Blogging = Awkward

Its hard to be authentic on these things because you never know who's reading it. Or if they will misinterpret you. And I don't want to come across as whiny and emo. But I also certainly don't have it all together either. So yes. I've decided that blogging is an awkward art because its hard to gauge just how much of yourself is appropriate to present to an unknown audience.

I think I'm learning about myself that I associate sadness with weakness. And so to people who don't know me very well I tend to come across as very chipper. At least I'm often told I come across that way. Its entirely an accident, probably often coming from a belief that if I show sadness I'm just being an unnecessary burden and what kind of an example of Christ is a burden?

But that's dumb. Because you can't spread the Gospel by lying.

Stupid damn authenticity. And its stupid, awkward rawness. And even though I REALLY, REALLY want it, its one of those things. "God, help me to want to want to be authentic."

Anyway, this morning was this poem. And I crawled into bed with my roommate, read it to her, and she agreed. I love this poem. And this poetry book.

Silence - By Billy Collins (from The Trouble with Poetry)

There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.

And it is 3:16am. But I am on holidays, so whatever. But good night!