Junkyard Letters.

Wow. It's been two months already.
Fingers hover over the keyboard and...zilch.
Nothing.
That's a sign that I've been doing too much, or not blogging often enough to capture the moments.

I think it's the latter.
How do you capture those moments anyway? It's not like I can whisk out a laptop and internet connection when I'm sitting by the pool at 11pm and thinking through the day, or when I'm on the bus and a really epiphanical thought hits me.

Will we remember any of this in a thousand years to come?

Maybe it'll be like Joshua Harris' dream, where there's drawer after drawer in a filing cabinet in a large room in heaven where all our memories will be stored, including all the smart and stupid things we said, as well as all the things we never said.
And then I'll be able to see just how many people have read my posts, and know how accurate my feelings are cause about right now, I feel worthless. I bet if my posts were books they'd be the kind forgotten on a really high shelf in a dusty corner in the book store and one day, when they're clearing out the shop, they'd discover the existence of my posts-books and then...
I don't know.
Maybe they'll laugh as they remember what was written inside, or be curious cause they'd never read it and the books look really quaint, with the yellowing-pages, old ink and dust. Or maybe they'll throw it out for recycling without a second glance.

I really, really, REALLY like Donald Miller.
Maybe that's not too accurate. Let me rephrase.
I really, really, REALLY like Donald Miller's writing style.
I mean, I wouldn't actually know if I liked him unless if I met him in person, right?
But he's so honest, honest in a way I've always hope to be but realised I've always fallen short because I'm too busy embellishing my thoughts with fancy words that would have swirls and prints all over if you transposed them into a picture that by the time I hit 'publish post', I've glossed a layer of shine over all of it.
Myabe God is teaching me how to be honest.
Like, honest as in "through the heart" and not "from the heart".
Lil' C said that when commenting on Mark and Chelsie's dancing (the "Bleeding Love" one by Tabitha and Napolean, who are, incidentally, a really awesome hip hop choreographer-couple) and I've not had anything else make so much sense to me before.
Maybe that's slightly exaggerating, but what I'm trying to say is that dancing through your heart is so important a truth that it can be applied to so many other things in life, such as writing.
So back to this writing business...

I was standing along the corridor on the second level of Bartley, and there was this wind blowing down it. It was still and quiet, with the sound of the kids' voices coming through the wall, and it felt so peaceful. I stayed there for a bit because it was one of those moments that needed to last a bit longer than the usual moment, so you stop moving and stay in there until you feel it in you to move on to the next one.
It made me feel...alive.

So yes, getting back to this writing business, perhaps I should just put in the quote from Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years here.
"Sometimes I'm tempted to believe life doesn't mean anything at all. I've read philosophers who say meaningful experiences are purely subjective, and I understand why they belive that, because you can't prove life and love and death are anything more than radom happenings. But then you start thinking about some of the scenes you've lived, and if you've had a couple of drinks, they have a sentimental quality that gets you believing we are all poems coming out of the mud."

That's exactly how I feel.
Except that I don't need a couple of drinks to get into the sentimental mood. I think HSPs (highly sensitive people) kinda just create these moods themselves, or else they just swing into it.

My post title doesn't even make sense, but it just came and in a weird sort of way, it feels right.