Make it a Story Challenge

Dear Writers/People That Like Thinking,
I have a challenge for you.  Here are the requirements.
You have to be:
1. Willing to write
2. Willing to think
3. Willing to realize that this is a very useful and important waste of you time.  (What else is a blog for?)

Here is the challenge:

1.  Look at these picture's, and make a story out them.
2.  Make up a story for each of them.
3.  Each story has to be related to the other pictures in someway.  (Example:  They can all be in the same world, they can all have the same main character, etc.  Be creative.)
4.  Each story can only be two paragraphs long.  (But I'm not apposed to you turning it into a series of 500 page novels when your done with this challenge).

5.  When you are done, you may email/google message me your finished work and I will post it on my blog.  Or let me know if you don't want your writing posted.  Or you can be lame and do the challenge and not send me anything.  That works too, I guess.

6.  You can write in what ever style you want.  Even poetry.  (If that's the case then use your own better judgement when it comes to the paragraph rule).  

Reward:

A glomp.  

Definition:  Something between a hug and a tackle.........I can think of no better reward at the moment.

Here are the pictures:

                                                                                   Picture One

                                                                              

                                                                                         Picture Two

Picture Three

Picture Four

Picture Five

Picture Six 

Have fun.

Call It Red

Here is a short story I wrote in the car.
(Warning, I'm rating it PG13.  So if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, or simply don't feel like reading anything dark, then I suggest you don't read this).

