British Invasion

Sometimes I forget I have a blog. Today I remembered.

I'm embarking on a new journey and may or may not post occasionally.

I'm going to the United Kingdom. I will be a postgraduate student (MA in Gender Analysis in International Development) at University of East Anglia in Norwich. More on that later.

I'm packing my wellies (actually I don't own any) and raincoat (just ordered one online) and preparing to embrace my British roots. And no one, not even the Queen, will rain on my parade. Crossing my fingers that I'll pick up an accent while I'm there.

To be continued...

Spilling the Coffee

Generally the word spill doesn't have positive connotations. Think "oil spill" or "spilling the beans."

This morning I did something quite stupid. And as I was doing it, I realized the level if its stupidity, yet in my rush I decided to ignore the situation and deal with it later. Which I did.

 I love coffee. I limit myself to drinking it once or twice a week, relishing the days when I can start the morning with a steaming cup of its fragrant goodness. The day always seems to pass quicker, my thoughts seem clearer, and I have no problem staying awake and focusing at work.

So as I placed the giant, red mug back into the fridge, I noticed that it was too close to the door. I hesitated for a moment, but brushed off the misgiving. Lunch time arrived. I hurried home to throw together an edible and semi-healthy meal, which obviously required opening the fridge. Are you following me? Do you know how this is going to end? Oh! The supense. Yes, that creamy liquid went splashing everywhere, just as I had feared.

How often do we handle more important life situations in a similar manner? We pause for a second to evaluate the action or decision, yet in our hurry and impatience, we slam the refrigerator door on the cup, hoping we won't have to deal with the mess later. Sometimes it ends up being a real nuisance. The coffee (our actions) don't always spill in a neat puddle, rather they flood the rest of the vegetables and fruit in the fridge (the people in our lives), and they are affected as well.

 Let's face it, we're bound to spill the coffee at some point in life. It happens quite frequently for most people (myself included). Just try to evaluate how your actions will affect others, and when you do make a mess, be bold enough to ask for forgiveness.

Happy Monday :)

Life Is a Game of Soccer

History has always fascinated me. There are certain time periods that are terribly gripping. When I was younger, I was certain that one day I would be an Egyptologist. I dreamed of combing the sweltering sands for hidden treasure. I longed to stumble upon a lost civilization, to study its secrets and mysteries. As I grew older, I learned about a more hideous side of history, of wars and power struggles centered on hatred that tore countries apart and ended innocent lives. History is terrifying. Yet amid the horrors and atrocities there is a common theme: our obsession with staying alive. The ancient world was fascinated with immortality.

For thousands of years, the human race has grappled with the inexplicable, with finding meaning in its existence. From the moment we are born, we are selfish creatures. Each breath, each conscious thought is wrapped up in our desire to thrive. By the time we are old enough to understand life a little better, we want to know our purpose in it. This curiosity is first manifested when we are small. Our frequent question is "Why?" We want to know why the sky is blue and why the sun is bright. As the years pass we begin asking more complicated questions. Not only do we want to know the answers to these simpler things, we also want to understand what (and possibly if) anything exists beyond the blue sky and large sun. And if something or someone does, is this being involved in our lives?

 I firmly believe that there is someone much greater than us, a Creator that not only made us, but who is completely invested in us (Long ago the LORD said to Israel: "I have loved you, my people, with an everlasting love. With unfailing love I have drawn you to myself" Jeremiah 31:3.) Not only do we question our existence, we question our past, present, and future. An amazing woman (Corrie ten Boom) once said, "Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God." This lady, a Dutch Christian, survived the Holocaust. (Her autobiography, The Hiding Place, was made into a film that I highly recommend.) Many of us have difficulty trusting God's wisdom, even in trifling matters.
Despite the tragedy Corrie was a part of, she trusted God implicitly. What I'm about to say next may seem like a completely divergent idea, but I hope that you can make the connection.

 In addition to my love of history, I also have a special place in my heart for sports. I am frankly addicted. In an attempt to combine history and sports, and to explain our desire to understand life, here is my best analogy: Life is a game of soccer.

