An average night in the Smith household: junk in the trunk, The Perfect Eldest Brother, and an eerie angel voice

Here's an average night in the Smith household.
After re-reading what I wrote here, I realize that Justin is somewhat the star of the show. Not intentional. I guess it just happens. Anyway, read away.

It begins as a still Sunday evening. Justin and I wander aimlessly throughout the house, not sure how to entertain ourselves in this house which used to be our home a few years ago. We decide to play a game as a family and to eat dinner shortly after-- the game is some variation of Scrabble, but in card form. It's fun, but has a short run. Justin quickly wins three rounds and insists that we all vocally acknowledge his victory.  We admit this subserviently and move on to the next game, Loaded Questions.

In the game Loaded Questions, a question is asked, each player submits their written personal answer, and another player guesses who put each answer. It's great fun. Always guarantees huge laughs and sometimes, spilled secrets. At one point as we play, the question is asked: "What is one character trait you wish you had?" Naturally, Justin's answer is "junk in the trunk." After some hearty giggles and helpful explanations of modern terminology to a few less cultured folk, we move on to other questions. Here and there, Justin makes simple and silly comments that send our laughter through the roof-- we laugh for his silliness, we laugh for his wit, we laugh for his unfiltered love for life and all things potty humored. We laugh, we look at each other, we laugh again. There's no stopping it.

In this moment, nothing in the world seems more delicious than laughter. Laughter is something so sweet and ripe, something you unknowingly crave for a lifetime. In this moment, we get to indulge in it shamelessly. I want to gather it all and keep it in a locket, close to my heart. Laughter with loved ones is something to live for.

We suddenly recognize just how famished we are and realize that it is way past the time that we thought we'd eat dinner. My mom and I reheat the food and make last minute dinner preparations as the boys laze comfortably on the couches. Finally it is time, and we eat like Smiths. Mom eating delicately and mindfully; Scott eating delicately and absentmindedly; the rest of us eating like we are just now discovering this miracle called food.

Throughout dinner and the rest of the night, there are many more mentions of "junk in the trunk." Justin says he loves the fact that he can continually get away with saying it in our household. At some point, someone suggests we go around the table and say what we like about each member of the family. They talk about me first. Scott says something about my teeth being white. Everyone else says slightly more meaningful things. We continue, saying things we like about each family member, present and not. Dad genuinely cares about people, Mom loves learning, Spencer is thoughtful in gift-giving, orderly and diligent, Scott has attention-locking eyes and a good sense of right and wrong, and Justin...well, we all know Justin. Along with his craziness and hilarity, he is also a very just person, and kind.

When we get to Ryan, I go first. "What I like about Ryan is that...HE'S PERFECT. The end." We make several jokes about the perfection of Ryan, this eldest son. When it's Justin's turn, he says he's glad Ryan doesn't pinch him anymore, like he did here and there in their youth. I suddenly realize that THAT counted as a flaw, but then I remind the family that Ryan only did that before his baptism, before his sins were washed clean, so he's good to go now. We all laugh, and I relish in the victory of making an acceptable joke, realizing for a moment how it must feel to be Justin. Then we start discussing how incredibly intelligent, talented and perfect Ryan's children will probably turn out, and Justin suggests that Ryan's whole family will probably get translated. He describes how one day, Ryan's family will be eating dinner, and suddenly their whole house will begin floating, straight up to Heaven. I wouldn't doubt it for a minute.

After dinner, the house is alive. Dishes rattle, Scott's trumpet pierces the air, voices converse. I sit down on the family room couch with my laptop, to write. It's an L-shaped leather blue couch, and Justin sits on the other side of the L. I don't pay too much attention.

