Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.

My apartment gets very quiet at night. Too quiet. At times, like now, I lie in bed- surrounded by darkness- and listen for life on the other side of these thin walls.

Wind. Some nocturnal creature. A distant ambulance.

I swear I can hear my heart beating. Puh-dum, puh-dum, puh-dum...

Rustled leaves. Footsteps?

Puh-dum, puh-dum, puh-dum, puh-dum...

I pray for sleep to save me from this resounding silence. But, I fear insomnia has decided to settle in for the night. It always settles in on nights like this. Nights that are quiet. Dark and moonless. Seemingly endless.

Sometimes- right now, actually- I long for the comfort of another’s deep breathing. To hear another heart beating. But, it’s just the one heart I hear. Steady in it’s rhythm, but uncertain in everything else.

Puh-dum, puh-dum, puh-dum...

What if everything were different? What if I weren't so familar with the sound of darkness?

Puh-dum, puh-dum, puh-dum, puh-dum...

Man, I wish the sun would rise, so I could find sleep.

Confessions of a Pink Cupcake Eater

I wake up, sometimes, with a start. Not knowing why, really, but always with a dark feeling that things aren't right. It's during those heart-pounding moments that I get the distinct feeling I'm the brunt of some cruel and terrible joke. Everyone knows exactly what the punch line is. And, everyone knows that the punch line is me.

I am keenly aware that this thought- when passing through my brain- serves as a flashing, neon reminder that I am, at times, nothing more than a scared sixteen year old girl who forgot to convince herself that she didn't care.

As I sit here on my bed, legs tucked beneath me, and laptop before me-- I wonder when, exactly, that 16 year girl will retreat to the past-- and stay there forever. And, I wonder why she is so persistent in her longing to be heard.

This all seems so unnecessarily complicated and dramatic to me, but, unfortunately, I am stuck here. Again. Trying to shake the residual effects of a bad dream. Wishing the joke would be over. Wishing I were somewhere else. Wishing I knew all of the answers. And wishing I didn't have so many wishes.

Pink cupcakes. That's what life reminds me of. They're always so inviting. They promise to be good. Delicious, really. But, pink cupcakes are always bitter. Have you noticed that? It must be the red dye #41, or something. But, I always wonder why I thought they would be so tasty.

The problem is that the world keeps offering me pink cupcakes. And I, foolishly and eagerly, keep excepting them. I gobble them up. And then, with pink stained lips, and a bitter mouth, I cry out to my Father and BEG him to show me what went wrong. And, so, ever patient, He shows me a mirror. He points out my pink lips. And reminds me that the pink cupcakes will always stain and always leave me bitter.

But, again, I forgot to remember. And so, with pink lips, and a bitter taste-- I sit here-- lost in myself and my doubts and my sixteen year old insecurities. Wanting to run, wanting to hide, and wanting to know what the joke is.

I ate the pink cupcake. I guess I am the punch line, after all.

"Please Help."

I saw his body, hunched over his small bag of possessions, shortly before I saw his face, and shortly before I registered his plight. Homeless. And disabled. His fingers twisted in the familiar distortion of arthritis. He held a sign that read simply “Please Help”. Succinct. And, painfully desperate. His eyes met mine and I, for a moment, understood his desperation.

I turned away, wishing that I hadn’t read his sign-- wishing that I hadn't seen his face. I busied myself in the car--adjusting the radio dial, and shuffling papers. I pretended that I hadn't seen him.

But, I had seen him. And, I saw him still after I drove away. I see him now, days later. And, if I'm honest, I wish I could erase his image from my mind.

I wonder why the image of that man has stuck with me so vividly. The truth is, I am not entirely dissimilar to that man. I hold my own sign. Intangible and unseen. But the message is the same: "Please Help". A warm bed and a hot meal may not be my particular need. But, I too, on my own, am disabled and homeless. Desperately seeking mercy. Compassion. Hope.

I am ashamed by the ease at which I turned away from his suffering-- the ease at which I, daily, ignore those around me that are desperately seeking. They are no different than I. But, in my avoidance of their pain, I shamefully withhold the mercy, compassion and hope that I so much desire.

By turning away from the pain of a stranger, am I not, ultimately, turning away from my Father?