 Each of us has been selected to a team. We were scouted, not only for our abilities, but for our weaknesses, too. We're playing for a prize (eternity) that far surpasses any earthly trophy or award. Each player on the team has different talents, but in order for us to win, we must work together, utilizing our talents to achieve a common goal (no pun intended). Unfortunately we're all selfish players. We forget to pass, to play together, to support each other in moments of trial. We are puzzled by our failures and baffled by our successes. The sidelines often seem so far away from the playing field, that we forget there is a Coach. As we wipe the sweat and desperation from our eyes, we feel alone. Our suffering and fatigue seem overwhelming as the game drags on. Sometimes we feel like giving up, waving our arms around and screaming for a substitution. Just when all seems lost, the Coach makes an executive decision. He sends someone in to take our place: Jesus. The great thing is, Jesus has such a connection with the Coach (His Father), that He knows just what He has to do to claim the victory for the team. In the process He gives His life. Yet the team is victorious. The crowded stadium (the angels and other worlds) fills with passionate celebration. The victory is won!

Stop dwelling on the unknown future you face; rather trust in the known Coach/God. He's watching the game from the sidelines, but He has a better view and vision for what works best/where/when/and with whom. Just because we're the ones sweating on the pitch doesn't mean He doesn't care or "get it." In fact He's more invested in the outcome than we are. We fail to forget His years of experience. He brought all of the players on the field (the people in our lives) for a reason. He saw the abilities, the weaknesses... the drive or lack thereof, and He saw in His wisdom that you would fit well with this particular team. Hang in there. Victory is near!

Straight Up Statistics

I love statistics. Correction. I love statistics that don't require me to use a TI-83 calculator and the bell curve. I took a statistics class one summer as a general math credit. The class lasted for about three hours twice a week. It was torture. I don't remember much about the class. I'm drifting away from my point though. I love statistics because. . . well, because they let me know how many people read my blog on a daily/weekly basis. Even when I'm not posting anything, people are still reading it! I guess that's a good thing. I often wonder what they find interesting, or if they even read a whole post.

Anyways. I don't write much because. . . well, because I'm lazy.

I have decided to take a break from Facebook. I'd been toying with the idea for awhile, but finally went through with it. I have been Facebook-free since Thursday morning. I still have to use it for work, but I have deactivated my personal account. Yeah, I am definitely going through withdrawals. Mostly when I am bored at work or in the evening. It is a needed break though. The big reason it took me so long to deactivate it was that I use it to communicate with friends who live far away. But I also spent hours on it, just sifting through my news feed and bouncing from one profile to the next. I want to use my time better. I don't like having an addiction, but that's what Facebook had become for me. I know many people who are addicted to Facebook/their smartphone, but refuse to see that they are. Whatever. My goal is to stay away from it for at least a month.

Well, this post is more of a time for me to ramble. Maybe I'll post more now that I don't have Facebook to suck up all of my free time. Maybe I won't.

I've been playing soccer a bit recently. I love sports. I love playing with guys too because for some reason it's assumed that girls can't play well. I like to crush that notion with a few flicks of my left foot. Yeah, I fall down sometimes and I miss the ball too, but there's always a feeling of inner satisfaction when I make a steal or assist a goal.

I think this is a good time to insert a cliche side note. Life is filled with ups and downs, but what is it that everyone says? Oh, that it's not about falling down, it's about getting back on your feet after the fall. I think sometimes I feel like I'm sort of floating in mid-air between the ground (a fall) and getting back on my feet. Picture a slow motion soccer replay of a bicycle kick-- that's how I imagine myself. I feel like my life isn't bad enough to equate it with a fall, but I don't have a clear idea of where I'm headed or what I'm doing, so I wouldn't say that I'm standing strongly on my two feet either.

I should get back to work. Should. . .

Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom

I recently returned from a trip to Europe which, I must say, is a continent with too much to see and enough culture and history to stick its tongue out at the United States. I won't continue with that thought.

I have wanted to visit Spain for a long time, and I was finally able to do so on this trip. Unfortunately I only made it to Barcelona and Madrid, but I was still impressed. Barcelona is beautiful! I love the fact that there are mountains AND the ocean, as well as an abundance of art, both old and new. Two days was not enough time to even scrape the surface of this precious city. I will be back.

