Palm Sunday

I woke up at 8:30 this morning...so tired. I went to church with my mom and brother and it was completely filled because it's Palm Sunday. I'm so thankful that I actually got a seat; the place was crowded and people were standing on the sides. I was so incredibly tired and I closed my eyes while sitting. I felt my body collapsing and it was so aggravating trying to hold it together and keep my posture. But I was slowly falling to sleep. And as usual, I thought back to an old memory I had with someone and pictured how my life would be right now with that person. I thought of holding him and wondering if it would be the same. It ached thinking about him but I still continued to do it. But, all of a sudden, I woke up and realized that what was before my eyes was my reality. I saw life. I saw color and gold and sunshine. I looked around at the people, and I stared at an old man turning his head and just the movement of his head was fascinating to me. This was real and it was so beautiful. I felt so ashamed to be thinking about something else when what's in front of me is beautiful. Grandmas silently singing with the choir, old men smiling at everyone, and the golden light creating slight shadows around the wooden church. When realizing the beauty around me, I couldn't help but feel corrupted and guilty, living in the past and not enjoying what I'm currently stepping on, sitting on, holding on to. 

I also forgot to mention that when I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the priest holding the bread above his head, symbolizing Christ's body. I was thinking of how unhappy I had become because of something that happened in my life, but it was like God was saying, "It's okay. Just open your eyes and see what's in front of you. You still have God."

My dream

I was on a train, looking out the window. The train made a stop and I saw a bare tree that had no leaves. Then a few birds flew to the tree and sat on the branches where the leaves used to be. It was as if the birds were the leaves of the tree.

Then the train passed by a few small houses that were white, almost faded yellow. They had no color and someone told me silently, "The houses are not painted because the color comes from the windows; the world outside the window is its color."

I just found this dream to be so beautiful and philosophical.