A Specimen

She's a Specimen. She is a Creature. She is unlike anything you've seen.

She's got a beauty that has been hidden for most of her life. I have just seen it for the first time. I have a feeling there is still some hiding. It was hidden by her gangly arms and lack of eye contact. It dwelled behind her crooked teeth and scraggly hair.

She doesn't do things her age. She does other things. Animals. Drawing. Reading. She loves those things.

She's tall. She looks down on others. She is quiet. She is witty and clever, but she doesn't talk directly to anyone. She has a commentary to herself about the surrounding conversation. I don't know what to do with it. Do I respond? Does she mean to be heard? Do I laugh? It doesn't seem like her words are aimed at anyone. It's more of a broad but quiet cannon, shooting the thoughts out. Whoever wants to be hit by the shrapnel of her mind may do so. I don't know if I want to.

She really is a Creature. Unlike other creatures.

Most things are shit

**THIS CONTAINS GRAPHIC THINGS SO DON'T BE SEARCHING IF YOU CAN'T HANLDE IT**


Lately, I have realized that most things nowadays are shit.


End of story. But since that is not a good blog post, I will elaborate.



O I L S P I L L S are shit.

I S I S is shit.

P R I S O N S are shit.

L E A D E R S are shit.

C A M P U S R A P E is shit.

C H I L D S O L D I E R S are shit.

M U R D E R is shit.

R E L I G I O N is shit.

F O O D is shit.

S C H O O L S are shit.

M U S I C is shit.









BUT -


I believe in magic
I believe that one day
or maybe even today

we                    can

see

God's Grandeur.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

    And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

-Hopkins