When I was young, I knew everything.

Two out of three personal statements nearly done. Praise God. And I think, after hours: of sitting staring at a silent lake; of waiting over a blank page; of creasing frowns into my forehead while searching for the perfect words--I think I am beginning to understand what I am passionate about. With everything else, with every other influence, stripped away, I am left with only my own thoughts to get me through the day. I am driven by my own needs, and my own desires, and am free to daily turn them over to God that He may clearer direct my path.

So: I'm starting to discover--Me. No strings. Just me. And I like what I see.


In other news, I've acquired some company; my cousin--Heather--and her husband--Bobby--have joined me for the weekend and a fire crackles happily upstairs while my companions read by its glow.

And. I got to babysit a dog who thinks it's a child.

Strange little creature.

Hudson also believes himself to be a lapdog and attempted to prove it by crawling over my notebook--upon which I was furtively scribbling my grad-school work--and fit half his body atop my legs

Needless to say, I didn't get any work done until I'd carousel-ed him around the couch about eighty times, chasing him in an "attempt" to steal his toy, and eventually caused him to collapse in exhaustion--over my lap. Using him as a table, I frantically scribbled out four pages of Personal-Statementing before he woke up again, ready to run in more circles.

Listening: Secondhand Serenade, "Almost Alive". Beautifully tragic and emo. Not a reflection of my mood but I so enjoy the lilting, mourning acoustics. It's the kind of music that makes you want to lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling with your hands behind your head, while heaving really, slow, sighs.

I just realized my cell phone hasn't been on in eleven days.
Beautiful