But then, he is singing the Lord of the Rings theme song, using gentle "ah's" to slide from note to note. Normally, in these types of situations, I avoid eye contact. I usually don't want to egg him on. However, in this instance his voice is eerily on pitch and angelic-sounding. I look up from my computer, and am surprised to find Justin looking straight ahead, with pure enjoyment written on his face as he sings. I had expected him to be staring in my direction, breaking into silliness at any moment, waiting for a reaction. But instead, he is simply staring ahead, singing like an eerie angel of an 1800's boys' choir, and enjoying life. His eyes dart my way as he realizes I am staring at him, and we both laugh. He continues to sing, relishing in the victory of this moment. Justin smiles triumphantly as his voice reaches each note with clarity and ensuing vibrato; not only has he penetrated my indifference; he has amused me greatly. Once again, Justin has won.

My dream last night

I had moved in a new apartment, and was satisfied with my new roommates. They were nice enough. They were still somewhat distant, because it takes time to really know someone, but they seemed nice.  All the sudden a time lapse occurs and I wake up to a room where all my things are in place; I have been living there for a while. Who knows how long. I pull out the book I'm reading at the time, and begin to read as I relax in my bed.

One of my roommates comes into my room, probably just to say "Hi," or to hang out for a while. I don't yet know her as well as I'd like to, so I welcome the interaction. I think little of it as I see her walk in. She wears a striped cashmere sweater with soft, subdued pinks, purples and brown. Her long caramel hair is straight and thick as it swings slightly while she walks towards me. Her eyes are big and brown and...empty? All the sudden I see her dive, cutting through the air like a falcon, and then she is attempting to strangle me. My initial confusion arises and then fades immediately as my brain gears into survival mode. There is a great struggle between us. This goes on for about two minutes. Her hands keep trying to find my neck, the passageway for air which I had completely taken for granted just minutes ago. I am breathless and terrified. I fight to survive. Suddenly, we hear the front door of the house close; another roommate is home. She leaps off of me as quickly as she began the attack, and exits my room without a word. I gasp for breath, sitting in my bed in an awkward position, my head aching and spinning.

For some reason, life simply went on after this dramatic occurrence. The event gave me quite a scare in the moment, and from then on I was terrified of this roommate. However, I didn't take any action at all to make anyone else aware of the situation, or to protect myself from future incidents. 

I can't imagine why, but I stayed in my apartment the rest of the day. I made myself as small as possible, huddled in a dark, cold corner. The whole apartment had become so dim and chilled and musty after that event occurred. The world seemed to become a dull, grungy shade of terrifyingly empty blue. I shivered and shivered for hours, not letting myself get anywhere near sleep. That was the one protection I allowed myself-- not giving in to the vulnerability that sleep brought with it. I was not necessarily hidden, but at least I was vigilant. 

I hear the front door open, and I know that she has walked in with her boyfriend. Instead of just walking by my room, they stop in to say "Hi." She offers some moderately personable greeting and a smile. I don't even remember if I reacted at all. Then, she walks out of my room, off to do something human, like wash some dishes, re-apply her makeup or to flip on the TV. Her boyfriend lingers for a few moments, carrying on a surfacey conversation with me. No one seems to think it strange that I am huddled up in a cold, dark corner, terrified. I search her boyfriend's eyes for an awareness of the monster that his girlfriend is. I find nothing. His eyes are empty. Or clouded? I can't tell. Soon enough, our conversation is over and he leaves.

Another time lapse occurs. The boyfriend is gone, and she walks into my room. She spews out some illogical yet seemingly sincere apology for the occurrence earlier that day, and offers a hug. I reluctantly accept, and we embrace. All the sudden, I hear dark laughter. It suddenly registers that a few moments earlier, I felt something sharp slowly slide into my back. Why wasn't the pain immediate? I feel it now. I feel it as I see a raging fire seem to light up her menacing eyes. I feel it as I hear her devilish laughter seem to fill up the room. I feel it as a dull pain begins to spread and spread, permeating my entire body.