Call It Red

The straps on my shoes are red.  The advertisements are bright and red.  Seems like each one that passes by looks brighter and sillier then the next.  The grass between the roads and buildings is dark green.  Each building structure is intricate, decorative, colorful…joyful.  Every person we pass is smiling.  Their clothes don’t very much in style, only in color.  So many colors.  And the color red.
I turn and look at Mama.  She sits next to me, reading from her book screen.  The light reflects in her half closed eyes.  Her lips are red.  Stretched into a smile.  Always smiling.  When I smile for too long my cheeks go numb.  But Mama smiles like her face was sewn that way.   Like how a shirt is pulled tight and hung by two clothespins, Mama’s smile seems stretched and pined to her face.
Maybe it has something to do with her face enhancement surgeries.  I wonder what people look like without face enhancement surgeries, maybe they turn into ugly animal creatures.
I thought the color red was equal to the amount of any other color in the city.  In the world.  But I was wrong.  I’ve seen red.  Real, deep, dark, thick, warm red.  A lot of it.  Just hiding inside us where no one can see.
 try to imagine all the red in side of Mama.  I can’t.  her skin is too tight, smooth, pink, untouched.  Unscratched.
Mama must sense I’m looking at her because her head tilts towards me, “Hay sweaty, don’t forget to smile, okay?”
She gives my chin a stroke, her fingers warm minus the cold metal of her ring.
I look out the window again.  A billboard high above flashes a picture or the widest and brightest smiles a face could possibly hold, with the only word I can read below, ‘’smiling.”
I slouch deeper in my seat buckles, keeping my head back and hoping no one out side see’s me not smiling.  There’s a tray of untouched crackers in front of me.  My stomach refused them.  I look at Mama’s stomach, her seat belt hugging the little round problem.  The problem that seems to grow larger and larger every day.  That’s what Mama and Daddy call it.  Yet they keep smiling.
“Mama?”
She doesn’t respond, so I say it louder, above the hum of the engine and air conditioning.
“Mama?”
She hums, her dimples deepening, but she doesn’t look up from her screen.  This is how I know she’s not going to answer my questions, but I ask any way.
“What’s the problem for?”
“Hm?  What problem?”  Her voice is high with concern, though her expression is still as a pond.
“The problem in your stomach.”
“Oh,” She laughs, looking under her screen at her stomach, “You mean, what is the problem?”
“What is the problem?”
“Well, it’s not really a problem—the doctors will take care of it in two seconds.  But they have a nice play room for you and probably a movie, it’ll be fun.”
I predicted I would get an answer kind of like that.  Usually I quit here, knowing I wont get anywhere, but there’s a hurtful flicking in my chest, telling me that I will never be at peace until I understand.
But I can’t.  I never understand anything.  In the moments where I think I understand, someone informs me that I really don’t.
For me to understand would be like trying to fill up a dried ocean with a garden hose. 
“Mama?”  I try again.
“Hm?”
“What’s inside you?”
She takes a breathe through her nostrils, “Well, it’s like an egg, or a lump that needs to come out.”
“Which is where I came from.”
“What you…” She looks at me, “Oh, yes!  Uh-huh, you’re right.” She grins deeper and bows back to her screen.
“So who’s inside you right now?”
“You mean what’s inside me right now?  I already told you.  Keep smiling, honey.”  She raises her eye brows at me to emphasize  the order.
I stretch the corners of my mouth slightly, and look at the empty seat beside me, the one closest to the window.  The loose seat belt.  Every time I look I think I’ll see her sitting there, short brown hair in her face and pointed nose.  Her skinny knee caps protruding from a pair of shorts.  But she’s not there.  She’s never there anymore, she’s nowhere.
I’ve looked for her everywhere.  In her room.  Every corner of the house.  In the back yard.  Out the window on drives, in case I might see her on the side walks.
Mama and Daddy keep telling me she’s moved away.  But they wont tell me where.  I’ve looked everywhere.  Maybe they don’t know.  Even though they know everything.
