The Catching Machine

So, I’m kind of a dork when it comes to American sports, but my friend showed me her softball glove last night. It was her grandfathers glove, and as I took the glove from her, it felt heavy in my hands.

Light brown from wear and tear, the glove looked rugged and resolute. I opened it up and ran my fingers along the inside of it. I wondered how many games this glove had seen, how many great catches it had enabled. How maybe, My friends’ grandfather passed it on to his children as he taught them to catch and pitch. Maybe there had been sunday afternoons, the sun shining brightly where a father had passed on legacy to a child. 

There was some kind of security in the glove, some attachment to it. Maybe “The catching machine” is called that, not because its stopped umpteen grounders or gripped and snatched hurtling balls right out of the atmosphere, but because over the span of three generations, it has caught a glimpse of love and affection and bonds between father and child. 

The Traffic Light

The rain was pouring down. like little drops of ice against my upturned face. Walking down the paved street, I wasn’t sure I liked the rain just yet. i opened my eyes, and stuck my tongue out, deciding that I liked the feel of the cold wet drops. waiting my turn to cross the street at the traffic light, someone emerged out of the darkness, and slowly made her way to where i was standing. the girl seemed to be around 14, and It was more than obvious that she was homeless. all that covered her thin ragged body was an oversize shirt, no doubt picked from some dumpster. She came closer, and her eyes shone bright. She seemed oblivious to the cold wind and the rain. Tiny diamond like sparkles of water glistened on her dark, tousled hair.

“You like the rain?” she enquired. It sounded more like a conclusion to an observation than a question.

“I do.”

“You don’t mind the cold?” I asked with a disapproving look at her thin, barely covered body.

“No more than the cold minds me, i suppose”, she replied.

“You live around here?” I enquired of her.

“I dont live anywhere.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, home.”

“I though you didn’t live anywhere.” I asked with growing curiosity. There was something about her that drew me to her.

“Home is where I lay my head down. I have new homes each day. It is a sad thing, to have just one home.” She had a glimmer of challenge in her eyes.

“Contentment is something I do not wish to have, and it makes me happy.”

“You like the rain?” I questioned, puzzled by her answers.

“The rain likes me.”

The light changed, and I started to walk across, and she yelled out to me from the sidewalk - “You should go home too.”

I stopped. turned back at her - “I intend to. someday.”

I crossed the street.

And wondered which way was home.

A Knight in the Kingdom

I am sick, filthy, and disgusting.

I do not deserve to be loved by humans, my own kind, for I have betrayed them time and time again. I have deceived them to their face, and yet they still trust me.

I am sick, filthy and disgusting. Those I claim to love the most, I let down the hardest.

Including myself. I love myself more than anything else in my life. I am selfish and filled with hatred of all that is good.

It runs in through my veins,and my bones are made of it. My very flesh is infested with evil, the harder I try and run away from it, the harder I fall.

No one knows my secret. And those who do know it, do not understand why it is a secret. What I stand for makes me fall the hardest.

I am sick, filthy, and disgusting.I am sick in the mind, spirit and soul. I do not deserve to be loved by the human race, my own kind.

I am sick, filthy, and disgusting. If i do not expect to be loved by my own flesh and blood, then how much more should I be hated by the One who breathes starts from His mouth. The One that is pure light, the One whose mere presence annihilates the darkness that creeps in and around me.

I am sick, filthy, and disgusting. I stood before the Judge of all that exists, simply because it exists by Him and because of Him.

I waited for His condemnation.

He looked toward me, and His eyes were fire, and I wished to be consumed among its flames.

And He spoke. His voice was music and rolling thunder.

“What have you to defend yourself?”, the Great Light questioned.

His voice had brought me to my knees, and I wept, for I knew that my time had come.

It was as though the One knew the whispers in my mind, and He spoke again, and He said, “I know you, for I love you. I love you simply because I created you in the depths of the earth. And I created you, because I desired you.”

I looked up slowly, and I looked straight in His eyes, for He enabled me to.

“You are worthy, magnificent and loved. For I, have made you like Me, and you will serve Me in My kingdom with honor and valor. A knight in the kingdom is what you are now, live worthy of it.”

I slowly backed away, and as I drew further away from the Great Light, I drew closer to the human race, and it was sick, filthy and disgusting, simply because it did not know that it was worthy, magnificent and loved.

Identity

I am me.

I am the definition of how the earth began,

Definitely not a sweet serenade,

The sound I made is like when you pop the pin off a grenade,

Without me you wouldn’t exist,

Creation controversies with me, have raised many a clenched fist.

I am me.