Suddenly she is gone, and my little brother is with me, his face gaunt as he asks what happened. I tell him there's a freaking knife in my back, and to call 911 right now!! He runs out of the room and out of my mind. Task at hand: am I supposed to take this thing out of my back, or wait for medical attention? The extent of my knowledge of these types of things is what I have seen in movies. Without even consulting that knowledge, I decide to take it out. The pain is searing. I try to ignore it. Somehow, I possess the strength to make a phone call. Although he is eleven hours away, I call my dad. My protector. I struggle to explain the situation. I try to tell him that my roommate is dangerous. I try to tell him that she has tried to kill me twice. But my words come out like molasses; I can't seem to express myself. My thoughts get more and more clouded, and suddenly I see, hear, feel nothing.

Why my little brother is cooler than yours

Scott Anthony Smith.

Tall, lanky kid with muscles like a green bean that has been working out.

Skin that tans instantly, eyes that open easily.

His eyes are my favorite, because they're so big and blue and full of understanding and silliness.

It pains me to see his blue eyes clouded at times-- when he is contemplating injustice or internally discovering a new melancholy place.  

His adam's apple is so endearing for some reason; why, I couldn't tell you.

His hand gestures mesmerize me as he explains something with intelligence, conviction and fluidity.

He condescendingly insults me as he brings his eyebrows together, makes his sparkling eyes so big, and pushes his lips to the side, stifling his charming little smile.

I give the pretense of offense, and we banter for hours, saying more with our eyes than our words.

I love my little brother.

He understands me in a way that no one else does.

Quelqu'un m'a dit

This is the type of song you listen to on repeat on a long car ride to California while you're reading a sad, honest book. It's the type of song you listen to while you're falling in love. It's the type of song that starts to play as you walk away from him in blissful, utter disbelief of what just occurred. It's the type of song that you put on as you twist restlessly in your sheets, remembering the way his lips felt on yours. It's the type of song you listen to as your heart is breaking, and everything beautiful seems to unravel slowly. It's the type of song you listen to when your heart is broken-- for a moment, you are physically paralyzed; for a lifetime, you become emotionally numb and immovable. It's the type of song that lets your senses drink in all the sweet beauty and pain the world has to offer. It's the type of song that plays as you careen off a smooth, slippery cliff, and you don't mind. Because this song is playing, you are suspended in air, and that is enough.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

I love my father.

I love my father because he introduced me to music with texture.
I love my father because he values ice cream and movies.
I love my father because he's creative.
I love my father because he's a problem-solver.
I love my father because when he gets in a fit of laughter, it's contagious.
I love my father because he gave me a job during high school.
I love my father because he would insist we share 3 things about our day during dinner, and waking up, going to seminary, and going to school didn't cut it as our contributions.
I love my father because he helped me with math, but refused to give me the answers easily; I had to put forth significant effort to learn.
I love my father because he took me on Date with Dads.
I love my father because sometimes he makes hysterical unexpected jokes that catch you off-guard.
I love my father because he loves board games. And he is hilariously competitive at Uno and Yahtzee.
I love my father because he still pursues cool new music to add to his collection; most adults don't do that.
I love my father because he seeks joy in life.
I love my father because he's a good story-teller.
I love my father because he doesn't dwell on misfortune.
I love my father because he magnifies his church callings.
I love my father because he was patient during my adolescent years.
I love my father because he taught me the value of hard work.
I love my father because he has given me tough love.
I love my father because he has given me tender love.
I love my father because he taught me the thrill of serving others.
I love my father because he genuinely cares about making our family feel like a family.

Happy Birthday, Dad.
I love you!

-Kristina

Midnight thoughts at eleven

-The world is hanging-- a thin, fine balance.
  Note how you treat every living thing;
  You have no idea what dark secrets hang behind any carefully crafted smile.
  Someone's world could be on the verge of falling apart, or coming together,
    and the simplest thing you do or say could unravel it all.

-It's painful. It's emotionally draining.
 Knowing how many different sides to a story there are
 Knowing that each pair of eyes sees a completely different world
 Knowing how, as each side of the story is kept to itself, hidden,
   suppressed, silenced, stifled,
   just how much more ugly that makes the reality.
 The reality of the thing changes as time passes,
   while individual interpretations mold each person's thoughts, perceptions,
   actions.
 And those actions affect everyone else in an individual way,
   while their own realities remain suppressed, stifled.
 How it all ripples and ripples and ripples.
 The reality of the thing takes on an ugly shape, a fearsome thing to behold,
   and hope is just a tiny flickering light, far.