After Barcelona, I spent a day in Madrid visiting a dear friend that I hadn't seen in 13 years. It was there that I saw some paintings that inspired me: flamenco dancers. I really wanted to see a live performance, but alas, I didn't have enough time. However, the city is full of souvenir shops overstocked with fans and flamenco regalia. That settled it. The paintings were too big to take home, but I was determined to make my own. Yesterday I started looking for images, as well as watching a few videos, to help me make a better painting. So, here's a more artsy end to my blog.

Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom

Her hands curl intricately, following the rich notes of the melody. A bright light highlights her scarlet dress and a yellow silk scarf pinned to her waist seeks to free itself as she twirls. An unseen guitarist plucks violently at the strings of his instrument, providing her with the rhythm she craves as she storms across the stage. Her shoes thump and tap, thump and tap, echoing into the darkest shadows of the room. Yet in all of the calculated commotion, she's dancing, nay, fighting for freedom. Smiles die on her proud cheekbones and fail to flutter across her boldly painted red lips. A new moon of stage light glows in her hair, it's perfect semi-circle mimicked in the exquisite arch of her back.

Flamenco. A dance and genre of music that originated in the southern Spanish region of Andalusia in the 18th century. A dance of rigidity dominated by exact steps and precise movements; however, underneath the costumes and pretentious routines, there is a profound liberty of expression, an internal and external fight for control of ones body. Dancers must escape the rules of time and social conventions, of unwanted emotions, yet as they seek this liberty, their inner joy must remain masked and solemn. Despite their struggle to maintain this facade, a triumphant glimmer occasionally rushes through the cracks in a defiant display. Flamenco has a soul of structured beauty, with the heart of a rebel. This is probably why gypsies were so influential in its development.

Close your eyes. You sit breathlessly in the dark bowels of the large room. You hear her steps thunder closer, closer. You catch a whiff of her perfume and feel the air move as her arms scream wildly in anticipation of the close of the dance. You long to open your eyes, to see her haughty expression, but you find you cannot pry them open. You feel trapped. A desire to run outside overwhelms you and you try to yell, but the sounds fail to leave your parched lips. It feels like a nightmare. You begin to move your feet to the notes of the insistent guitar, succumbing to this feeling of helplessness. You move them faster, and suddenly, an inner strength surges through your muscles, leaping along the sinews and bubbling through your veins. You, my friend, begin to dance, immersed for a second in her plight. You suddenly understand her struggle, and you make it your own. Freedom is just a few notes away.


-HK

Die Katze ist unter dem Bett

I have three favorite words in German:

Katze (cat)
Zeitung (newspaper)
. . .

I thought there was a third. . . and I believe there is, but at this early hour of the morning I can't quite seem to remember it.

Regardless. I like German! I never thought I would say that. That is like saying "I like sweaty socks" or "My favorite food is moldy bread." Yeah, like, unthinkable. Yet, I do. It's proof you can change your opinion of something/someone if you give it/them half a chance. I've been trying to practice German each day for at least 30 minutes. Sometimes it's quite exasperating. Rosetta Stone is great, but you don't get an explanation for anything. . . you just repeat, repeat, repeat. . . which is why it works apparently. Practice makes perfect.

The past few days have been simply lovely. I love sunshine. I love the smell it wrenches from the spring flowers. I love the way it seeps into my pores. This morning (Monday) was made slightly more bearable as I walked outside for work and breathed in the luxurious and intoxicating scent of sun.

A new week. The same responsibilities. Yet so much to be thankful for.

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.

Psalm 143:8

Temblor 24

I remember the time when. . .

Oh, but there are so many times I remember. They're probably not meaningful to most people, but to me they represent 24 years of living.

I remember my first kitty, who survived many moves and a truck accident.
I remember burning my arm while making tortillas when I was 4.
I remember trips to England to see my grandparents.
I remember pleading with my Dad to let me paint my ceiling purple (to go with my pink walls and carpet).
I remember how I used to put carrot shreds on my teeth for "braces" (and then one day I had to get the "real" ones. . . not so glamorous after all, despite the exciting chance to change the band color each month).
I remember when I couldn't wait to be a teenager.
I remember being a teenager, and realizing it wasn't quite as amazing as I'd always thought it would be.
I remember my best friend's barn burning down.
I remember my first day at school. Eighth grade. I had braces (the real ones) and I was so shy I barely talked to anyone at recess.
I remember high school crushes.
I remember arriving at college with high expectations.
I remember the distinct desire to stay, but graduation came too quickly.
I remember arriving in Honduras, the heat and newness were overwhelming.
I remember sleeping in my closet for a few nights in my first apartment until I could find a bed.
I remember the butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated talking to a friend.

