About 50 years before you were born,
there was a chain salesman.
His mustache lay across his top lip like a black noodle stuck to his face.

He burped and clenched his fists as potential customers neared. -Of course, though, these were just walkers, businessmen and strolling ladies -society with faces.

His suitcase was full of his salesmanship -his half price, full price and ‘name your price’ chains. No one knew his name, he would never tell the truth -never repeat the same one, and now he was unsure himself. He had confused his real word-label with his brash attempts of clever titles, his lying proclamations.

He had bronze chains, small chains and iron chains -each had been carefully stolen. So, if a policeman neared his daytime market, he’d lug his bag up onto the cement wall that was the usual dismal backdrop for his mobile store, and lean against it like he didn’t know you - (and you didn’t, but he had made you believe you did), puffing at his withered cigarette. “Yes sir”, “no sir” were his ready expressions for the blue-suited law bringers. 

“i’m up to not much good at all” he’d almost confess, “but you know, alot of good, is some good to alot of people”.

Indeed, he was very good at what he did.
Infact, the best -yes, and the only.
-the only wandering chain salesmen in your area.
and when you are the only, you are both the worst, and the best.

He had two selling methods. both involved awkward buyers and snarling speeches. If you didn’t buy ‘em though, and stood firm against his compelling attempts, -his bitter prompts- his persuasive growls, much to anyone’s surprise: he’d give em away… he would throw them at your feet, as if he didn’t want them. like they were hinderances to his hopes of a normal life.
“please, take them” he’d stress. -His voice matching his eyes- anxious and restrained. 

but chains, any colour, any make, and even free chains -even after hearing influential verses and glamorous descriptions, you didn’t need ‘em…

They were made for binding
-and you were made for running

and you can lose your soul
if you don’t loose your hold 

I think helium balloons are attracted to the stars, it has nothing to do with helium being lighter than oxygen -that’s madness kids…

felixetluella:

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma”

—

Steve Jobs (Stanford Commencement Speech)

(Source: ninagarcia, via aetiologist)

th-unposted:

I felt sorry for the flowers the other day
no, not the flowers, the leaves.
yeah -the leaves.
That day I also mowed over a blue tongue lizard- it made a grandeur noise as it fought the blades- as the metal spinners teared through his leathery-scaled-skin and threw him out, open and torn, limp and open. he was a cardboard box, laid flat ready to be stitched up. -my conscience is debating that it was still alive, but in order to not feel like a lizard murderer I am pursuing the argument that it was dead pre-mow-over, that it was lying in the lady’s grass because it had lived it’s life, retired, sold it’s shares and made friends with death and flies.

I lay down on the park bench, which the lady who owned the house, and the unkempt lawn I was mowing, had kindly placed in her backyard. This is all you can do when you are half-way. When you are a friend of the almost -when brink is your middle name; wait, and think…
I watched the leaves rustling- their usual dance on the tips of each branch. The blue background had no distance, you can’t out-of-focus the deep air. 
and I felt sad for the leaves…
their colour…
they were so green, 
and new. 
they didn’t know; everything dies.
like,
everything.
-and please assume I am placing more emphasis on the thing part of that word- which covers the seen parts of this time schedule, this earth-date, we call existence. Your books. they’ll fade, discolour, burn or fall apart. -they’ll be of no use, tear open, they’ll mould and blow away, they’ll break up and be eaten by a thousand dust mites. even your house, that’ll be gone. yeah, like gone. not just bearing an old smell, cold with packed up boxes and no one but dusty framed photo’s and dampened brown carpet, it’ll disappear- which is the opposite of appear- a slow motion version of that verb though, of course. it’ll fade and borrow destruction for it’s walls. It’ll collapse in, after years of standing. It’ll be demolished and sweeped past. along with your childhood skateboard and your romeo collection, your romantic cutlery and baking dishes. mums cloths and bible. her gloves and dads metal pedals- his hat, his glasses. along with everything else made. even your recipe books and pen lids. and some things you don’t want. 
I’m sorry if this was a sudden realisation for you, and I don’t mean to dampen your morning, or evening, or any in-between times. 
but it’s true.
a strange truth.
-I remember one time, my little sister was crying.
and I listened in, as mum asked her what was wrong. Jaz, who was about 5 or six at the time had realised this fact -a young enough age to learn such a truth… and she told mum how she didn’t want others to die- how it seemed scary and weird. “don’t think about that” mum told her. and I couldn’t help myself “everyone does die” I thought to myself. 
everyone, 
but it can’t be the end.
and I know it’s not. ‘cause I know who ended death. 
This is not the end for people -for the human sea. For the multitudes and the singulars… for the thousands -the hundreds and the mums and families.  The things, they wither. -fast too. -but breath, air. -It’s eternal. 
Some things were made with words. and I believe that is how we are re-made, good or bad. But we were made with Gods hands, knitted together in our mothers wombs. or caked together with dust from the ground. God didn’t say “let there be humans”, and there was, but he made us- he crafted us. -and then gave us direction. But that might be another story for another tumblr podium moment.
-We were breathed in at creation. We are re-breathed in when we believe.
Like taking in a deep breath. Our limp lungs that were stuck together in defeat like old red balloons, were, re-inflated.
Re-filled.
That breath is what keeps us alive… if you don’t breathe- lasting long isn’t a giant option for your carcuss.
-One of the first signals to check if someone is still alive or not, is to check if they are breathing. And when you put your ear to the mouth of every believer, and when you put your hand on their chest, no matter how little their breath may be… it won’t fade… we’ll keep our breath…
not hold it.
some people try to hold it. They think, “ohk, great, I’ve breathed in, I believe… now i don’t wanna let this go”. and they are walking around purple, half exploding, and barely nodding for communication. breathe out, breathe in… you gotta know; that to stay alive, you gotta keep breathing, you gotta keep believing.
faith is a walk- not a seat.
It’s a life, and a life to live.
and We can trust we will live forever, cause we’ve breathed in some eternal air that has been around before everything else. It, or moreso He links in with our first breath… and our spirit will live.
On and on. ‘cause we’ve breathed in an eternal Spirit. a Spirit that resurrects the dead. We’ve been filled. If you believe, and keep on believing. 
-in him we live and breathe and have our being- surely that’s a bible verse…