The steering wheal turns automatically, and the auto control voice says, like a happy melody, “We are 5 minutes from the Joy4all Hospital.”
“Is Phoebe there?” I ask.
Mom pupils stop twitching.  Her eyes still glow with the screen light, but she’s not reading.  It’s as though time paused. “No, she moved away, remember?” 
“Like how Grandma moved away?”
“Yeah,” She whispers, squinting me a quick smile.
She keeps turning back to her book.  Maybe she’s just speaking and not listening. 
“But that’s where they took Phoebe,” I proceed, “Maybe she’s still there.”
“No, she’s not.  She moved on.”
“Maybe she didn’t, and you just don’t know.”
“No, Tom, she’s not.”
“Maybe they cleaned her so she’s not red any more.”
“No.”
No.  It’s so short and robotic sounding from Mama.  I look away and suck the inside of my cheek.
Mama and Daddy always seem to have answers for every question I have.  That’s how I know they know everything.  And I’m wrong.  Always.  And now my mind drifts out into dangerous, unknown seas.  I know what I’m thinking, but I’m so afraid that my thoughts will be loud enough for Mama will hear.
I’m the last one that saw Phoebe.  Not Mama.  Not Daddy.  Me.
I look at the empty seat.  I see her.  She watches me.
Maybe Mama and Daddy really don’t know where she is.  Maybe I’m the one that knows where she is.  Then I should tell them.
I can’t.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.  It’s bad for my positivity, whatever that means.  Mama might have me go to Mrs. Prig’s office for a disciplinary talking to.  I hate those.
Phoebe still watches me from the empty seat. 
I’ve come so far.  The excitement of treading these dangerous waters is too much.  What would happen?
I open my mouth.
“Phoebe died.”
Mama’s head jerks up, I’ve never noticed Mama had so much white in her eyes.  I open my mouth again.
“I killed Phoebe.”
Her red lips pull together, there are winkled lines on her mouth.  Without the smile, she looks like a different human.  My tongue is stiff.  I don’t breathe.
“Who taught you to say that?”
“No one.”
“Tom,” Her voice is slow and peaceful, “No one…’Dies.”  Her eye lid twitches, she licks her lips, as if cleansing them from using such a word.
No one dies.
“That’s what I told Phoebe.”
Mama doesn’t answer right away.  In fact, there is silence after my words.  Just the hum of the car and the hiss of cars passing us.  The silence is wrong.  I need to fill it, but there’s nothing else to say.  I just wait.
Mama scratches her twitching eye lid with the tip of her finger nail, her face slowly regains it’s normal composure and she says, “I’m sorry you feel a little sad that Phoebe isn’t here, but we have to remember to say happy things, and smile, it’ll make it better.  Okay, sweetie?”
The car slows down, turning into a large parking lot.  Ahead there is a monstrous white building, stretched as wide as a forest so tall I have to duck to see the top through my window.  It get’s smaller and smaller at the top, like stairs meeting each other. 
“Welcome to Joy4all hospital,” says the car.  Our seat belts and the door’s unlock with a simultaneous; ‘click.’
Mama’s book goes back and she tucks it in her purse, throwing the strap over her shoulder.  She opens the door and steps out.  Normally I’d follow her.  I don’t.  I sit heavy and still, like there’s a brick in my chest.  It hurts.  I let my jaws pull tight together and my face go hard and scrunched ‘till it’s warm.
“Come on Tom.” Mom motions to me.
“I hate smiling.”
“Tom!”  Mom ducks into the car, her purse dangling from her arm, “Where did you hear those words?” As she reaches for my arm, she holds her stomach with the other.
“Who’s in your stomach?”
Her eye lashes flicker, masking an eye roll, “What’s inside my stomach, and I already told you.  It’s time to go.”
 She pulls my arm.
“I came from your stomach,” I say.
“Yes, very good, and we have to go now-”
“Phoebe came from your stomach.”
She pinches my knee.  It doesn’t’ hurt, but the sharp movements makes me jolt.  “Tom,” Her eyes look straight into mine, “I don’t want to be late.  Don’t make me call Daddy to tell you to get out of the car.”
I let her take my arm and guide me out.  I watch the ground, my legs heavy and slow.