And now, as I write this. . . minutes are passing and tomorrow I will remember writing this blog. Sunday I will turn 24. So many memories crowd my head; boring and ordinary memories for most, yet for me, they are beautiful reminders of how God has blessed my life.

There are so many insightful quotes about life. . . I wanted to end with one.

Only a life lived for others is a life worth while.
|Albert Einstein|

May this be my motto. Whether I live for another day or until I turn 90, may each day be lived for others.

Happy birthday to me. I'm thankful for the life I've been given, and I feel blessed to wake up each morning. Suffering and pain abound (Japan's 8.9 earthquake and tsunamis are a fresh reminder of life's fragility), yet I'm alive.

And Then You. . .

How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down

I'm supposed to be editing an article for work. I haven't blogged for awhile. My knee hurts. I think I did something to it playing tennis yesterday.

I think I have an attention disorder. Seriously. I can't read a page without staring off for a few minutes to think. I can't edit a paragraph without finding a different song to listen to. I can't start a project and finish it, before starting a different one. I can't sit for long periods of time and focus on what's going on around me. A lot of the time I'm in my own world of ideas and thoughts, even when someone's talking to me. Who do I blame? What do I blame? Was I always like this? I'd like to think it's a recent development. You know, I think it's Facebook's fault. Facebook fueled Egyptian frustrations and helped overthrow their leader. That seems positive, despite the casualties. Has Facebook done anything positive for me?

I think it's destroying my brain cells. Actually as I was writing this sentence I checked Facebook.

Help! Why is my attention span so short? Why am I always thinking about tomorrow and not living today? Why am I a dreamer, but not a doer? The late-afternoon sunlight is seeping through the office window. I'll be going home soon. My evening will pass like so many others.

How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down

Sell Fish

A bitter winter wind claws at my face. Flighty snowflakes float through early morning sunbeams. I trudge up the steep hill to work, my lungs straining under the weight of icy air. Due to Monday's snowstorm, our hill is too slick to drive on, which means I have to park at the bottom. As my feet, cocooned inside soft black boots, stumble over the slippery slope, I muse about a world away, a world removed. Somewhere someone has lost a home to flooding (Australia). Somewhere a baby is dying of malnutrition (Africa, India, etc.) Somewhere a woman is being raped (Haiti).

Oblivious? Read the headlines. Yet in all the pain, there is hope. There are stories of people who forget themselves, forget to be selfish, who remind us what it really means to live/and die.

What's my biggest problem today? Not parking at the bottom of the hill. My biggest problem is forgetting myself. I'm not selling fish, but I am selfish.

www.edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/01/13/flood.teenager/index.html?hpt=C1

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13

Love Letters

This is a response to my last blog. It is written by someone much wiser than I. And, due to its simplistic truth, I have decided to share it here.

". . .Perhaps your definition of love letters is too limited – what about the crumpled, grubby fingered letter from Elias, complete with cookie crumbs? What about the BOXES of love letters you brought back from Honduras? What about love letters from parents? From niece and nephews… 'Hannah, I’m a wreck without you!'

Perhaps your book can explore the theme .. what is love? .. What is a love letter?.. what are the most precious expressions of love I have experienced?.. what individuals have I met who have exemplified true love?"

Thank you Mom for putting things in perspective :)

Palabras on Paper

¿Qué hacer para explicarte
si quiero hablar contigo
no me salen las palabras?

No sé que hacer para decirte
que eres como una carta
que me falta por abrir

¿Qué hacer para explicarte
que no encuentro las palabras
que había escrito para tí?

No sé que hacer para explicarte
que tú eres como un libro
que no supe escribir
con palabras de amor,
con palabras que no mienten
con palabras que se esconden
y que nunca sabré donde

-Jarabe de Palo

I'm stuck. I'm supposed to start writing a book, but nothing's coming to me.
No sé que hacer para explicarte que tú eres como un libro que no supe escribir. . . I know what he's talking about! The memories are there inside my head, but putting them on paper is a different story. Get it? A different story? Maybe what's inside my head isn't meant to be written down. Maybe what makes the story so special is that only I know it. It's mine to tell, or not to tell.

