Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it is something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about.
And when they found them not, they drew Jason and certain brethren unto the rulers of the city, saying, These that have turned the world upside down are come hither also; whom Jason hath received: and these all do contrary to the decrees of Caesar, saying that there is another king, one Jesus.
For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.
Sherlock Holmes "Uh, hmm... Right. Where are the wagons?" Madam Simza Heron "The wagon is too slow. Can't you ride?" Dr. John Watson "It's not that he can't ride... How is it you put it, Holmes?" Sherlock Holmes "They're dangerous at both ends and... crafty in the middle. Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs?"
"I have come to the conclusion that the smattered references I heard throughout my youth were remarks filled with nothing but jealousy. There comes a time for most people when they shoulder a load too heavy for them to bear. And as they trudge through life, watching everyone hiking up their skirts and scaling the corporate ladder and heading straight to the presidency, everything looks grim. Is it any surprise that when they see a poor, helpless, nubile young child innocently playing as carefree as can be, that they are jealous? Envious of childish bliss and with vivid remembrances of their own bright and sunny past they cast a churlish remark the kids' way.
"But is that real life? Giving the little punk a 'wake up call?' A 'Get with the program?' And 'Earth to Jimmy' ought to do it.... No.
"No, I'll tell you what real life is. Real life is right now. You reading this post. It is you cooking dinner for your kids, be there 2, 8 or eighty. It's finding someone unique in the universe, someone who is perfect for you. It is having your feet knocked out from under you, and feeling a cold barrel pressed against your neck. It's staring down your best friend in the midst of a heated argument, and gripping them in a tight hug afterwards.
"Real life is.... Life. It occurs every second, and while you sleep. All around us buildings shoot up tot he heavens and burn to the ground. Snow whirls and Tsunamis destroy whole cities. Marriages occur every day, and twice as many murders. This world in one giant sphere of love and war, beauty and hate. Nothing we can do will change that. But we can sit back, work hard and love, all the while enjoying every moment of
"Heaven above is softer blue,
Earth around is sweeter green!
Something lives in every hue
Christless eyes have never seen:
Birds with gladder songs o'erflow,
Flowers with deeper beauties shine,
Since I know, as now I know,
I am His, and He is mine."