Nature
Yeah, so its been a long time since I updated this thing. I am now officially back at Wake, and have been for almost a week. Classes started two days ago, and seem to be going pretty good, but will probably be pretty hard. Its been good getting to see and hang out with my friends again after the boredom that was my summer. I don't really have anything else exciting or interesting to say, so I am gonna post a cool quote from an essay we had to read for my American Lit class.
Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Each young and ardent person writes a diary, in which, when the hours of prayer and penitence arrive, he inscribes his soul. The pages thus written are, to him, burning and fragrant: he reads them on his knees by midnight and by the morning star; he wets them with his tears:they are sacred; too good for the world, and hardly yet to be shown to the dearest friend. This is the man-child that is born to the soul, and her life still circulates in the babe. The umbilical cord has not been cut. After some time has elapsed, he begins to wish to admit his friend to this hallowed experience, and with hesitation, yet with firmness, exposes the pages to his eye. Will they not burn his eyes? The friend coldly turns them over, and passes from the writing to conversation, with easy transition, which strikes the other party with astonishment and vexation. He cannot suspect the writing itself. Days and nights of fervid life, of communion with angels of darkness and of light, have engraved their shadowy characters on that tear-stained book. He suspects the intelligence or the heart of his friend. Is there then no friend? He cannot yet credit that one may have impressive experience, and yet may not know how to put his private fact into literature; and perhaps the discovery that wisdom has other tongues and ministers than we, that though we should hold our peace, the truth would not the less be spoken, might check injuriously the flames of our zeal. A man can only speak, so long as he does ot feel his speech to be partial and inadequate. It is partial, but he deoes not see it to be so, whilst he utters it. A soon as he is released from the instinctive and particular, and sees its partiality, he shuts his mouth in disgust. For, no man can write anything, who does not think that what he writes is for the time the history of the world; or do anything well, who deoes not esteem his work to be of importance. My work may be none, but I must not think it of none, or I shall not do it with impunity."
I think this passage kinda speaks for itself, especially in reference to my journal.
Current Lyrics: Enough by ? (general praise and worship song)
All of You is more than enough for
All of me for every thirst and
Every need You satisfy me
With Your love and all I have in You
Is more than enough
You are my supply my breath of life
And still more awesome than I know
You are my reward, worth living for
Still more awesome than I know
You’re my sacrifice of greatest price
And still more awesome than I knwo
You’re my coming King, You are everything
And still more awesome than I know
More than all I want, more than all I need
You are more than enough for me
More than all I know. More than all I can say
You are more than enough for me
chorus
Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Each young and ardent person writes a diary, in which, when the hours of prayer and penitence arrive, he inscribes his soul. The pages thus written are, to him, burning and fragrant: he reads them on his knees by midnight and by the morning star; he wets them with his tears:they are sacred; too good for the world, and hardly yet to be shown to the dearest friend. This is the man-child that is born to the soul, and her life still circulates in the babe. The umbilical cord has not been cut. After some time has elapsed, he begins to wish to admit his friend to this hallowed experience, and with hesitation, yet with firmness, exposes the pages to his eye. Will they not burn his eyes? The friend coldly turns them over, and passes from the writing to conversation, with easy transition, which strikes the other party with astonishment and vexation. He cannot suspect the writing itself. Days and nights of fervid life, of communion with angels of darkness and of light, have engraved their shadowy characters on that tear-stained book. He suspects the intelligence or the heart of his friend. Is there then no friend? He cannot yet credit that one may have impressive experience, and yet may not know how to put his private fact into literature; and perhaps the discovery that wisdom has other tongues and ministers than we, that though we should hold our peace, the truth would not the less be spoken, might check injuriously the flames of our zeal. A man can only speak, so long as he does ot feel his speech to be partial and inadequate. It is partial, but he deoes not see it to be so, whilst he utters it. A soon as he is released from the instinctive and particular, and sees its partiality, he shuts his mouth in disgust. For, no man can write anything, who does not think that what he writes is for the time the history of the world; or do anything well, who deoes not esteem his work to be of importance. My work may be none, but I must not think it of none, or I shall not do it with impunity."
I think this passage kinda speaks for itself, especially in reference to my journal.
Current Lyrics: Enough by ? (general praise and worship song)
All of You is more than enough for
All of me for every thirst and
Every need You satisfy me
With Your love and all I have in You
Is more than enough
You are my supply my breath of life
And still more awesome than I know
You are my reward, worth living for
Still more awesome than I know
You’re my sacrifice of greatest price
And still more awesome than I knwo
You’re my coming King, You are everything
And still more awesome than I know
More than all I want, more than all I need
You are more than enough for me
More than all I know. More than all I can say
You are more than enough for me
chorus