Things, they fade, they wither and erode. 
but people
are a slightly different story. -and a very good story indeed.
-Some people, infact, think God is not in their story and they hang their heads and despair- a likely resolve for such bad news.
But, saying God is not in your story, saying he is distant, is like saying JRR Tolkien is not involved in The Lord of the Rings… 
He wrote the whole thing,
he’s the reason for everything, each character, each victory. Every mountain and grassy plain. Even if his name is not mentioned in the epic saga, -the weighty trilogy, he wrote it -he constructed and dreamt the whole thing. 
Likewise -the whole reason anything exists, is because of God.
He’s the writer,
He’s the bearded man by candle-light, inking his feather pen, drawing up new plots. 
I heard once, that in story writing, the hardest part is creating the characters, and once you have created a good character, all you have to do is put him in certain situations, and, a good story will naturally unfold. 
So -create a mischievious character, and you’ll find him getting up to trouble, diving into pits of scorpions and, ending swiftly… Create a friendly character, and he’ll likely help others, make a meals and ride to work. 

-I think God mainly focuses on re-writing our character, while we want Him to work on our surroundings, the place we do stuff in, and the circumstances we find our characters placed in… He wants to work on our inside nature.
He wants us to have an awesome life, to live an exciting story. 
but our old nature will naturally live a really bad story, bringing a bad smell to any other we come across. Unless, of course, our nature changes half way through, then you have a snobby character, turning good, which makes for a great tale.

If we let God re-write our nature, changing our character, - which He is so good at doing… Then we’ll find ourselves living a really good story, we’ll find ourselves living an exciting life,
because everything that He does in us,
is contrary to the gloomy world,
and we’ll find ourselves having to cut against the grain, taking risks that others wouldn’t, and finding love, and giving love. Fully. 
We’ll find ourselves living how we were always spose to. 

I think, most of the story is this re-creation God does in us, it’s not just what we’ll do, but who we do it as. And the who He changes us into part, this might be one of the most extraordinary elements.

You’ll find that everything God places inside of you, is the exact opposite of what the world has. Or moreso, -he puts in you, as you believe, what everyone in this suffocating world wants, fresh air.
a breath.
-you won’t be perfect, but you’ll be perfect in love. You’ll be whole. You’ll know love. ‘cause you’ve let love find you.
This is good news.
And the best part; it’s for everyone. 
wait, an even better part; it’s undeserved. 
You didn’t earn it. you just recieved it, as a gift. 
Now we’ll live in abundance and expectation.
But that’s only when we realize, that we are in God’s story. 
and that He’s a good writer. a grand author. -and, perfecter, -of our faith- (if you want to get biblical)… 

As I lingered under the curving branches on the faded blue, cracking-paint park bench, in a lady-I-don’t-know’s backyard, with hands fuming of petrol and sweat, my heart sunk at sight of the leaves.
They were so, unaware. They are just going to wither -they’ll die. 
I wondered, in a letter and posted it to God, “why, do they even exist” “why, anything”, “why the leaves, why the trees, why the air I breath”. -i’m not sure if it rhymed or not in real life…
I’m careful not to try and trap God with my nauseous questions, with my petite wonderings. I like trusting God instead. And choosing to have faith at the end of the day, and at the start of it -too. ‘cause I know that if i don’t understand something now, I will one day anyways.
And when I do, know it all, i’ll just be like “ohk, kewl” and then eat some of heavens roast, pour it’s gravy and laugh with everyone. I’ll kneel before God and thank him.
I’ll drink ginger beer and do something else rad. There’ll be rest, and the harder we’ve worked now, the more rewarding that time of rest will be I guess.
Like handing in a school project just in time. -if I had magically been working on it for the last two weeks, and i’d put everything into it.
-The greater I had worked, not only the greater marks i’ll get, but the greater relief i’ll get once I hand it in. Much like, the more you work, the more money you get, and the more stoked you are when you have time off. -But in a slightly more long term perspective… ohk, forever is a great adjective for this time range…

and on this side of the forever
please take hope;
sure it’s hot, and cactuses are appropriate props for this parched and weary land,
but there’s a well, that won’t run dry