[sick. little. games]

"Funny thing about black and white. You mix them together and you get gray. And it doesn't matter how much white you try to put back in- you're never going to get anything but gray."

While I love this quote, I don't know if I agree with it one hundred percent or not. I am coming to learn, despite it all, people can be redeemed. They can surprise you. Good things often come disguised as bad things. And happiness is a decision. Joy is not found in circumstances or status. Joy is found where all other lights grow dim, at the cross.

I've seen some people orchestrate twisted games, and yes, I have played in some of them- some by choice, some I was forced into- but at the end of it, I still think there's a part of me (naive, perhaps, and reckless, almost certainly) who believes people are not inherently bad: merely thoughtless. Or faithless.

Regardless, although I often find myself struggling against the voices telling me I am simultaneously too much and not enough, it passes. And I see the world shining, and I know there's something better just beyond what I can see, just over the horizon.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

I have tremendous faith that people can overcome these games we play. It just takes a little time, a lot of determination, and courage.

Live boldly. Forgive openly. Love freely.

"Funny thing about black and white. You mix them together and you get gray..."
...but who's to say there's no hope for redemption?

memento mori

Once upon a time,

I had a crystal ball, a beacon in the mist-

small, a prime example

of a campfire spreading.

It inspired, I let my friends

twist it in their palms,

watch it refract light.

It always returned intact-

sometimes smudged or dull,

in want of polish yet free of crime,

or so I judged.

I suppose I knew it might

come back in need of slight repair,

some glue, a thing or two:

certainly no more than light sanding

(somehow that never stopped me

from handing crystal over)

My mistake, to lend it worry-free;

careless to believe it wouldn’t break.

Naïve, I extended my treasure

to a pair of azure eyes and let rise

an immeasurable rapture

of which I became captive.

Too weak to bridge the gap between

freedom and capture,

I found not all treat delicacy

the same as me. When at last

delivered, my glass lay unrecognized

as its past glory.

I weighed my choices, and I chose

(crassly, perhaps) to mend:

to spend endless hours

buffing rough edges

and gluing fragments

until it looked anew.

I set it on a shelf, but glass is not meant

to be let to dust. Breathing a prayer

and against my better sense,

I dared entrust it once more.

I must have forgotten my chore of the past,

how vast broken glass appears upon the floor.

This time, although it seared,

I blinked back tears and left

the pieces where they had fallen.

Once upon a time,

I had a crystal ball.