He knows he's a beautiful man.

He knows he's a beautiful man.
You can tell by the way he speaks.

In between every few words, a smile spreads. That stupid sexy grin appears, incongruent to the subject matter falling out of his mouth. He could be talking about water heaters, dust bunnies, washing dishes-- no matter what he has to say, that slyly smug smile comes out to play. His smile says, "Hey world, I'm saying words. Listen to my voice. Look at my face."

And the world obeys.

It can't be denied; his features fall somewhere between that of a classic movie star and a demigod. But why does he have to know that? His eyes sparkle with satisfaction; the apples of his cheeks are raised, always ready to help him grin at the beauty of his existence.

Why does his reaction to everything seem to point your attention back to his striking features? It's intentional. Isn't it? It must be.

Hushed Whispers

This is just some stream-of-consciousness I wrote last night as my mind wandered during a symposium I attended for extra credit.

Hushed whispers float to the tall, tall ceiling.
It's Friday night; what am I doing here?
What would I be doing if I wasn't here?
At least I'm somewhere.
Company.
This company is a 1.5 on a scale from boringdryspeechprofessor to Lady GaGa.
So many 1/3 bald heads.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5.6.7.8.
9.10.11...
It's an epidemic!
If I wasn't here, where would I want to be?
I would be warm. I would be sitting by a fire, the flames jumping delicately as I turn the pages of a cherished book.
Steaming hot cocoa in hand, I give no thought to the whirlwind of intricacies which weave together the fibers of my existence, my world.
For I am immersed, absorbed, engulfed in the world of my novel.

HEY MICKEY

OH MICKEY YOU'RE SO FINE, YOU'RE SO FINE, YOU BLOW MY MIND, HEY MICKEY.

Her little legs, rainbow striped leggings and all, move her swiftly around the living room. Everything is happening right now. Why wait to live? She twirls and twirls and twirls. She dances around and around on the huge rugged oval blue carpet, to which she is tiny in comparison.

This rug is her stage; the world is her audience.

The warm light gleaming through the fingerprint-smudged door,
the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen,
the excitingly abrasive feel of her tiny soft feet meeting the rough carpet for fractions of a second at a time;
it's all part of her performance.

Everything is her audience, everything is part of her act.

OH MICKEY, YOU'RE SO PRETTY, CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND? IT'S GUYS LIKE YOU MICKEY! OH WHAT YOU DO MICKEY, DO MICKEY. DON'T BREAK MY HEART MICKEY.

This song is the anthem of her existence. It moves her, breathes life into her, charges her with some unknown and previously unchanneled energy.

Who cares what the words mean? Right now, she struggles to write even her name on a piece of paper without writing the "a" backwards. Words don't need to mean too much yet. She'll have plenty of time to get caught up in those later.

Right now, she lives. Alive in the music, she lives fully, completely, unapologetically.

OH MICKEY WHAT A PITY, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. YOU TAKE ME BY THE HEART WHEN YOU TAKE ME BY THE HAND.

Her mother, relentlessly scrubbing a casserole dish in the kitchen, takes a break and smiles at the living room scene as she takes it in. She looks at her daughter. Her blonde, stringy hair is wild as it suspends in the air. She moves deliberately, with no self-awareness at all. She dances fearlessly, unconscious of her audience. Nothing is held back. Perhaps she knows her mom is there watching, perhaps she doesn't. It does not matter to her either way. She is alive.

Three Words

"How are you?"

[These aren't real people or scenarios]

#1
Sarah stumbles out of bed. Sometimes "sleeping on it" doesn't make any difference at all. Her thoughts are just as scrambled as the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that. Times of clarity and peace of mind are fuzzed in the back of her brain. But Sarah couldn't care less about her mind's inner workings right now. Her heart hurts. She knows she has truths to sort out in her mind, and she will get to this task. All in due time. Right now, she doesn't think. She feels.