We approach the glass entrance.  Pictures of smiling people line the windows.  The sunset behind them.  Some fancy words underneath.
As Mama and I push through the pinning glass doors, she whispers, “Smile.”  Her face back to grinning.  And she doesn’t look down at me.
The inside of the building is so wide, with so many people and shiny tile.  I see the reflection of my shoes as we walk.  There are sections of blue chairs, plenty of people and screens.  So much light and color.
Mama guides me down the long expanse, to a hallway with elevators.  There’s a slight ease of weight inside me.  I like elevators. 
The glass doors slide open and we step in, Mama tells the voice monitor what floor we’re going to.
Phoebe and I used to jump in the elevator, to see if we could make them go down.  I watch my shoes.  I didn’t even ask to press the buttons.
We go up, but my insides sink.
I come to a realization.  Something happened to me that I was unaware of.  I don’t like elevators any more.
The round lights above the door change slowly to the right, as the floors pass us under us.
It’s so quiet.  Just the two of us.  No, three of us.  I look at the tiny, barely noticeable bulge in Mama’s stomach.

Don’t be scared  Phoebe, there’s no such thing as death.

There’s another Phoebe.  A Little Phoebe.  Right here.  So close, yet invisible.  So small, in the dark.  Unknowing.  Like she was.  I wonder if Little Phoebe could have as much red in her as my Phoebe.  My arms shake.  I can’t make it stop.
We’re almost at our floor.
“Mama?”
“Hm?”
“Is she a boy or a girl?”
Her lips part, still smiling, though veins appear in squiggled bulges on the side of her forehead, “It’s a blob of matter, Tom.  Am I not explaining well enough?”
The elevator slows, my stomach flutters.  I used to laugh at the feeling.  Now I want to puke.  The doors slide open.
We enter into the noise and voices again, and a room identical to the one we first entered, as though we never moved.  Even the people look the same.  Mom holds my wrist as we walk.  Nurses in bright baggy shirts smile at us when we pass.  Especially at me.   Even some of their shirts have smiley faces on them.
Everything seems to stare at me.  The only one not smiling one.  I’m surrounded.  Figures in obscurely painted masks, they cornering me, the plastic of their smiles grow wider and wider, as though they’ll swallow me.  No where to hide.  No where to run.
And I never noticed.  I wish I could go back to not noticing. 
My legs slow down, forcing Mom to grab my wrist tighter and pull harder.  My shoes squeak on the tile.
We stop before the desk screen.  She doesn’t let go of my wrist, and I don’t stop pulling back. 
“Mama, is she a boy or a girl?”
“Tom, please,” Mama articulates, “I wish you wouldn’t be so difficult.  There’s a fun room for you so you can-”
I’m not listening any more.  There’s a lady sitting in a chair behind us with bright, died red hair.  Her glasses are red.  There’s a man in the seat facing her with a red notebook binder.  In the vending machine behind him contains some kind of red energy liquid.  The nails of the girl who slips her coins in the machine are red.  Her jacket is red.
It’s all the wrong kind of red though.  I look at my shoes.  What was it?  I don’t remember…
“Blood!”
Mama’s shoulders tense, her bangs fall in her face and she bends down to me, “Where?!  Are you okay?”
“It’s called blood.”
She puts a finger to her lips, glancing around, her voice is hissing and sharp, “Sssh, don’t ever say things like that!  Especially here!” 
“I know what blood is-”
“Tom,”
“It’s inside you and when your skin opens up-”
“Tom—ssssh-”
“That’s what comes out.”
“Stop.”
But I don’t stop.  I can’t now. 
“And it’s dark and warm and red and it’s everywhere Mama!  It’s on that truck and all over the road because I killed-”
“Stop!”  Mama has my shoulders, tight, her teeth are bared, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”
She closes her eyes and exhales, her breathe warm and minty.  Taking my sore arm, she stands, clicks a few more rapid taps into the screen and pulls me down the hall with her.  A few people glance at us as we pass, Mama just smiles back.  She takes me around a bend with a water bottle dispenser.  I still hear voices, but they are distant and the hall is narrower and empty.  Mama faces me, bending down to one knee and looking me in the eyes, taking my hands in her thin, warm ones.
“Tom, I can’t believe you would say those words.  I think you owe me an apology.”
“Phoebe died.”  My throat constricts, and I can’t fight the tingling in my nose and heat that rushes to my face and eyes.  Mama’s lips part.  Her eyes look up, not at the ceiling, not at anything really, just not at me.  Something happens to her eyes.  They’re shiny.  Like wet, newly cleaned glass. 
“Tom, there’s no such thing as dying.”  She whispers.
“But I saw it.  I killed Phoebe.”
“There’s no such thing as killing.” The lump on her throat moves up and down, I hear the wet swallow and she looks at me, the smile returns, “You can say; taking away, or leaving, and that happens.  But you know what?  It’s okay.”  She strokes my hair, her hands clammy against the moist my forehead.
“We don’t have to be sad about it, because there’s so reason to be sad.  People leave, and sometimes it’s necessary.”
“But it’s wrong.”
Mama shakes her head, her bangs slip back in her face and she tucks them behind her ear. “Don’t say wrong.  We all make our own choices, and if it’s right to them then it’s right.  There’s no wrong.”
I don’t understand.  If there’s no wrong, then why was Mama just telling me what she thought was wrong?  I just look at her.  I don’t ask any more questions.  I can’t put my questions into words.  And I don’t want any more of her answers.  I just want to hug Mama and close my eyes and pretend none of this ever happened.  I don’t want to know the things I know.  I hate the image of masks, attacking me.  I hate elevators.  And I hate the color red.  But I can’t say any of this to Mama.
And the Little Phoebe has no words at all.  Just darkness and a warm little home.  She doesn’t know what’s happening.  What will happen.  She might not even know that there are more people in the world besides her. 
Mama gives me a kiss on the forehead.
I try to imagine Mama giving the Little Phoebe a kiss too.  It’s hard.  Because Mama doesn’t seem like she wants Little Phoebe.  I wonder if she’s a boy or a girl.  I wonder if she’d look like me.  Maybe be good at soccer, like Phoebe was.  Or good at drawing, like I am.  Does she have light hair like me, or dark hair like Phoebe’s?

Mama and I walk back to the waiting room, and as we walk Mama says, “I’ll take you to the play room now.”
“I don’t want to go to the play room,” I protest, “Please can I stay with you?”
“You can’t, I’m going to my appointment.  Daddy’s coming to pick you up soon any way, it wont be long-”
“Can I just wait with you until you have to go?”  Mama stops walking and squishes her mouth to one side. 
“It’s just right there, isn’t it?” I point to the end of the hall with the sunshine sign, and plastic orange gate.
Mama agrees.
My heart beats again.

We sit in the blue cushioned chairs.  The TV in front of us plays some colorful cartoon that includes flowers and happy children.
My mind screams at me.  My chest aches.  I can’t sit here I silence.  I have to say something to Mama.  Something, anything in any effort for voices Little Phoebe. 
I can see her looking at me.  “Can you save me, Tom?”

I see her again.  All of the sudden she’s older, like me, she looks like my Phoebe.  She squeezes me with arms so little soft.  She says, “Thank you for letting me be alive!”
I hug her back.
Tight.
And I don’t let go.

