On the state of being

It is hard to post without some sort of instant of stimulus. I must not be the blogger that gets cut off in traffic and angrily marches to his computer and says, "So, this guy on 294 just whips his sedan into my lane ..."

No, no, I'm not nearly that confessional. (If I am confessional, like Plath, I'll do it in a parenthetical and it will make the whole thing seem trivial. I could say things like: I have no idea what it means to love, I am insincere, I am cripplingly averse to commitment and I don't like that, I try to make myself like music that isn't that good if it's obscure. But, because I've placed it here--in this parenthetical--it is negligible. A remarkable way to distance myself from you, right?) If I were to confess, it'd be something useless like I put an empty ice tray in the freezer. Do you see now why I keep things away from the blogosphere?

So, this guy on 294 just whips his sedan into my lane, and I ... am ... pissed.

on a growing impulse to go

I heard a voice over the din of the cafeteria and the rumble of the chapel, over the iPod headphones in my ear–over it all–I heard a voice saying, "Go! Go! Go!"

And, I spend the considerable portion of my energy resisting the desire to withdraw. It is not hesitance toward going. No, it is the responsibility–the grown-up impulse–to remain here. To be here is to be present with the twenty-four hundred other people and believe in the worship songs before prayer in chapel.

–I am not gone yet, I repeat to myself to the tune of a contemporary chorus. –Give it three more months, then go, go, go!