Sarah steps into her first class of the day. She inhales deeply and exhales gradually as she searches for an open seat. She finds one in the back, and sits down. For the next 50 minutes, she lets the professor's hollow words float over her tangled hair. Sarah's not really there. Flurries of feelings furrow her brow, weigh down on her chest, melt her into the dirty floor.

As if cotton is being pulled out of her ears, Sarah slowly re-enters reality. "Alright, that's it for today," her professor rambles. As the rest of the students jump like jack-rabbits out of their seats, Sarah slowly makes her way to the door.

"Oh hey, Sarah! How are you?" It's a familiar face, one from a study group last semester.

"Good. How are you?" Sarah's lip quivers for a second, but the familiar face doesn't see.

"I'm great. Gotta get to class. See ya!"

And they go on with life.

----------------------------------------------------------

#2
Steven struggles to smile. It's picture day. All the other first graders seem to be enjoying themselves. They flirt innocently, tease playfully, converse meaninglessly. They are carefree and content; they are currently oblivious to the evils and misfortunes which life will later present them. Steven recalls times that he felt as blissfully oblivious and carefree as his peers did. He yearns for regression; he wishes he knew less about the world than he now does. Unfortunately, this option is unavailable.

Steven wonders how it is at home for the other kids. He wonders if the walls are as thin at their houses. He wonders if their moms patiently endure as their dads yell and yell and yell. He wonders if the other kids can see the secret tears that mom lets fall when she thinks no one is looking. He wonders if the other kids can tell that mom and dad are only pretending to be happy for them when they do family things together. Like when they go to Denny's and all they talk about is how the weather's getting colder and "We really do need to buy you a new jacket, Stevie" and how dad's missing his game on TV and then a whisper about how dad needs to be more involved in his son's life and "That's great that you got an A on your spelling test, honey" and then more whispered angry arguing.

Steven wonders if the other kids' parents are still together. Or if, the morning of picture day, their moms slicked their hair for them, gave them a crooked smile, said "I love you, baby," and tried to conceal her tears as she walked away, towards a big stack of papers on the kitchen table. Steven wonders if the other kids asked their moms what the papers meant, and if she said that the papers meant she and dad wouldn't be she and dad anymore.

"Hey! It's your turn, kid. Kid!" An impatient photographer's yell brings Steven back to here and now.

Steven takes a seat on the stone-hard stool and positions himself to be photographed.

The photographer comes close to adjust his chin's angle.
"How are you?" The photographer feels obligated to ask.

"Good." Steven's little lips manage to mutter this one lonely word.

"Great. Smile!"

FLASH.

And they go on with life.

----------------------------------------------------------

#3
Sadie shops for groceries. It's a normal thing to do. So why does it feel so strange and inconceivably inappropriate now? It's been 6 weeks. Jacob's dead Jacob's dead Jacob's dead. She has come to accept that. She should be able to live life like a normal human being now. Shouldn't she?

She can't think about this. Not here, not now. She realizes her hand has gone numb from extended contact with a bag of frozen vegetables; her fingers refuse to loosen their grip. When did she pick those up? How long has she been holding them? These questions float in and out of her mind as she tries to focus on the task at hand: buying her groceries.

All she came for was eggs, milk, and peaches. Eggs milk peaches eggs milk peaches eggs milk peaches. Focus. She replays the mantra in her head: eggsmilkpeacheseggsmilkpeaches...She nearly succeeds in numbing her mind when a woman in her late 60's approaches her.

"I'm so sorry to bug you dear, but I can't reach that loaf of bread for the life of me. Can you help me out?"

"Yeah sure." Sadie places the bread in the elderly woman's cart.

"How are you today?" The woman seems sincere enough, but Sadie doesn't want to be honest right now.

"Good. You?" Sadie says these simple words with a feigned smile and empty eyes.

The woman looks at Sadie's eyes tenderly.
"How are you?" The woman persists.

