Another blog

Well, it looks like I have to write something. So I am.

Merry christmas, and as you all realize that YOU’RE AT MY HOUSE, you can thank me for my hospitality and forget to kill me for making you stay. =)

I write for the sake of writing, it’s time to write something, so I do.

Should it be a poem? Should it be a book? Can I be a poet? Can I make my name?
I don’t know either, but you should look into it. Of course, if you don’t read you wouldn’t need to do so.

Lets see, I could write about writing, like I am at the moment. I could pour out my thoughts, until everyones loaded. Or I could simply sit down, place my hands on my keyboard. Hit a few keys and find out if I’m capable.

 Aj’nthan1337nmoaibthe5133khnnaahshraa

 That didn’t work so well, now did it. But hey look, suddenly I have a topic! Why would I write something like that?

Thats why you should look into it.

Everybody, I realize that this is less-then worth reading, so I’m going to say, what is?
Well, you could answer with a jumble of your favorite books, or maybe some poetic loserville depression. But instead, do me a favor, and take a notebook, and see what you can come up with. Then, when you have written your crazy thoughts down on said notebook, show it to me. This way I can answer with a jumble of my favorite books, or maybe some poetic loserville depression.

P.S. Meow(DONT ASK.).

RE:P.S. Yes, I did place a period on the inside of my parentheses.

Rambling!

Everybody’s got a baby kangaroo, mine is pink but yours is blue…
Oh, wait, that’s not mai line!

I thought it’d be nice to post something here, because you know, with nobody reading, it’s almost like talking to myself. This is definitely regarded as a mistake, in most cases. But this time it’s actually quite a good thing, because nobody knows that I’m doing it, and that way nobody can think me insane. But I still get to talk allot, to myself, that is.

It all works out for the best, I think. Lovely irony, that I’m telling myself about talking to myself right now. Whatever will I do should somebody actually read this?

 “Ask your doctor about suicide!” Yeah, you won’t get that, because it’s an inside thing, and I’m not inside. =D

This is a profound question, one question to which I don’t yet have a definitive answer.
I know the virtues and vexes of it. I know the words that define it, the emotions that help hold it together. For the words of wiser men tell me those.
But what is love? In a pure sense.

1 John 4:16
“God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them”

1 Corinthians 13:4 - 13:13
“Love is patient, love is kind, it is not envious. Love does not brag, it is not puffed up. It is not rude, it is not self-serving, it is not easily angered, or resentful. It is not glad about injustice, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes for all things, and endures all things.
Love never ends. But if there are prophecies, they will be set aside; if there are tongues, they will cease; if there is knowledge, it will be set aside. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part, but when what is perfect comes, the partial will be set aside. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. But when I became an adult, I set aside childish ways. For now we see in a mirror indirectly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know in part, then I will know fully. Just as I have been fully known. And now these three remain: Faith, Hope, and Love. But the greatest of these is Love.”

So, I know all about love, how it is a choice, and dicision, a feeling, something you do, want, need, contain and yet outbreak in. An action, pertaining with a great desire to help somebody. It is done selflessly, but returns the greatest rewards.

This is all I know of it, having never been able to recognize it for myself.
That is my problem.

Yes, it comes again.

The carrying of wood, the burning of hands, the making of wishes based off others demands. The constant degrading of brain cells at least, gives me some comfort that one day I’ll be, a little less badgered and a little less fleat, and that some day, yes one day, I’ll be at peace. When those cells start to die, and those tears I do cry, they’ll be tears of joy, and no, not a ploy, joy. Yes, this I say to whoever’s ahoy. This dares to annoy. But afterall, I’m just a boy.

Back to the point, for I’m wearing it thin. Joy was the point, yes I do think I win.

Joy, Joy, Joy…
Joy to get away, from the parils of day. Joy to dissapear and not worry all year. Joy, yes Joy. When I finally stare blankly at whatevers above, when I do close my eyes to never wake up, Joy will be the feeling I feel, yes Joy. When I look at the light and just cover my eyes, lay down and wait and ignore that I’m late. I wear no disguise, I have nothing to hide, for though the light digs into my soul, I know not to worry, nor fret. For the light is that last thing to which I am in debt.

What if I do nothing, just sit there forever, never to be judged, never condemned. Do you think that’s allowed? And not shunned or thought rude? To be silent, still, and never grow ill. Lean on patience as ever for there is such a paril as judgement afoot on that last ledge of forever.

This has been Random Rambling by Isaac Hall. Tune in next time to hear… “Everybody’s got a baby kangaroo, mine is pink but yours is blue…”