“Lilly Haliber?”
I look up at my Mom’s name.  To our left standing at the door is a skinny woman with curly green hair and baggy flower shirt, looking at her clip board and scanning the waiting room.  I hope Mama didn’t hear her.
“Hello,” Mama grabs her purse from under the chair. Smiling broader and almost as fake as the cartoon on the movie screen.  She stands.  Along with Little Phoebe.  I stand too. 
“Tom, go head to the play room now.”
She turns to the nurse with formal laughter.
My chest pounds so hard I can hear it.  Can anyone else hear it?
“Mama!”
She turns.
“It’s okay Tom, Daddy’s gonna be here soon to pick you up.”
I take her hand as she tries to walk away from me, “Mama don’t go, please don’t go, I want Phoebe, Mama.”
Mama looks back at the nurse, then to me, giving my hair a rub, “Be good.  Keep smiling.”
She turns, pulling her hand away from mine.  Mama and the nurse exchange smiles and happy words. 

And I see Phoebe.  Running out, hair ruffled behind her by the wind, casing my toy air plane, running and leaping up trying to catch it.  She ducked under the orange tape, the place we’ve never been, and kept running after it.
Because I told her to.
Because there’s no such thing as death.  No such thing as killing.

And there’s Little Phoebe, who I’ve never seen, never met, inside my Mama.  And Mama fallows the nurse.  Because Little Phoebe is nobody.  Just a lump of nothing.
What’s she doing right now?  Is she sleeping?  What’s she dreaming about?  Can she dream?
I don’t know.  But it’s going to end. 

And the people hide the blood.  Hiding death underneath smiles and happy words.  It's bright.  But I've noticed; you can't have so much bright without a shadow.
So what's happening in the dark?
Keep smiling.
Keep smiling.
Mama and the nurse disappear.  The door clicks shut.
And Phoebe keeps running.  And the truck doesn't stop for her.
My Phoebe.

Slaughter the Art

Slaughter the Art 

Breaking the Brush
Slaughter the art 

Burning the music 

Tar it apart 

You've given us beauty
We roll it in dirt
A soul for loving
We feed it to flirt 

The instruments are ours
You've given us a song
We smash then down to splinters
We tune the notes to wrong

You've placed us on a stage

So we could be as light
Yet we bite and suck the glory
We're vampires in the night

Or we of little faith
Dancing in the Dark 

Voices shut

Hands in pockets
Too afraid to make a mark 

We look to the saint
He shakes his head

"Art is for sinners

Fiction is dead."

But I look to you 

And you say this instead

"I'm the beauty
Hidden deep

I'm the music
Never played 

I'm the book 

That's never written 

I'm the art
That will not fade"

"I'm the stage that's built on purpose 

For you to take a stand
Upstage center 

Upstage right 

Now take my hand 

Step into the light."

The Results of Visiting Cousin MW on April Fools Day

My lovely cousin MW has relentlessly been begging me to post this...I have nothing further to say.

11:27pm.
Elemis and MW lay on the fancy electric flip up couches (more blatant definition:  The awkward leather fart-noise couches)  under a pile of unfairly divided fuzzy blankets.
MW practices her TKD techniques on Elemis under the concealment of the covers.
MW strikes the idea of writing a blog post.  What was written within the few minutes following...Was removed from this post in order that I might still have readers after this.

11:78am 
Elemis and Cousin MW are squeezed on the single king sized chair (more blatant definition:  The chair  intended for one over sized bottom).
They sit there like two gummy bears squeezed into a bottle cap.
My older cousin CB returns home from a mouth operation.  He swaggers about the kitchen with a mouth full of bloodied gauze, muffling in his boisterous voice, "Man, that giggle gas stuff is the bomb!"

4:28pm
MW and I have decided to spray paint shirts...And MW's socks...
The kitchen air is infected with the gas, and the table is splattered in a sad, but colorful condition.
CB is cooking something he's not aloud to eat.
MW picks up blogging again, finally bringing somewhat of a purpose to this post.

MW:
"I think we have some very special news to share with the world.  ELEMIS IS ENGAGED!!!!!! CONGRATULATIONS ELEMIS!!!!!  I found this guy for Elemis because hes knows how to dance and not just in a room by himself but in front of a crowd.  When going out to dance or just beginning the day, he spends no more and no less then 5 minutes on his hair.  He knows how to deal with people that are crazy about cats, Chick-Fil-A, and their jams.  Not only does this guy like to dance but he works at Chick-Fil-A.  I mean after all this guy meets the requirements of Elemis's application of employment.  Also, I think he will help Elemis not be so selfish.  He is also from Iceland."

