Is it really that simple?

The more I analyze my portion of reality, I'm realizing that some people are drawn to me. I don't understand the reason[s?] for it. I just can't see it. I look at myself, inside my heart and on my outward appearance, and I don't see anything particularly amazing. But is that humility, or is it self-deprecation? Can you have one without the other? How do you love yourself, but stay humble enough to realize that you're nothing on your own?

I'm at this place in my life where the book that is living, the one that I've kept closed and locked, is slowly opening again for. Partly because it really wants to, and partly because I'm tugging at the clasp.

I'm trying to understand how other people see me. People who know me, who don't know me. I'm tired of this lackluster portrait that I've painted of myself that I keep in my mind. When I see myself, it's like I have my hands over my eyes and I'm peeking through the cracks of my fingers and squinting. It's distorted. It isn't truth. I'm tired of self-protection and living in this tiny box where nothing hurts. The truth is, nothing feels good either. There isn't any joy in a glass square full of my own carbon dioxide. I'm breathing but that's about it. I want to know what God sees - the good and the bad. I want to know what others truly and honestly see: the good, the bad, the neutral thought.

I don't want to seem like I'm desperate for attention because I'm really not. In fact, most of the time, I don't believe I'm worth attention. I'm not saying this because I'm one of those girls who will post pictures of herself that she says are ugly just so people will say how beautiful she is. I never have been. But I think it's time I asked for what I need, rather than sit back and wish that I had the courage to receive it.

I need someone to be unafraid to tell me what they think of me.
I need more than just one person to tell me the truth about myself.
My opinion can't be the only one that I consider when it comes to who I am -- that is not only vanity, it's stupidity.

If you're willing, tell me. Tell me the whole truth. Tell me everything that you see. Take your time. Choose your words. Be real with me. Even if you feel awkward or stupid or worried about my feelings - ignore all that. I need this, so I'm asking for it.

today i threw on jeans and a hoodie,
jumped in a truck where i yanked on my Converses
to go shoot pool at a bowling alley.
i also learned what "mudbogging" is,
and put my iPod on shuffle -- giving up control of my playlist.

you are wonderful. don't tell yourself any differently. don't let anybody else tell you any differently. you are amazing and that's all there is to it.

today, my heart felt hope.
for the first time in so long.

i refuse to let it go.

stop telling yourself you're alone. you're NOT alone. you were never alone.

i refuse to believe that God is cruel,

or that He allows suffering for no reason.

Today I was looking at a picture from my 2007 escapade to Los Angeles, for one of the biggest Star Wars conventions ever held - the thirty year anniversary party, if you will. The picture is of a balding, middle-aged man in white tube socks and dark brown Jesus sandals, with his dark brown Jedi robe (looking conspicuously like a cape) draped proudly over his slightly hunched shoulders.

At first, I just grinned. "Typical..." I giggled, "supernerd."

But then I thought... I wonder what he's like. I took his picture from behind on a palm-tree-laden Los Angeles sidewalk, but I don't know his name. Maybe it's something cute and slightly amusing like Lenny or Kevin (Spongebob & jellyfishing, anyone?) or, best of all, Luke or Ben. Or maybe it's something classic like Charles or William or Richard.

Maybe he lives alone with a huge computer that's tricked out for online gaming, and the newest Xbox 360 (or Playstation 3, whichever you prefer), with every game he loves stacked on his shelves. Or maybe he works a 9-to-5 to support his lovely wife and two beautiful kids. Maybe he named his son Anakin because he liked that it's actually been adopted as an American name that means "Warrior". Or maybe he named his daughter Annie - a perfectly innocent and non-embarrassing name that would only be made embarrassing if he gushed about how he named her after Darth Vader in his younger years.

Maybe he writes fanfiction, because his job is unfulfilling and he always secretly wanted to be a novelist. Maybe he shares his childhood action figures with his kids because his father bought them for him, because his father loved the movies first and passed on his passion for the saga to his son.

Maybe that makes him silly or goofy, or abnormal.

But it also makes him a dreamer.

So here's to us. The geeks, the gamers, the nerds and the losers. The outcast and the superhero. The forgotten and the found.

Because our hearts are still dreaming.
And our head shots are flawless.

my heart has never been so empty.

happy new year.

I am so excited for Christmas I can hardly stand it.

<3

 sometimes you just want to say
               "when, God, when?"
                     about everything.

i'm waiting for the day when i am on [his] mind. / i'm waiting for the day when love's no longer blind.

screaming twelve days of Christmas with Relient K in the car.
"do you really want four more years of THIS!?"
"...gold boobies!"
"...and you guys, milk the maids --oh, I mean, milk the cows. oops. we can edit that out, honey."
being the four rows of calling birds.
Mr. Dennis & the ladies dancing.
Mr. E & the pipers. ["that was more woman than i ever wanted to encounter."]

i love my dear alma mater.

Didn’t I tell you that I could hear you running out?
Didn’t I find you when I knew you were hiding out?
Didn’t I see you when you thought you’d never stand out?
Didn’t I find you? Didn’t I find you?