I refuse.

I am not a robot because I refuse to be.

I will not live my life as a machine.

I need to be human.

I love, loving and crying and screaming and feeling and seeing and knowing and moving and

dreaming and being and improving.

I am a complicated puzzle of wonderful,

and terrible things.

I am human.

                                             

Why?

Why is it that when we do something beautiful, our spirits soar until someone else does another equally but differently beautiful thing, and we plummet back to earth? Why is it that in order to shine we must shine alone? Where in history did humanity adopt this poisonous view of accomplishment? I am appalled! How dare the individual think themselves less than the wondrous child of The Almighty they have always been? How dare they say "I can't" over and over huddled in the company of societies commonplace insecurities? 

Worst of all, I find myself continually folded over, weighed down by insecurities made by my own hands. My knees buckle under the pressure I don't know how to defeat. But the ever present fire burns brighter within me and through the mist of too little, too hard, and not enough I shake off what was and scream I AM beautiful, I AM strong, and I AM MORE THAN ENOUGH! Heaving breaths of relief in the silence, truth glows behind my echoing words.  

Inspiration

Inspiration comes in strange and silent ways.
It comes when your mind is thick and sticky, mixing with the hush of a moment.
A moment that, if given the chance, could change all others forever. 

Mr. Box of Crayons

Head, arms, hands, legs, and feet are flimsy and firm. 

His outside is ordinary, a clone of his kind. 

But that means nothing. 

Look inside, what do you see?

 Worlds, 

Emotions, 

Imagination, 

All clutched between two tiny fingers.

The more his inside is shared, 

the more treasured he becomes.

And treasured he should be, for he holds the key to thousands of beginnings. 

I am obsessed.

I am obsessed with beginnings, and journeys and individuality. 

I am obsessed with baby otters and hot cocoa and sappy soppy romance novels. 

I am obsessed with long walks in my bare feet. 

I am obsessed with black and white movies and sunflowers. 

I am obsessed with emotions and truth and smiles that mean something. 

I am obsessed with education and the power of hard work. 

I am obsessed with art in all it's forms. 

I am obsessed with doing what is right and not caring what other people think or excuse. 

I am obsessed with sunrises and sunsets and dragonflies. 

I am obsessed with swings and mountains and flipflops from Brazil. 

I am obsessed with white roses and adventures and mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

I am obsessed. 

Exploring the Intricacies of the Hat.

Hats come in all different shapes and sizes, just like people do. Hats are witness to memories and lives. They are gently worn, covered with tares and faded to practically nothing. They are handled with tender and sentimental fingers. They offer as reminders of what was and what could be. Each hat holds a different time inside. One that it holds and will never let go of. Hats cradle our thoughts and don't make comments or give looks. They hold onto the things we are not willing to say and the imaginings we are not brave enough to make reality.