Beyond the Atmosphere

I stood staring up at the spaceship for the longest time. Wondering if I should board. Lost, frightened in the ominous shadow, cast by its immense egg shaped body, blocking out the sun. Dare I take the risk and climb that great metal staircase up to that tiny door situated somewhere high, itself already lost in the clouds, up on its sleek body, the only blemish on an otherwise perfectly aerodynamic piece of engineering wonder. I was afraid of that long tiring climb. Would I make it? Or would the seemingly endless trudge, my feet clanking monotonously against the grated metal of the steps, one at a time, upwards get the best of me? I was afraid I would fail to ever reach what I longed for... to blast off.

And if I did, would I have survived even that? Though would it really have been safer to remain on the ground, caught forever in gravity's dependable, yet static pull. I stood staring forward at the four great fins, reaching outward, curving down to the ground to support the great mass of the ship with a might that belied their delicately thin appearance, and encompassed in their midst, coddled in their grasp, sat the boosters, a conical trinity of dormant power, hissing quietly among themselves, ready at any moment to explode, belching out their deadly mixture of hydrogen and oxygen. Would it really be safer to remain?

And now I sit in the ship, apprehensive of where we will go. Questions of space and time rip through my mind as the ship raises itself slowly, cautiously from the earth. As it pulls out of the atmosphere, I feel the last remnants of gravity slowly fading, and find I am just as lost and confused in this new world, where up is down and down is no where to be found.

Where is this ship headed, to what great unknown system is it bound? I do not trust myself at the stick, at the helm. I cannot guide this immense beast alone, through bright, gaseous nebulae; past slowly dying dwarfs; through the vast empty blackness; toward dry, desolate, sulphurous planets; or those abundant in water and life. Surely I would pilot this thing, in an attempt to reach the stars, straight into a black hole, the smoldering remains of the only star I could ever hope to reach of my own volition. But then I realise, I am merely a passenger aboard this ship. In front of us He sits, in His Captain's chair. He is Pilot, Navigator, and even Flight Attendant, guiding this ship where He pleases. And though He may not take us where we like sometimes, we can be sure these engines will never falter, for He designed them as well.

Sometimes God places the most Beautiful things in the lowest of places...

I actually wrote this in the summer but never got around to uploading it until now. Kind of odd I guess, but I figured I hadn't said much lately.

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A short walk from where I live there lies a small secluded spot. The patch of tall marshy grasses along the creek is only accessible by crossing on a fallen tree and traversing up stream about 20 meters or so along a narrow path through the trees.

The place is always quiet, so I go there often to sit and think, or listen, or watch the water foul. There's a couple of mallards there. A male and female swimming together. I believe they had ducklings recently, though I didn't see them this last time I came. There's also those ducks with the big heads that like to dive under water; I forget what they're called (not that I ever knew). Bright red dragonflies flit about along the tops of the grasses, and fish (trout?) are often seen breaking the surface in a flurry of silver flashes as they catch insects mid-air.

Sadly, all around this sanctuary are signs of our modern and often reckless and domineering human existence. The buzz of traffic on the highway nearby can be heard. Various coloured markers can be seen hanging from tree branches; what they signify, I know not, but fear the worst; I pray the oft needed but sadly destructive hands of housing development should never find this place. It would be a shame to see such prime water front property marred by a couple of houses. The creek itself passes in a large concrete culvert under the highway from the hospital on the other side, and the tractor trimmed grass of a large dog park and walking path lie just on the other side of the narrow band of trees that lines the opposite bank.

Yet, despite the close proximity of these human influences, the creatures here seem hardly perturbed by any of it. There's a wildness about them. Upon my approach the ducks and mallards swim hastily away, hiding under the low hanging branches of a tree that graze the surface of the water. Eventually, they grow less weary of my presence and reemerge from hiding; still they try to avoid and ignore me. This is of course in contrast to a place like Beacon Hill Park where the ducks swarm you hoping for food.

I often wish I could be like these animals, and this place. Always safe and secluded in a quiet sanctuary. The self-destructive modern human society all around, yet somehow unable to fully penetrate. To be always aware of it yet never corrupted and drawn up into it. To be able to always live the life God created me to live, allowing others in to share some of the experience, yet still weary of them should they attempt to tear down my heart and rebuild it into a cold mechanical pump of secular sludge and waste, turning my life from a Godly Sanctuary into a Devilish Suburbia.

Tokyo... 2

Tokyo... 1

Snowy Day

Dreams

I am awake.

****

Almost instantly my mind turns on. My eyes shoot open. It takes me a moment to notice the high pitch whine emanating from my night stand. As my senses manage to recollect themselves, I reach over and gently hit the snooze button, flicking the alarm switch to the off position in one deft motion. I stare blinking (if that's at all possible) at the clock momentarily. I roll over and fling off the blankets and sheets, swing my legs around, and firmly plant my feet on the carpet. I close my eyes as I lift my body from the bed.