Sadie looks back at her with eyes full of pain and gratitude.

A single tear drop falls.

A Walk Down Memory Lane (Cheesy sentimental title? Check.)

A few days ago I took the time to read through tons of old letters and notes. It was definitely a whirlwind of memories. I'll share with you some of my favorite one-liners and quotes. These quotes will likely be a healthy combination of sentimental and silly. Here we go.

-A purple construction paper note I once found on my bed freshman year:
"Kristina...I love your face. But...he is all mine! I saw him first! (Jk, you can have him, he was probably drunk.)" <3 always, Kiffyn

-A note left on my bed after my Uncle Tony & Aunt Jessy stayed in my room once:
   "It was really fun to see you- good luck with the rest of the school year. I don't even know if you like this candy, but next time you see me just pretend you did and I'll be happy." -Tony

-"If I could offer you some advice from my college days...Put studying before girls. I mean boys."
   -Zach Cipriano

-"Life with the opposite gender is like what you described. You can always get what you don't want and have to work hard for what you do want."
   -Cody Hansen

-A letter from Chantal Hopper listing things she loves about me:
   #9: She's as sweet as candy! (even though she doesn't eat it)
   #13: She will most likely appreciate this scratch and sniff sticker...
   #15: Her addiction to water makes her pee clear
   #17: She likes skulls "in moderation"
   #34: She's kind of like a white Asian

-"I decided not to write expletives all over your locker. You are so lucky."
   -Josh Osborne

-"There might be people that upset you, but if you just love them, then it doesn't matter."
   -Ben Dyas

-"I'm sure you will have music in your future home. Someday you will rock a tiny infant in your arms and sing it to sleep and be filled with so much joy."
   -Molly Rowan

-"Though I know I have limitations and weaknesses as a mom and teacher, I hope my testimony comes through."
   -My mom, Eva Smith---note to you, mom: Your testimony DOES come through by the way you live your life. Thank you :)

-"Thank you for being my mentor, peace of mind, long lost sister, walking dictionary, and most importantly-- my best friend."
   -Sierra Schaefer

-"I'd just like to say, although I publicly proclaimed it, that I am NOT a flaming homo!"
  -Daniel Squires

-"Every day you walk out of your room, I immediately regret the outfit I put on."
   -Bridget Funk
      -But the funny part is that you have it totally backwards, Bridget.

-The last birthday card that Juliana Duran made me:
   "I hope you like the cover because it took a lot of ink...I was going to put your head &the guy from August Rush's head on top of pictures of people like you did for my card, but I figured you would show it to your mom and soil my good name in the Smith household."

- "Dear Kristina, Thanks for the sweet, groovy, awesome, killer, cool, terrific, spectacular, mind-boggling, stellar, great, super birthday card. Thanks for taking your time to make me a special card. I love you.
Love, Spencer"

-The tiniest note made out of a philosophy bbq handout from class:
  "Dear Krishna, Wow! Thanks for the barbeque! It made my bday awesome!
   I ALL the love you!
   <3 Kitten"
           ^That's Taj :)

-A few excerpts from a letter from Grammy (Grandma Smith) :
   -"Remember when we danced and twirled on the front lawn in the wind to dry our freshly polished finger nails?"
   -"One fall when the family was gathered at our home, I overheard a little conversation between you and Jason:
       Kristina: 'How ode ahh you?'
       Jason: 'I'm foe.'
       Kristina: 'I'm foe, too!'"
   -"Once when you were a little older, you told your mother you needed to spend more 'quality time' with Grammy. I was very flattered."

-"Understanding the Atonement of Christ will probably take a lifetime, but I can testify that believing in Him and trying to live like He did helped me find peace and happiness. As a little reminder I got you this little statue of Christ. No...it is not for your dashboard."
   -Kim Romero-- Thank you so so much, Kim. I still keep that little statue on my desk today. Not only does it remind me of Christ, but it reminds me of you and all the valuable things you taught me as my YW leader and my friend. I love you!

