THE IRONY

Let me just preface this post with this: I do not cry in movies. 

I didn't cry in Titanic when Rose let Jack sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.

I didn't cry when Whatshername in A Walk to Remember died after her and Thatoneguy got married.

I didn't cry when Allie and that old man who was supposed to be the old-man-version of Ryan Gosling somehow miraculously died together in the same night in The Notebook.

I DO NOT CRY IN MOVIES.

But I watched Captain Phillips tonight.

And it wasn't that he was held hostage that had my tears flowing, or the fact that [SPOILER ALERT] those Navy Seals shot all three men at the same time and no one even cared that Captain Phillips was splashed with their blood. It wasn't that he was blindfolded when those three died, and it wasn't that he heard those gunshots that were followed by silence and with blood in his mouth cried out, "What was that?!" 

No, no my tears came after that. 

It was when he gets to the doctors and they're trying to fix him up, 
and it was the way he couldn't form a coherent sentence 
and it was that he looked so broken. 

But mostly I cried because no one was giving this man a hug. I know that sounds dumb. But honestly? This man has been held hostage, and he was beaten, and he almost died.
      AND NO ONE COULD GIVE THIS MAN A HUG. 

I know this is just a movie but actually no it's not. Because this happened five years ago. And I don't know if anyone actually gave him a hug, but that's what got me.

The irony of me crying when someone is saved, and not when someone dies.

My life is ironic.

Okay, that's all.

Don't worry, it's going to be okay.

I tried, okay?

The night after the poetry slam, Friday night, I was laying in bed and thinking about all of you.
And my heart was aching a lot a bit.
And it was aching because you hate God.

So I decided to write a poem for you all.
But when I finished it, just right when I put a period to finish the last line of the last paragraph,
My phone died, and with it my attempt to bring you all to love God again.

This poem that I wrote for you, it would have made you believe in God again, I swear.

But maybe it was deleted because I can't be the one to bring you to Him again,

You have to do it yourself.

i want to travel the world not a campus aka real talk

On Monday September 30, at 12:04 AM I posted a piece of writing that I thought included all of my fears.

But I was wrong.

I'm not that afraid of drowning.
Ferris wheels aren't that high.
I'm not afraid for the end of the semester anymore.
And bones aren't something scary, they're something wonderful.

I've realized what I'm afraid of most.

I'm afraid of the world.

And not in the oh-my-goodness-what-is-this-world-coming-to way.
But in the HOW-ON-EARTH-CAN-I-SEE-EVERYTHING-I-WANT-TO-SEE-IN-MY-LIFETIME???? way.

There are so many places that I want to see.

I want to see the sun set on the Taj Mahal.

I want to see the moon shine it's light on the sand through the roof of the Forgotten Temple of Lysistrata in Greece.

I want to see houses of all different colors in Portugal.

I want to spend the night under the stars staring in wonder at the Northern Lights in Norway.

I want to feel the strength of an elephant move under me as it takes me across a river in Thailand.

I want to go see the pyramids at Giza and think about all those mummies.

I want to cross every bridge in Amsterdam, while wearing wooden clogs.

I want to zipline through a rainforest in Antigua.

I want to eat gilato outside of the Trevi Fountain like Lizzie McGuire did.
I want to see what a beach in Poland looks like.

I even want to see Milwaukee.

MILWAUKEE.

Have you ever met a person who wants to go to Wisconsin just to see Milwaukee??

I honestly just want to see everything.
And meet everyone.
And I want to put a pin in the map everywhere I go.


But unfortunately the world doesn't work like that.
Life isn't a beach.

And you can't decide you want to go travel the world,

because apparently you need to spend too much money

and too much time taking classes that you don't even care about

ALL so that you can ease your mothers worried mind 

by having a degree even though just yesterday she said she thinks 

"real life experience is worth way more than a college degree."

(kthanksfornothingmom)

So instead of backpacking across Europe next fall, 
I'm going to be backpacking across Provo.

And instead of finding the quickest route from the Berlin Wall to the Swiss Alps,
I'll be trying to find the quickest route from the David O. Mckay Building to Helaman Hall.

Waiting until I can finally say

The world is my art school.

And I'm majoring in experience.

adios paris

You know those trips you take and you're like, "This is totally great, I'm going to write all about it when I get home so that I can remember it forever."

But as soon as you get home your mom is telling you that you need to unpack and give her all of your dirty clothes so that she can wash them and you need to let the dog out and you need to shower and then you want to go tell all your friends about your trip so you go and hang out with them and then you come home and go to bed and then its three months later and you remember that you didn't write about that trip so now you remember nothing.

This trip isn't like that.

This trip is full of time spent remembering.

Remember the way it looks like the world, and smells like hope.

Remember the way it tastes like ink, but sounds like a PG-13 movie.

Remember the way that you feel after another day in Paris. 

This is the place to become a free thinker, 

and then a free writer.

Remember how you feel here. 

Remember how you feel alive, how you feel like you're an artist, remember how your imagination used to be, remember how it feels to connect with strangers, how it feels to have your writing read.

Remember how you were hoping to get shot as many times near the end of the trip. ("THE SPREAD! THE SPREAD!") Remember how this was the first time in a long time that you want to hear all that a tour-guide has to say.

Remember to enjoy Paris.