It offers only an impetus; a rush, a speed of things that may or may not be captured upon a small imprint of ilfrochrome. That photograph, however, is a falsehood; a trap—it is a mere memory, an arrested moment that occurred within a blink. One blink; a momentous flutter of an eyelid whose shutter instantly projects some sort of film upon its blank background. The eye; a sonorous movie theatre in and of itself created as the result of scopophilia. In one blink—lightning, the musty smell of a varnished past—I am haunted by the unimaginable.

There is a cadence within my chest, a quake. A never-ending quiver that engages my feet and implants my eyes in my surroundings. Lyrics race across my dilated pupils. My nose, itching with sensation, searches for time’s incessant scent. My internal clock races, my soul burns with the realizing envisage of a narrator; a third-person who was, and is, myself, standing, arms taut upon the crucifix of reality.

I feel their invading sight, their camera making what I would call a half-assed epiphany a spectacle, like that of the dizzying gyre onto Peter’s face in Finding Neverland. His face ashen, Peter’s rustic meditation violates the boundaries of what reasonable people would call “logic.”

However, like Wordsworth, romantics disillusion themselves with earth, instead persistently focusing on the powers of the human mind. I believe myself to be such an individual; a female Coleridge whose heightened personal experiences are the cause of her difficulties in separating dreams from reality, imagination from substantiality.

Though it may not be caused by a powdering of dusty film upon a window, those same particles of ambiguous disillusion are insufflated into my lungs; I breathe poetics, converting oxygen and nitrogen into a rhythmic phrase for which I may or may not find use. Possibilities and improbabilities flood through my capillaries as a macro-second of stunning silence precedes that of a cracking 334 meters per second cannonade of bombastic reverberations.

They have martyred me; reality, time. They have crucified my wickedly divine vitals but—unlike Muse—a mellifluous chant will not resurrect me or my undisclosed desires.

I'm Here

I am in Indiana. In West Lafayette, to be exact. I'm sitting in one of ENAD's many computer labs, to be exacter.

I made it; by God's will, I made it. To be frank, I don't have my semester entirely paid for; I have yet to make installments. However, I am satisfied in knowing that I am getting a month's worth of college before I am forced to hand over more money to the Bursar.

There are several things that I am still worried about, and I know that I shouldn't be. I know that I must just "give it to God" and let him deal with things. After all, under His will, I will be able to do anything and everything He wants me to do (even if it is manage two jobs while attending school full-time).

Several of my prayers have already been answered; I am only waiting for more. (It is my impatient waiting that is providing me with unnecessary stress; the stress that began the minute I hugged my mom goodbye and sped East, matching I-80 in speed in my 1993 Oldsmobile.)

I wish I had more time; now that I am back in school, I am unsure of what I will be able to do. The capability to maintain these two blogs while balancing the collegiate-you-pick-two-lifestyle: social life, sleep, good grades.

Once again, PRAYER is the answer.

I wish I could relate to all of you my Christmas vacation, my wonderful New Year's Even with A. I wish I could express my edgy homesickness for my mother, whom I feel I did not have enough time with while in Iowa.

Perhaps I will some some short, sweet, to-the-point post later. (Which does me no good, considering that I would love to address the sermon that I heard in church yesterday.) To summarize the summary of what was a wonderful sermon (for me, at the very least), you must be thankful. Psalm 100 demonstrates a variety of ways in which to be thankful: emotional, mental, and personal.

As a complainer, I realized that I could thank God even more than what I already do. (I usually fall asleep counting my blessings, just as Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney do in White Christmas).

I figure that I will slowly improve; take last night, for instance.

I had parked my car a few blocks away in free street parking, where it was blanketed by a few inches of snow. Standing in several inches what the plows had shoved off the streets, I scraped the soft crystals (and ice) off of my windows in the bitter cold. Granted, it wasn't the most fun; but I did get covered in snow. My hands were warm, I had an ice scraper, and I even had a car to clean off. Granted, it is not a classic; it is not new. It has more than 140,000 miles on it, and the engine is practically rusted through. However, my "granny car" is one to be proud of: it is the first car I ever drove and the first car I have ever owned. Furthermore, it has the ability to go eighty miles an hour, albeit the windows sometimes ice over from the inside out.
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