💖Elemis's Fiance💖

                                       
 Elemis:

"Hmm..........Well..............
First off and most importantly to note, HE'S ADORABLE!!!!!  I LOVE HIS HAT!  Tell him that if this relationship is to continue, he needs to wear the hat.  Every day.
Unless you prove to me that he has really nice hair.
Second, what's his last name??
He works at Chick-fill-a then, eh?  That's always a plus.  That also means that this guy is home schooled.  Which I was hoping not to have to marry a home schooler, for sake for feeling overly sheltered.
By your description, your saying that he can deal with people like me, and make me not so selfish, kinda makes me think he'll hate me (not like anyone wouldn't) But I'm not a fan of one sided relationships.
Although apparently we're engaged already...Hm...Well, I'm not TOTALLY against arranged marriages, but I was trying to avoid it if at all possible...Guess I don't have much of a choice, eh?
His living in Iceland originally sounded cool.  Then I remembered I was born there.  We very well might be long lost twins.  That could make kind of an awkward marriage...
His living there would also make for make for a really really long dating and marriage commute...
Wow-wow-wait, there's a Chick-fill-a in Iceland?
...Forget everything I just said.  I'm moving to Iceland.

Next Up On Critical Me: Moana, Beauty and the Beast, and Priceless

Moana 

I thought I would not like this movie, but I ended up enjoying it.

The first most impressive thing about this movie would be the animation.  Twas fantastic.

Moana is about a Princess who sets herself on a voyage to find the demigod, Maui, in order to save her island from disaster.  Along with a 'follow your dreams' moral, there really wasn't much plot aside from that, which made some of the scenes rather undeveloped and awkward.

The character development was so-so.  I really liked some, while really disliking others.  But those great characters (Maui) made the movie worth it.

Music was fantastic.  Obviously.  I mean, Lin-Manuel Miranda.  What more can you ask for?

I can't exactly judge the quality of the dialogue on whole.  The bad characters had horrible dialogue.  The good characters had fantastic dialogue.

The humor was excellent...Most of the time.  Again, it all depended on the character.  A lot of the humor coming from the undeveloped unlikable characters was awkward.  (But Maui made the movie).

The ending was terrible.  Zero conflict.  Zero plot twist.  Everything worked out a little too well.  Which I should be merciful, considering it was a Disney Princess movie, but still.

I'll give it points for some good emotion.

So on whole, I enjoyed this movie but would probably never sit down and watch it again all the way through.  It was worth watching once.

On a scale from 1 to 10, I would give Moana a 5 1/2 

Priceless 

Very very well done.

The plot of Priceless is hard to explain without getting into too many details.  Basically, a man finds two girls in the back of his truck, and he makes it his mission to save them from trafficking.  I would compare it to the the movie Taken.

The worst part about this movie would be the beginning and ending monologues.  Full of quite unnecessary information that would have all been explained any way, and could have made the motive of the movie stronger.
The story was well done.
Dialogue wasn't bad.

The emotion and conflict of the movie was fantastic.
The acting was very good.  (And this is a Christian movie, so I give them an extra thumbs up for that).

The characters were well developed.
I really enjoyed this movie.

On a scale from 1 to 10, I would give Priceless a 8.

Beauty and the Beast 

Had kind of an awkward beginning...

The acting was great.  They had a fantastic line up of actors and actresses.  Unfortunately I didn't like Cogsworth, or Lumiere, or any of the talking castle items for that matter.  That was a big disappointment to me.   I liked the characters aside from them.

There really was nothing different with the story, besides a slight insight on Bell's past and an extra song or too. This was very accurate to the movie, even with the costumes and setting being the same.  So if you liked the story for the old cartoon, you will most likely like this version too.
The animation was pretty, but not as well done as I thought it might be.

I actually enjoyed some of the extra elements they added to this version.

The humor was good.  Still not as funny as the cartoon, despite the similarities.
There's not much more I can say, it really was just a live action version of the cartoon.  I must say I liked the cartoon version better.  Beauty and the Beast in general is one of my favorite stories.

On a scale from 1 to 10, I would give  Beauty and the Beast an 8.

