Well, this chapter in my life has come to an end. No more retrospective perspective. That's ok, though. Anyone reading this can catch me and Zachary at our new home together! You can find us collectively writing on the same site now. Direct your browsers here. I don't like goodbye's, so that's enough. Be sure and say 'hello' at irevolutionary!

The way alone works is slight and mischievous. It causes doubt, denial, and ultimately self-degradation. It's so amazing how something so singularly placid can be the spark that lights the metaphorical fireworks factory of emotion and bleakness. Why is it, then, that it is when I am alone that I feel most at ease, embracing the denial and worthlessness, walking along the same broken sidewalks I used to frequent when I was a boy of fifteen?

The way the moon shone through the dusty windshield must have been it. There is no other explanation for that feeling--that complete longing for a hug or a care from anyone I may have known. I wanted to hear a voice, I wanted to see a face; the clanking machinations of thought processes didn't help a bit. Striving for some sort of insight, a divine intervention from the god of my emotions, the dark scenery faded whitely gray. And then I just wanted Her.

It has been so long since I have seen Her in such a way, as if standing behind, watching the eclipse that formed when She passed in between the light of premonition my weighted legs. The figure seemed more holy than any lesson from The Book and more real than any slit of the wrist. Since that moment, I have been writing in the imperfections surrounding my perfect world, floating like a fetus in the limbo of limbo, neither here nor there, and certainly not anywhere.

To answer myself and take the burden off of any stander-by who might care to make a guess, a feeble stab in the dark, I think the reason is simple and straightforward--the convolutions are better left to sophists, anyway. When I am alone, I can be anywhere, and when I am anywhere, I am with Her, standing gently by, smiling; I am inside Her, feeling the single beat of one love, a tireless cellists plucking a low G sharp to the pulse of a perfect love; and I am watching Her as She makes monumentally insignificant decisions about who She is, why She is, and what She ultimately wants out of Her own time alone.

You may have heard it said that there's two sides to every story. I believe there's three. Your side, my side, and the truth.

What if there isn't really a correct answer to the problem, though? What if it's all lost in interpretation? I see the truth differently than you see the truth. Am I wrong? Obviously, since you have every insight into the Almighty, you are also the definitive source on whose religious convictions are right, doling it out as if some pagan god, proclaiming: "You are wrong. I am right. You have no concept of Christ or what He tells you. You aren't on the right track. etc." (Roughly taken from Zachary)

Approachability goes hand in hand with confidentiality. The fact that my personal life is not only spoken of incorrectly, but publicly, adds insult to injury. It's hypocrisy at the highest level. In my best Jerry Springer guest voice, I feel like screaming, "You don't know me!" You certainly don't have any clue about what I've been through, where I've been, or who I've been with. Yet you think you can advise my adoration to steer clear? Do you have some deep insight into panic and panic subduing medications? Do you know the cause of the panic? Do you know my adoration kept me SANE through the panic? Do you have any say in what I, or my adoration, does? No. No you do not. Should you? No. No you should not.

How can you stand there and pray "God let us be where You want us to be. Not where (insert youth minister's name here) wants us to be; not where the church wants us to be; but where You want us to be, God..." when there's no doubt in my mind that I'm SUPPOSED to be leading worship? You don't allow that to take place! You tell me I have to be where YOU want me to be, or I obviously COULDN'T be where God wants me to be. Think of what you're suggesting. Then, go on passing your pagan-like judgment out upon us all.

You begin, and all your words fall to the floor and shatter like a piece of ice dropped on a tile floor. The whole room does. In that moment, the building collapsed. Like an explosion, or implosion (it's hard to tell because the pieces were in such disarray no one knew if the blast came from inside or outside. The pieces were on top of me and completely blown away at the same time.) the hate came from inside out, or the outside in. It made me numb. I've been that way for a while. I want to cry, but there's no tears in these eyes. I want to scream, but there's no breath in these lungs. I want to smile, but there's no reason to push the corners of my mouth upward. I want the truth, but it's mixed in with the lies.

