I don't know what the hell I want.

[...Man is a god when he dreams, a begger when he thinks...]

Inspired by ruined paradise. A panel of angels in their old winter clothes sipping hot coffee out of tin mugs to stay warm. Amongst the fallen pillars in the hidden winter sunlight, shuffling through papers on a long wooden table, their grace and wisdom inspires me.

Thank Beauty it is raining today. Funny that a girl who fears the night doesn't start her day until four. But the freshness of the rain and my presence on this porch reminds me of my grandmother once here, years ago, on the same porch, different rain. She sat reading a book while I watched the storm, and I watched her not noticing the thunder and the lightning, but all the while knowing that it was the storm that brought her here.

Like my grandmother in the middle of the storm, protected from the water by a small roof, and from the lightning by the thousands of structures taller than us, we are so often drawn to beauty and its power, letting its influence breath over our skin, the sounds drift into our ears, yet letting the full power of it wash over us. The storm passes and we are still distracted by our novels. We were drawn to it, we wanted its mist on our skin and its scent in our bodies, but we did not want to stand under it with our mouths to the sky. We'd rather push the thunder from our minds and remember only the water, washing away the dirt of the city.

Why do we try so desperately to oppose Nature? We cling onto our bits of paper and our accomplishments and our photographs, never letting the old decompose so it can become earth again and give new life to the Spring? Perhaps we would lose progress. We would lose this computer, this piece of writing, these clothes, this meaningless existence. But perhaps we wouldn't feel so small. Perhaps we wouldn't fear death quite so much. Perhaps meaning wouldn't be questioned in the garden, for God is so wholly present at every moment. Where has it gone? Even the plants are diseased in the city. We've even tried to crush the meaning out of the Seasons. Strawberries in January, sun tanning in coffins of false lighting, electric heating, air conditioning. You can now live in Virginia and never sweat a drop. What heaven? What earth... Where has my paradise gone? It hasn't always lived in my dreams. The simplicity of rain hitting leaves, the breathtaking sight of a field at dawn, of horses grazing in the mist. Such simple things are my dreams made of. Yet even that seems unattainable.

By the time my arms have rotted, my feet may have sunk too deep into the soil. With waiting, our possessions can only pile, and the sacrifice may become too great. Shall I reconcile myself to the city? Are my veins bound up in the movement of the traffic?

I don't fear solitude. But I have no home in the country. Thus I am stuck. For now. The route to my dreams via investing in real estate and taking on a profession. How terribly heartbreaking. Nature and I will have to bear the company of misery and shame for awhile yet. First, I have to beat this game of humanity. I need money. The only way to set land free is to possess it yourself, to abide by the laws of dogs. The only way beyond it is through it. What kind of a war is this?

Writing gets significantly worse with depression. What kind of an outlet is this supposed to be anyway?

When I slip under I do silly shit. I shit (she reads later and decides not to fix) on the computer and observe people's lives, people I used to know but not that well, from what can be found on the internet. I look at pictures of people and find that they are now brilliant artists, photographers, painters, musicians, famous, popular, beautiful, fashionable, lovable, well liked, happy, depressed in a cool way, cool. I think, shit, I went to high school with them. I was better than them at that when we were both 16, they even thought I was cool, and now they've gone and got good... REALLY good, really COOL good, and I'm even worse than I was then. In fact I haven't done shit in those 4, going on 5, 6, 7, 35, 58 years. Here I am, doing nothing. I am doing a gr. 11 math credit. I have less than a year of University, no high school diploma. I sit at home. I don't even do those little things I thought would make my days worth while. Play violin. Every day. At this rate, I'll be great by my 365th every day play violin. I says. I says two weeks ago. I says two weeks ago since then done nothing but my life shattered by a two day First Aid course. Great. Can't handle First Aid course. Can't handle Art Gallery with a friend. Can't handle being out of house. Can't handle being in of house. Can't handle alone. Can't handle people, make me all kinds of uncomfortable or angry. 

If I were a little Irish leprechaun I wouldn't have to be cool.

But if I were cool... I could be in people's cool photos too. Maybe they could even paint pictures of me. Make me feel beautiful. Make me feel cool.

But there I was standing in the kitchen. Brewing nighty night tea. Dropped my apple on the floor. Took a bite, was gross. Rotting. Couldn't get the taste out of my mouth.

But there I was standing in the kitchen. All I want to do is get married and move to the colonial American McStates Estate lands of tall trees and rich people and big clean houses and have babies and a husband. Here I am wanting to be everything I was taught was a failed woman. Here I am wanting to fail. Here I am failing anyway. 

Electricity takes the path of least resistance, says my First Aid instructor. Here I was am single woman taking charge of career. Take lots of school, be lots of success, hate marriage, hear me roar, how dare you define me by ability to create human life. No, back: Here I was am single young woman, pretty neat really. The adults like me, think I'm pretty clever, think I'm pretty wise. I wear lots of mature colours, not really blending in. Neat independent smart girl. Then, there I went. There I went when those boys in those sweaters peered at me with their endearing eyes. Bless their souls what wonderful sweater wearing beings. I became some sort of monster. Some sort of married monster. Some sort of romantic comedy I don't want you to do dishes, I want you to want to do dishes kind of pink hysterical picket fence lady monster. I just want to be... with a Him. 

There's no going back it seems...

My Him-right-now, he's away right now...

Why do I feel there is no meaning in my life right now...

Or has there been since meeting that first boy in that first sweater...

Or was there before....?

Electricity takes the path of least resistance, says my First Aid instructor. My current ran through him when first I touched him. I don't think I ever wanted a life alone. So am I doomed to hating where I am until I get what I think I want? Good luck getting it. Turns out it's hard to ... get things. you want. 

So I do nothing.

How can one do, when doing has lost all meaning?

[...Oh do I feel like the mother of the world, with two children fighting...]

I saw through facebook today that a person my age who I saw around my University was recently killed. He was in India wringing out wet towels when he came into contact with a live electrical wire. The current went through his right arm and out his right leg. Both his arms were amputated and much of his skin was burnt and cells only continued to die. A necklace he always wore most likely carried the current to his chest. He was apparently able to hug his parents with his left leg. Eventually he fell into cardiac arrest and died.

This past week I took a First Aid course. The Red Cross building was next to a graveyard, and the topic of death was very present, yet factual. But now, my motherly instincts in addition to this minor training have made me feel responsible for every scrape, bruise and heart attack that I may come into contact with. What could I have done for Lyell? Had I been there, could I have done anything to keep him alive? To save his arms? His kidneys? His heart? This minor training has made me feel responsible, and yet all I learned was how to recognize that something was wrong and to call 911. Or, if they are already dead... do CPR. Every time I've called for an ambulance they have taken close to 40 minutes to arrive. Lyell had to be driven because there were no ambulances, and was rejected by two hospitals before being taken in some six and a half hours after the electrocution.

After reading of the death of Lyell, I stood in my room thinking, and heard the screams of a child being dragged up the street by his mother. His twin brother followed 10 yards behind, scared and clearly in pain because of his brother's screaming. No human being should ever be heard making a noise like that. How do I save him?

I could never say that life was fragile. Life is very strong. But this world is a very powerful place. The actions of a mother, how profound an affect it has on a living being under her care. An electrical charge that can destroy a body in less than a second, before returning to the earth where it immediately dissolves. How do we embrace these victims? How do we ground the current before it takes a life?

In lieu of flower, Lyell's parents request a random act of kindness towards a complete stranger, as he would have liked. But personally, I hope that my kindness will no longer be random, but constant. I hope that all my actions are performed out of good will. I hope that I will never give my children need to scream like that child.