Hot Cocoa and Zombies

What is it like to be Roger Cook? What does his life entail beyond teaching Philosophy of Religion? I cannot imagine Professor Cook speaking or thinking any differently than he does in class. I cannot imagine him ever recklessly abandoning the logic, the inquisitiveness, the formality which dictate his behavior whenever I see him. If you look up the word "scholarly" in the dictionary, I assure you his picture will be there. How could he ever act differently?

When his wife makes a yummy breakfast, how does he compliment it? "Thank you dear, that was a stunning meal. Simply exquisite." 

What about when his kids were young, and they begged him for sugar-saturated cereal at the store? 

Child: "I want it Dad, I want it!!"
Professor Cook: "Now, children, you must forward a more compelling argument which consists of more than the fact that you want it. What is the true meaning of want anyway?"

How does he get his kicks? I already know that he gets giddy from reading dense philosophical and religious texts; he annotates them until the pages thin from the impact of his excited pen. But what else is he passionate about? What else gets his adrenaline going? Perhaps a perfectly golden slice of toast. He was comparing a philosophical principle to a toaster today after all. Or perhaps he enjoys hot cocoa by the fire, accompanied by some light reading- Moby Dick or the Encyclopedia.

Or, maybe he spends his free time on XBOX-Live, slaughtering zombies while downing energy drinks and listening to Lil Wayne's most explicit hit singles. I will never know.

Be a Filter, Not a Sponge

Hello, world.

So blogging is one of those things I swore I would never do. Along with joining Pinterest, talking to my parents about my love life, and befriending people who like things like Justin Bieber and Jersey Shore. But I've done all those things now, so I figured I could give blogging a try.

My main reason for starting this blog is to organize my thoughts. I LOVE WRITING. I always have. It's therapeutic. I have come to realize that it is the most thorough and productive way for me to sift through my thoughts and discover little golden nuggets of truth. I love it.

For my first post, I thought I'd share one of my favorite quotes ever. It's from the book "The Perks of Being a Wallflower." Here it is:

"Be a filter, not a sponge."

In this book, the main character is named Charlie. This quote is advice given to Charlie from a phenomenal teacher. The teacher specifically intends for Charlie to utilize this advice when reading books. I firmly believe that this advice applies to books we read, along with everything else we're exposed to; this including opinions of human beings we respect.

It is so important to develop a way to sense what actually resonates with you, as opposed to instances when something simply shocks you into thinking you believe it.

Authors of novels are such interesting and insightful people. I love reading books and gleaning pieces of wisdom that the authors have nestled within the pages. I always write down quotes as I go, and I try to apply  those things which resonate most with me to my daily life. However, there have definitely been instances when I have read something, been floored by its peculiarity, and taken it for life doctrine simply because the idea was so original and captivating. Just because something shocks you and alters your perspective doesn't mean that it is truth.

In regards to written stimuli, the main point is that I've learned I cannot simply soak up everything I read and let it all affect me equally. I'm all for being exposed to as many aspects of life as I possibly can and letting everything I do in life influence me and shape who I am; however, letting something shape who you are doesn't necessarily equate to including it in your worldview. Letting something shape who you are often means that you're exposed to something, it shocks you, and you decide to reject it and move on.

I believe this also applies to the opinions of people you interact with. Often, a conflict of interest arises when someone I have a lot of respect for forwards an opinion with which I blatantly disagree. I'm not saying I'm more right, or they're more right; that's not the point. The point is that people possess opinions, and just because you revere someone as a person doesn't mean you need to mirror their views of what is truth and what is not. Don't passively let people change you. Be a filter, not a sponge.

Picture a water filter. I'm obsessed with those things.
The unfiltered water is everything you're exposed to. The filtered water is the things that you let affect and change you. The filter is the important part. Here you choose what you let change you. It might seem tedious to refine your filter, because it often takes a lifetime to fully develop. However, I believe it's something worth working on. Realize what things resonate with you, and what things don't. Life is so much more fulfilling when you realize how in control you are of who you become. So do it! Be a filter, not a sponge.