Things will be different, and I'm okay with that.

I feel as though I must apologize to my Blogspot account. It's one in the morning and here I am, writing away on a very empty internet journal. I'm sorry for treating you like a booty-call: only wanting something to do with you because it is late, I can't seem to fall asleep, and you're the only one that will meet my needs at a time like this (not that I have ever made a booty-call, but I imagine that is the attitude surrounding it).

Looking at old tagged photos and videos on FB is like cleaning out my drawers and closet (something that I am going to actually NEED to do in the next month considering the circumstances). I feel like the significant mile-markers in my life can be identified when my hairstyle changes; if only I were pretentious and "hipster" enough to think of something so clever. There is no reason for sadness since photos are usually made to capture times when things did not seem so bleak. Actually, my life really isn't bleak at all at the moment; it is excellent. I just feel like when a significant change happens in my life that there is a need to go back a few miles and see how I got here.

I love the friends I have made and the memories we have created together. A part of me wants to live in the photos and videos I have been looking through. "Living in the moment" never meant more to me than it does right now.

All this randomness to say that God is renewing something in me. For some time I have been...not depressed...just something of the sort. After graduating and an influx of great news, I fell listless and needed to force myself to get out of bed everyday. It is not something I will dive into too deeply. A lot of it had to do with the fact that a major part of my life ended so abruptly and I was adjusting to it.

...but I digress...

God is renewing me still, and I am grateful. That is really all this post is about.
I'm happy, and I am not ashamed of that. Many great things are happening and I am excited.
I'm glad that I can pretend that anyone reading this is just as excited and not the least bit confused about anything.

Thank you, Blogspot journal, for allowing me my fantasy.

Perhaps I could be more...

1. The "roommate"

Every time I glance at her I think to myself, "you know what you did you disrespectful hussy, so don't try and act civil with me." I walked into the apartment to spend the night with my dad and she peered out from her bedroom - draped in her normal attire of a faded T-shirt and flowing shorts that do nothing for her butt; then again, I am sure nothing does (OK, that was mean) - she said nothing to me; and I said nothing to her. There is nothing left to say. She is the other woman formally known as "Dad's new girlfriend" turned "woman he is cheating on" to the now "roommate who won't get the hell out of the house/live-in lady friend my father's current girlfriend knows nothing about" (I know, titles have become so tedious these days). I'm mad at her, still. I can't say I truly forgive her because she is still living in a house with a man whose family she disrespected at the passing of his own mother. bitch. I hate you, slightly. But I realize I am more angry with my father for carrying on with such theatre while every single person that is close to him wishes they could be further away; or maybe closer. Yet, perhaps I should have said "hi" to her. I often wonder if that is what Jesus would have done. Is there a need for civility with this type of woman who possesses no remorse? Even if I thought she deserved it, I sure as hell did not give her that satisfaction. My eyes silently cursed at her whenever she peeked out from her bedroom. Just get out already you lazy broad.

2. The daughter

This L.A. trip is the definition of "awkward." A young man traveling with his father, his father's steady girlfriend, and the girlfriend's seven year-old daughter. Social casualties are lost on a girl with "hair-glitter" juvenilely draped in her chocolate-brown locks. Her eyes wander intently as a young girl's should; they are noticing but not critical, perhaps three steps above vacant with a beauty mark artfully placed under the right eye next to her nose. She knows as much as youth has taught her thus far, which is clearly not quite enough as her squawks of boredom begin falling on deaf ears at the dinner table. She has done nothing wrong, she is an innocent. She playfully jostles with my father while calling him "uncle" and in my head all I can muster up is "asshole." I am uncertain if this is jealousy on my part, I am sure this is just another disgust rooted deeply in my anger towards my father. I don't say much to her, nor does my face gesture acknowledgement much in her direction. I am sure this makes me a bad person; this isn't her fault. There is a little over a week more of awkwardness to be had, but perhaps in the sea of discontent I might find something endearing enough about this child to make social neglect a thing of the past.

3. The relationship

I stammer ungracefully behind a couple experiencing "young love" that has been bestowed upon more seasoned souls as we exit the plane. I have no definition of their dynamic, who knows what kind of kinship they share as he spends time at her Mililani home covered in lies of his time at Special Olympics as he allegedly avoids time at our home. I don't know what to think anymore. Again, I am not mad at her; she has done nothing wrong. In fact, she is a sweet woman buried deep in lies as a man who cannot muster up the courage to "do the right thing" continues to "protect" her from pain. I am still upset at him. As he sleeps a few yards away from me I wish I had the courage to reiterate my thoughts of disdain again; thinking that this time he will actually hear them. A hand still scratched with the mark of drywall glares back at me as I type. It reminds me that I am still capable of losing my temper. I am not violent, I swear. Nobody has ever made me as mad as he did that night. Thank God for sisters who care and understand (I love you, Jenn). I love him, but I feel as though I have lost him. I want so many things; but in order to have those wishes realized I feel as though I cannot be his son anymore. I no longer admire him, for he has dismounted from every moral integrity I feel as though he wanted to instill in me. I will not be like him; I have vowed not to be like him. However, what does forgiveness and respect look like in a situation such as mine?

What's my role?

Note to Self

I want to start my blogspot with this piece that I wrote a while ago. I really don't know how to intro it, so here it is:

Please, dear child with eyes as wide and beautiful as they once were when the world was thirteen years younger and so were you, I beg you not to lose your sense of self. Don’t lose your sense of innocence because life has not proven to be the one you saw on television or even in your dreams. I beg you not to forget your dreams when you wake, don’t forget the vision of light and hope that found themselves a home in your eyes.

Dear child with skin so thin, I am sorry that you have been hurt. I am sorry that thunder isn’t the sound of angels bowling. I’m sorry that rain is not the tears of God because sadness is heavy, isn’t it? You know this now, you have learned the weight of pain and how words are sometimes not enough. Child, I am sorry that the things you found refuge in are fleeting shadows that never had a home as you did. I’m sorry that your dad is not a superhero and your mom was not created with more time to share with you. I’m sorry that you cannot go back.

I am sorry that faith sometimes upsets you. I’m sorry that the Bible does not say what you wish it would. I’m sorry that truth really does hurt and that hurt is sometimes the only truth you will ever know. My heart breaks when I see your face fade and fingers fall to the floor before the moon reflects light onto your once beating heart. I wish you did not have to cry so many times; I wish eternity were not so far away.

But child, do not feel sorry for yourself. Stop shedding tears that aren’t yours. Stop trying to take a path that was not meant for you. Stop worrying, because everything will be all right. So I ask you, young one with the light in your eyes, allow your heart to sing. Allow your words to dance and set free what once has been caged within your lungs. Breathe and let loose the fire that burns through your frame and take captive all things that once held you.

You are loved, child. Do not let anyone, including yourself, deny you of that.

- Phlo[x]