Is it really that hard to see the truth in a lie? What about the lie in the truth? It's like a conglomerate of rat poison. 99% is good food. 1% is deadly poison. Can we no longer think for ourselves? Can we not filter out the bad and take in only the good? Can we not decide what the Lord is telling us on our own?

Is your way truth?
Is my way truth?
In this instance, is there truth?
Can there be different truths for different people?
Can the truth be laced with cyanide?

You decide... truth or truth?

--Cory

Hello! This is the site administrator for A Retrospective Perspective, and I just want to let you all know that there is a new template for the site! I hope everyone likes the fresh, new look!

So I've set out to write a song that doesn't rhyme, doesn't have a beat, doesn't have any music, and--in general--looks like prose. But it isn't. Late nights have often brought forth love songs for no one. At least I have the advantage of knowing who this is for.

Blessing or curse? It's hard to tell sometimes. I've been cursed with the fact that I can't forget the unbelievable amounts of crap I've been through. Decide the glass is half-full, and I've been blessed with the same... I've been through it. It's over.

The whole idea of separation was terrifying to me. I spent the whole last week of our relationship begging for her to not let it happen. Hind sight is always 20/20. She wasn't worth one second of the crap I've been through. But the years that I've wasted is nothing to the tears that I've tasted. Forget it. It's over. I know now what to look for.

Here's what I'm facing: medication to keep me from panicking at the mere thought of this girl, the inability to look the world in the eye, and the uncertainty of love or the ability to reach that pinnacle emotion again. I let my hair fall in my eyes, and I hang my head low. My eyes tell a story I'd rather no one hear. The world is colder than it first appears.

Amidst all the ridiculous notions that she's "a different person, and would never lie to me or hurt me again," I knew things would end up this way. I knew it; I expected it; I prepared for it; I'm happy about it. That's right; I said I'm happy about it.

I'm not the linguist I wish I was. I'd love to give reason to this infatuation. The only thing wrong is the fact that 5 isn't always 5. Mathematics brings numbers to order; politics sets the true value of the number. The politics of the situation says 5 isn't always 5, and there's no mathematical solution to prove otherwise.

I think I've got it! Sweetheart, I've never met anyone quite like you. For whatever reason, each time I see you, I drown in those brownish-green pools of innocence all over again. I never want those eyes to change. I never want you to divert your eyes from those around you for fear they'll know the story of the pain you've been through. I can keep you from that. I can be faithful like no other. Just a simple conversation about your day keeps my heart beating at a different pace. I feel like a kid again--counting down the minutes until 3 o'clock. Not because I get out of school then, but because you get out of school then. 3:06--that's when I usually get the first text. I love knowing right after 3:00 the first buzz of my phone is you. I'm so smitten by this, and even though I'm good with words, I couldn't possibly write out all the reasons why. Nor could I explain them. Sometimes I even wonder myself. Ever wonder why you care so much?

I do.

--Cory
Disclaimer: In no way does the name "Olivia" necessarily represent a real person or object of my infatuation. If you're supposed to know who "Olivia" is... you already do. If you don't know who "Olivia" is, there is no mistake... trust me... you're honestly not supposed to know. Get over it.

Click. Click. Click. Click. This thing never did work very well. It's probably on its last leg, anyway. Perhaps I can coax it to work just once more.

Click. Finally! The red-orange glow illuminates the blackness effortlessly. I scan my surroundings. Man, I need to clean this place up. Oh well, maybe tomorrow. How many times have I said that now?

A new candle sits before me. I better light it now because I'll never get this pathetic lighter to ignite again. The wax coated wick shies away from the flame. It always does the first time. Truth is, once its layer of protection is gone it wants to be lit. Kind of reminds me of myself.

I remember the first time I did this. Man, it seems so long ago now. I'm sure you remember your first--probably an older sibling or cousin showed you...

"You can move your finger through the flame without getting burned if you move it quick enough." Like the wick, I shy away.

"Never play with fire!" The words still echo in my head... Truth is, once the layer of protection is gone I want to play with the fire.