There are Two Sides to This

I still remember this happening to me several times when I was little, kind of like when you have a dream and think, "I've had this dream several times before."
What would happen is I would black out, freeze, I would forget who I was and what life was.  It was as if time it self stopped.  I really don't how long these episodes would last, maybe a few seconds.  I sweat now just thinking about them.  All I would see is layers and layers of black.  I would try my hardest to remember who I was, what I was, where I was, but I couldn't.  I tried to remember was life was, what my regular thought pattern was, what I should be thinking, but I couldn't remember.  Sometimes it would be so intense I wouldn't even remember I had a family.  It was like spinning in black space.
And I would wake up, and everything would be back to normal.  And I would continue about my day, like one would after a silly dream.  Wouldn't even remember it.  Didn't tell anyone about it.  Couldn't tell anyone about it.  I mean, how could I?
Three year old comes up to you and says, "I just took a four second trip outside of reality"
It doesn't work.

And it happened to me again last night.
And now I might be able to express myself.
Only right after I had the black out, my heart started to pulsate.  I don't know why.  Without words, something told me;
I'm gonna die tonight.
Spoiler alert; I didn't die last night.  There was no logical reason that even came to mind.
Then why was I seeing death?  Everywhere? My life didn't flash before my eyes, death flashed before my eyes.
This is stupid, I thought.  And even if I was randomly going to die, what would it matter?  I would go heaven, be with God.  I've said so many times before in my life:  I'm not afraid of death.
Then the feeling drew in deeper and deeper, and it became so intense I had chills and nausea.  I sat up in bed and turned my light and tried to think.  I felt like I was going to vomit.  I wanted to cry and run to my Mom's room like I would when I was three.
I lied to you.  I'm not brave.  I don't trust God.  And I'm afraid of death.

God speaks to me through writing.  I wrote for hours last night.

See, death is everywhere.  We're all gonna die.  We all push it away.  Death is our curse.
But God broke death.  Death isn't the ending point, death is the starting point.  Death is when you flip the page, and turn to chapter 1.
Ever seen the movie Inception?  What if I told you that this world isn't real?  Well, as far as I know I'm pretty sure this world is at least kinda real.  But this is just the prologue.  This isn't the real story.  We look around us and think, "Yes.  This is reality." But what if it's just a blurry picture of real reality?

I have a funny little picture in my head of heaven.  It's puffy and white, with a big throne and a golden gate and some opera singers in the back round.
And I have a picture of what I think is reality.  And that's with my family, with my friends, at my homes, with my pets and my coffee, where I feel loved, where I'm comfortable.
I like my picture of reality much better then my picture of heaven.  I see my world as real, and I see heaven as a dream.
I switch them.
And suddenly it makes sense.
I don't want to leave my family.  I'm not leaving my family.  Don't you see?  I can't leave them.  The feeling of family, of comfort, of home, THAT'S WHO GOD IS!!!! 
That's what eternal life is!
That's what heaven is!
We have such a faded, blurry, confusing image of family and comfort and love here on earth.  We don't leave that behind  when we go to heaven.  We don't leave anything behind when we go to heaven except sin.  When we go to heaven, that's where we'll find it!!!
God is all perfect love.  The basis of morality.  God is family.  God is home.  God is everything we need and all we need and too great and beyond the scope of our plastic little minds to understand.  There is no way I can even begin to explain this to you.  My mind can't grasp it.  If God could be explained in text, he would small and pathetic.

But right now, we're on earth.  My sister told me a quote from some joe I've never met and can't recall the name of.  But he said, "Live how you want to die."
That's the more brutal version of the quote you hear all the time; "Live your life to the fullest."

I'm gonna die.  We're all gonna die.  Probably sometime soon.  But death doesn't have anything to do with it.  Really, there are only two sides to this.
This side, and that side.
This isn't chapter one.  This is the prologue.  I need to be ready for chapter one.

(Jeremy Camp: There Will be a Day, and NF: Oh Lord)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPKyTY71iRM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0NOxf4uaZI

Speech! Speech!

Me:  Hello self.  I'm just here to wish you a happy sweet 16th.  May all your wishes come true, and remember to always be you!💓 

Self:  Aw, how cute!  It even rimes!  That almost made me regurgitate.  

Me:  You're welcome.  It came from the heart.

Self:  Of course.  

Me:  I also brought you a cake.

Self:  Wow.  Thanks, Me.  You're just on a roll today.

Me:  Aren't I?  First I would like to thank everyone for coming.  *Caps and cheers*  Yes, yes, thank you, thank you.  So Self, may I first take a moment to say a few words?

Self:  *Sits  back in chair with coffee* Alright, Me.  Take it away.  I'm all ears.

Me:  What.  The.  Blaze.  

