The wind is beautiful today. He is whispering sweet nothings into the worlds' ears. The wind is warm. The leaves are still crisp, if any are left. We are caught in a small winter, but it is winter. The air should be cold, but it is not. The wind is savoured by it's crisp notes that envelope the warm, warm air.

If I could be anything but me today, or at least this morning, I would want to be the wind because he is travelling at a fine temperature, at a fine speed, at a fine time.

Each story is like a river. There are many different waves and ripples and creatures that subside within, but every single river is made up of water. That is what it comes down to.

Maybe we should talk about fairy tales. . . and how the Prince is never as charming as they say. There's always some sort of fault: some sort of misdemeanour that creates tension, fault, and fear. 

I cannot tell you the amount of times I have dreamed up a story where I am Marigold and he is Christian (re: "Once Upon a Marigold" by Jean Ferris). Or perhaps I will awaken to a glittering day and be whooshed away into some sort of coming of age film-like romance, heightened by fickleness and idleness only to come to that perfect, "and everyone lived happily ever after." That's just it though. 

Film. 

All too often I think of ideal story lines, fascinating projections of amusing lifestyles. Nothing true. Nothing tainted. 

I'm starting my second semester of university: three more courses to check off the Bachelor of Social Work entrance prerequisites. My eyes are slowly being opened to the real world, and it's not fun. It's daring and intriguing, but frightful. I'm scared that because this world has slowly been draining life out of its waters and lands, very soon, steadily and speedily, all the innocence, love, and happiness will be drained out too.

I want to pioneer something.

What is left to pioneer? 

The closer I inspect and speculate, the more I find myself doubting what I used to feel. Feelings of concern are still more dominant than fear, and I am quite grateful for that. There is still that lack of innocence by which I see the world, though. 

And the fact that I have lost my dreamy, rose-coloured glasses is endangering and different. I am not the old me. I never will be. I am a new me. One that is lost in a the forest. Deep deep deep in the woods. I wish I could repaint things, fix the world, make it sing again. My world, at least. 

But that's just it. 

My new vision is clear. 

I see things for what they are. I can see deep into people. I know what hypocricy looks like. I know what anger looks like. Bitterness, resentment, depression, anxiety, fear. I see it on the faces of the ones I am concerned for. I see it on the faces of people I hardly know. 

I wonder. 

I wish I could change things, but I can't really. Not me anyways. Especially considering nobody sees me for me. I am sure many acquaintances and old friends and maybe new wonder why I don't smile like before, or laugh when something acutely funny occurs. I am staring deep into this abyss that not many people understand, and yes, that concerns me. 

But I am here for a reason, staring into these clouds. I see electricity, some sort of life, that is life-threatening, peaceful, endearing, and adventurous. 

I must learn something up here in the clouds. I don't quite know what it is yet. I am almost too concerned about what people are thinking about me. 

I am still ready to learn. I feel like that is what this year is about. To learn something new and to use it for good, not for more breaking of innocence. Enough of my glass has been chipped and broken. 

I want to rebuild it. Make it pretty. It won't be rose-coloured anymore, but it will be refreshing. Protective, yet instilling imagination and reality. Fusion. 

Semester II, New Zealand, YWAM, and new opportunities. 

That's 2014 for me. 

I have goals. I have resolutions.

But they're not on my terms. They're on God's. 

God knows I can't control this abyss.