When your hands set down their tools,
And Day puts away his plow,
I pray your heart’s at ease
To find the rest it needs.
Author: Tim Schwab
a novice
Piece of a Life
Wherein I write part of a long sentence, my life.
A Student Considers Gender
This is a shorter, not-as-thorough rewrite of a previous post.
Apothegms and Observations XII
Thank You, My Friends
I am not my fellow man, and I am glad of those who are bored by my ramblings. I tend to see things that strike me as frightfully, and I mean frightfully important, not only to me but to every individual. This importance stirs up my soul such that I want to proclaim, “Eureka!” from the rooftops. Usually I do so with full self-expression, at least among my closer friends.
Man of Sorrows
“I’ve got this fine friend I want you to meet,
He’s sure to answer your questions complete.
He’s seen it and done it and been it, it all.
He won’t disappoint you, I promise on Paul.”
I asked and he seemed to grasp my demand,
Indeed it seemed he had it all planned.
He uttered a wit I don’t think I’ll forget,
And tied it together with the whole alphabet.
The Rain
The rain pitter-patters then batters the road outside,
A gray storm covering the earth with its showers.
Somehow dampening, no, smothering, with freshness.
The grass sighs at the touch of the cool drops
But drowns seconds later.
A Ping Pong Lament On Disagreement, Lacking Precise Conclusion But Hoping For Edification. Written In Intellectual Rambling For The Enjoyment Of The Author. Knowingly Incomplete, Completeness Being Saved For Another Day.
I look and see deep beauties flowing from the damned and desire to reach to their soul with my words and perform a silent change, to communicate a truth they must understand for their beauty to avoid becoming tragedy. But reciprocity must be considered and I would recoil with a feeling of shock if such a thought was directed to me. It is an unwelcome interruption of innocents trying to do nothing but live a life well, or so we say of ourselves. And yea, the accusation of regrettable blindedness is indeed directed to me by the ones who “see” the shackle that religion “is.” How do I respond to them? Perhaps with patience and listening and an overthrown heart, but only halfheartedly because I believe in my soul that I have a truth which they lack. Do they not feel the same? If I am unconvinced by the best efforts of their masters like Hume and Nietzsche, how could mere I touch a single soul? “I see where you are coming from, but what about this…” they would say. I know others are not I, but I know some share my quality of stubbornness through uncertainty applied to action.
Thoughts of a Novice 