*Standing ovation, chaps and cheers, the crowed goes wild.  Audience is sniffling, wiping tears, and throwing flowers*

Self:  Wait, that your speech?

Me:  I just said I wanted to say a few words.

Self:  That was my birthday speech ?  

Me: ....Yes.

Self: And now this will go down in history as the words dedicated to me on my sweet 16th birthday party?

Me:  Well, frankly, they were the only words I could possibly come up with. You must understand that I dedicated this a lot of contemplation.

Self:  Well why are you throwing me a birthday party any way?  This doesn't make any sense.  Not only is it not my birthday today, but even if it were my birthday it would be your birthday too!

Me:  Well obviously!

Self:  Then WHAT THE BLAZE ARE WE DOING HERE?!?

Me:  Ah, now you understand my speech!

Self:  I didn't say I understood your speech. I said 'what the blaze.'

Me:  My thoughts exactly.

Self:  ...Ooooh, okay.  Well then, Me.  Because you have so thoughtlessly decided to through me a birthday party, it seems only suitable that I return the favor.  Happy Birthday Me!!

Me:  *GASP*  For Me???  Oh Self, you shouldn't have!

Self:  I know.  Today is that special day.  That day where the whole family gathers around you and your wax infested cake and sing 'the agony quartet'.  Then Calvin blows out your candles first, along with a shower of excess saliva.  When was the last time we blew out our own birthday candles?

Me:  Hm.  I don't remember.  Do I get...A Cake or a present something?

Self:  Why do they call it Sweet 16?  

Me:...Well I'm not entirely aware of the relevance of this question, but I think we can conclude that the title's purpose was invented to stamp some kind of significance involved with the age.

Self:  Why?  What's so significant about being 16?

Me:  Well, I believe once you turn 16, that means you've survived long enough to figure out how to not be overly stupid.  It's like a life test.  If you live long enough to make 16, then you're rewarded.  Like, for some pools, this means that you can now get in the hot tub without parental supervision.  The accomplishments and opportunities are limitless!

Self:...Wow.  Well then.  Congratulations, Me.  Definition of Sweet 16: Congratulations.  You're not dead.  You old enough to drown in the hot tub if you want.

Me: *Puts hand to heart* Aw, my little Self is growing up!  *Crowd wipes tears*

Self:  And what about dudes?

Me:  What about dudes?  Don't say you're looking of a boy friend!  You're not THAT limitless!

Self:  What?  No.  If I were looking for a boy friend, I would have made an advertisement for one already and posted it on this blog.  Haha!  that would be crazy.  *Crowd laughs*  No, I mean, you don't say 'Happy Sweet 16' to a dude, because that just sounds sissy.  (Unless you're a mother or something).  So what do guys get?

Me:  Uuuhh.......Happy Sweat 16?

Self:  *Takes a moment to ponder* Hmm...Alright.  Fare enough.

Me:  Well, what are some of our accomplishments?

Self:  Pardon? 

Me:  We've lived this long, we should have some accomplishments and bragging rights, yes?

Self:  Oh yes!  Of course.  *COUGH* *COUGH* Well.  To begin with, I can perform a flawless old man getting punched impression.  *Caps and cheers* I've been found in the men's room with very sad consequences three times.

Me:  Ah yes, not a lot of people can say that, indeed.  And I managed to get lost.  In the smallest town in the world.  That you've been through a billion times.  That was quite an accomplishment.

Self:  I've accomplished the three person shoulder angle.  Although that wasn't really me...And I forgot how we got down from that...

Me:  I've fallen through the ice once.  And been in my first car accident.  I killed all my friend's pet fish once when I was taking care of them...

Self:  I jumped over a balcony and landed on my face.  With the rest of me thrown over my face in a very killer position.

Me: Wow.  We have a lot of bragging rights.  I'm afraid to continue, our audience might get jealous.

Self::  Ah, but we've never fainted.

Me:  Dang it, you had to remind me!  The one new years goal I have yet to accomplish.

Self:  Man, this whole sweet 16 thing is really making me feel good, you know?  So old.  Mature.  Accomplished.  So many lovely opportunities.

Me:  Like the hot tub privileged?

Self:....Yup.  Were there any others?...

Me: ...

Self:  ...

Me:  Well, good talk. 

Self::  Thanks for the party, Me.  Maybe we could do this again on my actual birthday.