I slid my finger through. No burns. For once I hadn't been lied to. Again, I slid my finger through the flame. No burns. I wonder how slow you can go without getting burned?... Not very. I kick the candle into the wall; the flame licks its last. I'm never doing that again. Yeah right...

I wonder how many candles I've gone through, now. How many times have I been burned? I run my thumb over the left side of my right index finger. It's pretty calloused. Kind of reminds me of myself.

Each time I get burned worse than the time before. You kind of build up a resistance to the small pains and it takes more and more to get burned. I always find a way, though. Always.

Each burn kills me again. I have grown to love it. It is all I know.

I wake up in the morning and see the puddle of now hardened wax on the plate from the night before. My finger is still black from running it through the flame. I never wash it off before bed. It sort of serves as a reminder of how blatantly stupid I was the night before.

Man, I wish I could stop! How bad will the burn have to be to make me quit?

It's the candles like the one in front of me that keep me coming back. No burns yet, and I'm almost done...

Perfect! I thought for sure I'd gone through too slow a couple of times. No burns, though. Man, I'm good...

The flame tries to hold on for dear life as it drowns in a pool of wax--a pool that it created. Kind of reminds me of myself.

The flame drops down to a cool blue and accepts its fate. Total darkness...

Total darkness only occurs when you're no longer in the presence of the light.

These are "My Struggles..."

--Cory

Imagine for a moment you're exactly who you want to be. You're the guy who calls the shots. You're the go to guy. You're the guy with the good looks. You're the guy with all the money. You're the guy with all the girls.

How far from who you really are is that person? He's too far to achieve in this lifetime, no? The problem is, we as humans have a bad habit of considering happiness as a rather stupid concept.(Jenn Leanza) We're never happy with the clothes we have, we're never happy with the cars we drive, we're never happy with the house we live in, and we're never happy with ourselves.
Knowing this problem is killing us, we continue in this charade throughout our entire lives. It kills us one second at a time. Everyday is another masquerade. Cover the real you or else people might talk. Is that not what we want? Deep down is it not what we strive for--the attention of being the perfect person?

For a moment, I felt like a kid again. You know how it is. You dream of being great. You dream of being someone totally different from the man in the mirror. So, daily you put on a mask and pretend to be the person you're not. You pretend to be that perfect man. And although it hurts your image, occasionally you lose it and everyone sees you for who you really are. Thing is, people see through your mask anyways. They don't mind so much. They do it too. We all do.

I can stand in a crowd and yell for everyone to jump up and down, and no one would do it. I could tell everyone to link arms and sway back and forth like a big church choir, and people would look at me like I'm crazy. But, put me on a stage and I command the crowd with ease. I am that man. Instantly, I become the guy who calls the shots. I become the go to guy. I become the guy with the good looks. I become the guy with the money. I become the guy with the girls. Put me amongst the sea of faces, and I'm simply the man in the mirror. Who we are is not determined by everyone else's perceptions of us.

From childhood on, we're taught that we can be anything that we want to be. Unfortunately, we think this means we have to change ourselves. We fall into temptation. We smoke like those people we so long to be. We drink like those people we so long to be. We spend too much money to look like those people we so long to be. We use foul language to sound like those people we so long to be.

Look into the mirror. Who are you really? You're you, right? But you hate the man in the mirror. He's not at all who you wanted to be. Punch him. Smash his face in. Destroy the self-replicating image of yourself. Although the image of yourself is gone, you're left with the bloody, lacerated hands and scars it took to destroy him. After all, you did destroy the man in the mirror. The scars are there because that's what you wanted. You hurt yourself because we are made perfect, and the way you were made was somehow not good enough for you. You worked so hard to change the man in the mirror, while smashing the image of yourself all the while. You created more scars than could ever heal. You smashed the image because it was a reflection--a reminder of things behind you.

The bible says, "So God created man in his own image..." (Genesis 1:27) We're perfect. The man in the mirror is a reflection of you. So kill the part of you that wants so desperately to destroy the man in the mirror. Kill the materialistic man. Let go.

Imagine for a moment you're exactly who you want to be...

--Cory