I had this cow, I never liked her.

The chance came along, I sold her fur.

I sold her for magic beans,

But my mother threw them out, she said, we didn’t have the means.

The beans grew tall, the beans grew strong,

And on the top of them lived a giant who didn’t know right from wrong.

I got my share of his gold,

Now I don’t have to eat bread with mould.

I am me.

You start with none,

Then might have just one,

You eventually get a lot.

I grow out of a soft little spot.

The former me is associated with wisdom,

I could be harder than gypsum.

Eventually, you lose all of me,

Then you get a shiny new pair and then you can drink again, spanish tea.

I am me.

They call me short, I’m partly red,

I’ll give you a hint, I’m not actually dead.

I am here this instant, I define myself.

I have a name, I’m unique, just like everyone else.

Faith

Faith.

Faith is love.

Faith can be limitless.

Faith doesn’t have to be blind.

Faith can actually make us human.

Faith could be the next new fragrance.

Faith can see not just what is but can be.

Faith is trusting when there is no reason to.

Faith can make the blind see and the faint run.

Faith can make ordinary people do extraordinary things.

Faith requires the mind just as much as it requires the heart.

Faith is hoping in what we do not know and being certain of what we do not see.

Faith is the understanding of powers and beings beyond human grasp.

Faith is starting something you are not quite sure you can finish.

Faith can be with reason. When it is blind, it is no longer faith.

Faith is knowledge that has past the reach of tangible proof.

Faith is believing in what is perceived to be the unknown.

Faith in tiny tasks make us believe in the impossible.

Faith is inspiration, and always has been.

Faith is direction in a directionless world.

Faith could be a new video game.

Faith can be a resounding song.

Faith is the beginning of living.

Faith could be a girl’s name.

Faith requires courage.

Faith is love.

Faith.

Books

Books are remarkable creatures. They can depress a person, make you happy, excite you and tear you down all with a couple of words arranged in some incredible way. Apart from the obvious uses, books can be used for many other things.

They make a really good makeshift coffee table. Provides a flat surface, easy to carry and fits anywhere. Or perhaps you could use it to dry out flowers and leaves as a memory of some unnaturally beautiful place. A stowaway for old photographs and letters that we might or might not want to remember. The book in your backpack, the perfect headrest for a snooze in the grass. Or, it’s possible that you could just plain read it. Then again, no real fun in doing that, is there?

Textbooks, novels - fiction, non-fiction, science fiction, fantasy, history and art, self-help books and children's books. There’s never ending list of books and a never ending list of authors. Each it’s own genre, just like music has it’s own flavor, it’s own audience and it’s own stereotype.

Books are somewhat of an enigma, while they are revealing at the same time. They lead you into the mystery of the story between the covers while at the same time revealing the story and the mind of the author along with it.

“The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,

And all the sweet serenity of books.”

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Time

From the beginning of time man has sought to define time. And has failed miserably at it. Time cannot be defined. It is something that supersedes human knowledge and comprehension. For decades humans have dreamt of time travel and the wonders of teleportation. We dream of a world where we can escape time. But why would we want to escape time? A question that I believe has profound answers unique to each soul on this time-bound earth.

*TickTock. Tick Tock.*

In our attempt at making some sense of the passing of ages, man has come up with sundials, ancient and modern calendars, and clocks. All kinds of clocks too.

*Cukoo. Cukoo*

Take the cuckoo clock for example. Why would someone want a silly bird popping out of nowhere every single hour to startle the mouse in it’s hole and the makes the cat’s whiskers twirl. Maybe it has something to do with the cock that so obnoxiously wakes everyone up at an hour that I think is the middle of the night.

*Bong Bong*

Grandfather clocks. Grandfather clocks have become more of a collector’s item than a timepiece. They were always known for the intricate carvings and ornamentation and it was considered art back when the world was black and white. The term actually comes from a song that was a tribute to a certain pair of brothers whose fate was tied to a long case clock. As legend goes, the clock slowed down when one of the brothers died and broke down altogether when the other one died. Morbid that we should remember time by death.

*Tring Tring*

Those annoying alarm clocks. The one I want to silence till kingdom come. Yet, I’d be nowhere without it. We’re more or less dependent on alarm clocks to wake us up to the dawn of the new day. There are even those innovative ones that keep walking around to prevent you from smashing it to tiny little bits and pieces.

Whatever time is, for I cannot understand it completely and probably will never be able to, I do know that it is precious, and that there is no way yet to get back the time that I have lost. It makes want to grab every moment of everyday and live in the here and now, forgetting the past and independent of the future.

Time is now.