It is 12:23 am. I have a hickey on my stomache. Things are a little better with my parents. I almost ran away yesterday. We had more fights, more "talks". I suppose I taught them what having a "rebellious" child is really like. Now they are pretending that everything is ok. They are being super nice to me, but it is a fake kind of nice. The nice that has the subtle undertones of agression and anger. I love you babe. It is to bad we didnt do anything tonight, maybe sometime soon. I am sitting on my rather uncomfortable desk chair, feeling the nighttime air through my window. I think about love and hate. I think about these things that are in my life. I think about each carefully, gently, thoroughly pondering the impact and influence it has on me. Hate. Hate and anger are often hand in hand. Hate is an intense hostility. I dont often hate things. I hate ignorant cruelty to anyone. I hate hypocrits. I hate inconsideration and rudeness. Sometimes I am guilty of the things I hate, so sometimes I hate myself. Love. Strong affection. Warm attachment. Unselfish, loyal, and benevolent concern for others. To feel passion, devotion, or tenderness. Affection. I have love for my dear friends. I have a bred-in love for my family, no matter how badly they treat me, or how much I disagree or fight with them. I might never again love my father, but I love my mother, and all her imperfections. I love my little brothers, I dont know what I would do if anything happened to them. I have reached an understanding with my sister, but a true love I may never have with her. I love him, but I am still a little afraid of this love. Perhaps I love to whole-heartedly. Perhaps I love to much. But I continue to trust in this love, trust that it will not fall, trust that it will not end in hate. I love the fall. I love forgiveness. I love comfort and warmth. I love the open-minded and the open-hearted. I love the moon and the stars. I love animals and trees. I love the people who are brave enough to do what they think is right. I try to believe that there is something good in everything I see. But some things are purely evil. Abusive parents. Abusive spouses. Murder. Rape. Terrorism. These are only a few of the many things that are really evil in this world. I try not to hate, but I will not forgive things like that. I wont even try to look for something good in those. I know those are wrong, I know those are bad. Evil. We know its evil. But if we know that, then why we do we continue to do evil? There will always be someone out there. There will always be something evil. We cant love evil. But we cant forget about it either. We must keep these things close in our minds as we look for good. Ah yes, my hippy ideals are showing again. Today I was reminded again why I love him. Yesterday I was reminded of why I love him. The day before, and the day before that. I am continually shown love. It is selfish of me not to trust in his. A song for you. "You know when you give your love away, it opens your heart, everything is new. And you know time will always find a way to let your heart believe its true. You know love is everything you say, a whisper, a word, promises you give. You feel it in the heartbeat of the day. You know this is the way love is. You know love can sometimes make you cry, so let the tears go, they will flow away, for you know love will always let you fly. How far a heart can fly away. You know when love is shining in your eyes, it may be the stars fallen from above. And you know love is with you when you rise, for night and day belong to love." I might have quoted parts of this song before, but it still rings clear in my mind. It still has the same emotion and the same thoughts connected to it. The words still feed my heart. The scarlet blood flows through my veins as I find color in the black and white world. A rainbow of words echo within the gray mind, placed upon the artists pallet. He paints the world as he has seen it. He shares his world with others, he gives his colors to life. And as the gathering angels watch the artist, and as the throng of demons look upon his work, the artist paints them. The angels are proud and the demons gleeful as the artist portrays each within his heart. He honors the trees and the mountains as he gives them his own color. He gives the bland peacock his exotic vibrance and the pale jaguar his vivid golden pelt. He colors the sky and the grass, he colors the glowing fire and the rippling waves. The color gives him love, and it gives him hate. The color give him emotion. The color gives him the difference between right and wrong. He shares his color. The black and white world becomes full, whole. The scarlet blood flows through my veins as I think of the words, think of the colors. They feed my pumping heart. In the name of the words...