****

I open my eyes. I'm in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice. I sit down, and begin to slowly nibble my cheerios.

****

Seconds later I slam down my glass of milk, empty, onto the table. Remnants of an egg shell remain on my plate, the last of its keep washed down with my sweet apple juice. I glance over at the clock on the microwave. The time reads 7:30. My eyes shoot up from the watch on my arm; I've missed my bus to school.

****

I rush up stairs again, and start the shower running. I'll have to be quick this morning. I head into my room to find my books lying open on my desk. A half unwritten paper sits surrounded by half complete math problems. Shoot! I knew I forgot to do... everything... the night before. No matter though, I need to get in the shower before...

****

... honk... honk... honk.... The sound of car horns comes from all around. Don't the drivers realize that honking at the cars in front isn't going to help them go any faster or farther? My mind fusses over the sheer incompetent impatience of my fellow road users, as well as the fact that I too am stuck in traffic and late for school. At least I no longer have to take that stupid bus.

****

I burst through the doors of my class and am met by silence... silence and the soft, frantic scribbling of pens and pencils. The tops of eight dozen heads stare down at me, the faces of my classmates bowed in prayer... but not prayer (though I'm sure some of them may have been)...

****

... &#^*# ()#*() *@#&*^... I utter a few curse words under my breath. How could I have forgotten I had a midterm today. I sit down and the professor hands me a test paper. I reach into my backpack and pull out a pencil. It has no lead. So I pull out a pen. It has no ink. I borrow half a dull pencil from my neighbor and begin writing. Hurriedly, I write down my answers-- answers to question I've never seen before, about topics I've never studied, for a class I've never been in.

****

I find myself staring at a blank page. How am I supposed to write a 4 page essay on a book I've never even heard of?

****

At least when this is over I'll get to go the zoo, if my brother ever gets out of the shower that is. He's been in there for hours now.

****

I really hope we don't miss our flight.

****

Two wide, thin, slivers of light pierce through either side of my venetian blinds, slicing through the darkness, casting dim shadows across the walls of my room.

****

It is Saturday morning, and yes, I really am awake.

Such are my dreams always. They are nightmares really. And for some reason it always makes me feel depressed. Why must I always dream of normal life gone awry? Is my imagination dead? Am I so consumed by this mundane day to day life of mine that the most frightening thing my mind can develop is a slightly confusing, non sequitur version of a really shitty day in said mundane life?

Am I the only one? Did Tolkien dream of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit, or merely of forgetting where he left those pages Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit? Does Crichton dream of his Lost World or of simply being lost in this world (or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for that matter)? Was it Samuel L. Clemens of Mark Twain who dreamt while he slept?

Where are the fantastic monsters, or physics altering events of my childhood dreams? Those wild, strange, almost indescribable.... I can't even bring my brain in its wakeful and alert state to describe what came so naturally as a child.

Knowledge and useless facts have heaved asunder the roots of my creativity. My imagination lies dead, in its place stand reason, logic and cynicism, useful yet depressing tools of adulthood.

Prisons

Recently I've come to wonder at our freedom. We've been granted an immense amount of it. We can go where we like. We can say what we like. We can even be whoever we choose. Yet, we often choose to waive such freedoms.

I could live anywhere, yet for some reason I choose to stay within the boundaries of my house, venturing out only to ascertain certain things crucial to my survival, only to subsequently retreat back to the safety of my abode.

I could say things that I feel passionate about, or speak my mind about anything I should like to. Yet I don't for fear of what others may think or that they may disagree. The same applies to who I choose to be, or more precisely, who I choose to present myself as being.

I find we often create our own prisons in which we can safely reside. Within the walls of our cell we cram everything that we are, keeping it safe behind locked bars away from the rest of the world. This can be rather stifling, trapped as we are along with all these thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions and character traits.

There is of course some overlap. Certain times where our own thoughts and ideas match those of others. And so we feel comfortable inviting such people into that part of our cell to share with them things that we know they will approve of. But we never choose to allow them to venture beyond, to let them see things about us they may not wholly like, or let them truly see and understand who we are. Likewise, when invited into other's cells, we fear too venture to far beyond. We fear we may come across things that negatively impact our perceptions of them, or that we may find things that challenge our own ideas and ways of thinking or living.

God has given us one of the greatest gifts of all. The freedom to express ourselves, even if such expression is contrary to what He wants of us. But we often choose to lock ourselves away, attempting to hide our faults from others and even from Him, though the latter is a rather fruitless pursuit. And so we never allow Him or others the chance to help us grow or better ourselves. Instead we are content to remain safely within our own little prisons, lonely and bored, never truly sharing in fellowship with the Lord or our fellow man (or woman for those types who aren't satisfied by the use of man as a general reference to all people).