What about paper? It's not special until someone graces it with a fluid flourish of paint or ink. Suddenly, that insignificant piece of paper is special. We frame it, treasure it, store it away, put it on display. What's the difference between a receipt and a love letter? They're both just pieces of paper. . . aren't they? One's a record of money spent, the other a record of feelings revealed. One goes in the trash can and the other. . . well, you get the idea.

I'm afraid I've dealt with more receipts than love letters.

A piece of paper is nothing more than paper until it's covered with feeling. A book is just a figment of the imagination until it's brought to life on paper.

I have special paper, but no book.

Bamboleo

Thick, persistent drops batter my windshield, leaving behind a canvas of transparent craters that rivals the moon's shiny surface. Each crater is a separate portal into the outside world, the world outside the dry comfort of my car. Fading autumn leaves and dry pine needles coat the slick driveway as I race toward home. My wipers make feeble attempts to clear the crystal craters, but the steady drizzle of chilling droplets refuses to let up. I rush from my car into my apartment. I take no pleasure in the dampness that curls up my bare legs and clutches at my hands. Once inside I warm up some leftovers and sit down to eat above the warmth of my heater. As I shove mouthfuls of artificial chicken and fried rice into my mouth, my food-frenzied cat looks on.

My eyes wander. I take in the stark contrast of the white plastic Christmas tree at my back and the orange leaves in the yard. The drab gray sky and the brown grass make me long for a sunny afternoon in my favorite tree in Honduras.

It is raining and there is no parade, but if there were, I would be dry.

Friday I will be in Honduras. Maybe I will enjoy the afternoon in my favorite tree.

Me Gusta Como Eres

Sometimes I feel like my ideas and observations [my thoughts] are similar to one of my favorite songs.

como una manzana que al morder la cabeza me confunde
como esa vela que se prende y me rescata de la oscuridad
como la calle que siempre me lleva a ese sitio al que quiero llegar
como esa patria sin bandera en la que me siento libre
...me gusta como eres

-Jarabe de Palo

* Like an apple that confuses me when eaten
Like a candle that when lit, rescues me from the darkness
Like the street that always takes me to the place I want to go
Like this home country without a flag that makes me feel free. . . I like you [I like HOW you are. . . WHO you are]

My thoughts - Sometimes they are confusing. Sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they help me arrive at a desired destination. Yet thinking is what makes me, us, free.

And that's why I like you. . . thought. You are fleeting yet permanent. You are fun yet serious. You are wild yet tame. You are. You enable me to be.

Me gusta como eres ;)

Dead End

I work on a dead end. Does that mean I have a dead end job?

Didn't I just say I was tired of cliches?

I'm tired now. Literally.

I'll write more tomorrow.

Autumn's Atonement

I step out of my car. The rich, earthy smell envelops me. I inhale slowly, savoring the musky aroma of fallen leaves and acorns. Tentatively, yet with growing boldness, the late October sun struggles to raise its sleepy head above the majestic maples and prickly pines. I seemed to have had a similar dilemma just an hour earlier.

Fall.

Leaves swish at my feet and the mild morning breeze swirls around my brown shoes. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and let the autumn wind whisk me around in a slow waltz. I wish to tip my head back and let my arms swing freely at my sides, lost in the rhythmic melody of blowing debris. I used to think Fall could be described in cups of hot chocolate and coffee, warm sweatshirts, bonfires, and pumpkin pies. I was so wrong.

Fall is much more than the cliche associations we unimaginative humans define it with. But isn't that true of so much in life? I'm tired of cliches. The word cliche is. . .well, cliche. Overused.

I would like some magic in my life. I'm not talking about pulling rabbits out of a hat. I want to discover the simple things that make each moment I live and breathe special. Why should I content myself with the cliche when I could encounter the unique and unnoticed? I won't.

Fall, let me dance a moment more in your enchanting song. As you atone for the departure of my dear Summer, I will lose myself in the splendor of your color and fragrance.

My thoughts are thousands of miles away. If only the song would never end. If only it would transport me into the arms of another continent and season. There my magic waits.

Breathe

I have to change my ticket to Honduras. $150. Two extra days off of work, which I still don't know if my bosses will approve.

They changed the date of the graduation. A day after I am scheduled to leave. It's ridiculous. I was so upset. However, I made a promise to a girl I call my little sister. I just can't let her down.

Last week I paid $617 to get my car fixed.

You know, I am so blessed. My parents are often quick to help me. My heavenly Father is even faster to help me (sorry Mom and Dad). I want to be really angry right now. I want to stomp my feet. I want to scream really loudly and wake up the neighbors.

God, it doesn't always seem fair, but that's without a little perspective. I have SO much to be thankful for. I have a job, a home, a car. . . family, friends.

Lord, great is thy faithfulness. May I continue to grow. May the positive outweigh the negative. May I learn to give thanks, even when things don't go my way.

Chlorine Clean

I've never been a talented or driven swimmer.

Just recently I started swimming twice a week. It's amazing to feel your legs kicking behind you, to stare down at the white and dark blue tiles and follow the thick line from one side of the pool to the other. It's empowering to touch the side of the pool and feel your heart pumping strongly in your chest and the blood rushing through your legs. I like to know my body is growing stronger each time I swim. To know that potential energy oozes out of my pores, my muscles yearning to be stretched and used.

I don't relish exercising, but swimming seems to be an enjoyable way to do it.

Un Dia Especial

I have a filmy plastic bag on my dresser. Inside are cards; a memory game I've never played. It was given to me by a little boy who stole my heart. He shoved it into my hands as I spent my last few minutes with him, before I hugged him tightly and watched him walk away into a sea of maroon and white uniforms.

The day I said goodbye is a vivid pang of painful recollection. The cards say on one side "Un Dia Especial." There was nothing special about that day.

What am I doing? Where am I going? I've given part of my heart away to special children in Honduras. Almost everyday I spend a few minutes looking at pictures and videos, and my heart aches for their hugs, their smiles. I realize most of my blogs seem to center around my time away, even after I've come back.

You know, the experience doesn't stop. If you allow it, it burns in your soul, a secret desire for more, to keep helping and loving. I'm not doing enough. . .

Just about six more weeks. . . I will see them again!

Wordless

Have you ever heard the expression You leave me speechless?

I heard a speech yesterday. Alina Fernandez, Fidel Castro's daughter.

I often find myself at a lack for words. . . I'm not speechless, but wordless. Speech can be so many things: rigid, boring, superfluous, flowery, long, tiresome. . .
Speech is an art form, readily molded or changed by emotion or choice of words.

It's easy to open the mouth to speak, yet to find the right words, now that is difficult.

Dark Room

I have decided I dislike dreams.

They're either better than reality or fiercely distorted projections of our worst fears.

I suppose the mind is like a dark room. Not just a dark room, but a place for developing photos. Each day our senses intake an astounding amount of data: faces, smells, conversations. . . This data becomes a memory on the rolls of film inside our brain.

Night comes. We lay down, exhausted, and as we turn out the light and close our eyes, the dark room of our mind begins to develop the day's photos. Sometimes it goes back further, to rolls of film we'd forgotten about.

Digital. Instant gratification. We take a photo, and we see it. For those of you who have never fiddled in the dark with a canister of film, trying to pry it open and place it in a container without allowing light to spoil its dark secrets, you won't completely understand. The dark room is a magical place. It's a touchy process. There are specific instructions, specific amounts of chemicals, specific methods. Patience is mandatory. But finally, the moment of truth. Tiny pictures appear on the fragile roll, gleaming as they emerge from a rigorous bath of chemicals.

Now it's time to make them into photos.

Digital photography makes it much easier to be a photographer. There is not as much skill involved. Photoshop and other picture editing software allow anyone to create a decent photo.

The dark room is a distant memory.

Our dreams, are they necessary? No.

Yes.

I hate dreaming, yet I can't help myself. It is a part of our body's coping mechanism, a chance for sorting things out, for developing thoughts and ideas. It's amazing how often our dreams are filled with things that are dear to us. Sometimes they make little sense, and others, they are clearer than day.

Dreams.

The black curtain at my window blocks the vibrant sunlight from bathing my room with yellow shadows. The night of dreaming is over. I awake to make them a reality. Pull back the curtain, and live.