The Modesty Writers Guild

today i recieved this: stephen, Sept. 5 you wrote "If I could re-live last night over, I would." And on Sept. 6th I wrote this: If I could re-live last night over, I would. And that's all you write. That's all I have to ponder. No tone of voice. No facial expression. No story behind the words to ease my curiousity. Of course, when I first read the words on the screen, I immediately sensed romance. At least that's what female intuition assumed. A night - an encounter with a woman whose beauty and smile captured your entire being. I suppose you strolled the city together until you came across a local coffee shop. There the conversation intensified and so did the emotions as you shared your life dreams, your faith, your authors, and your philosophies. If only the ocean were nearby, you would continue the evening with a walk along the beach, the sand between your toes and her fingers entwined with yours. The stars claim their presence in the...

"let me meet a man (or women) who has read 1000 books and i have met a friend, let me meet a man (or women) who has read but a few, and i have met but another enemy." -S. LaPiere

a young lady sent me this on www.stephenchristian.us; hey, my name is (____)....i started listening to Anberlin not too awful long ago and then visited your site and downloaded your solo songs. Ive been reading your thoughts on the modesty writers guild and i must say that youve made me think...i wont lie and say i agree with everything you write, i will go so far as to say youve made me think. Ive been bewildered, angry, sad, and even felt the same way. The one particular post that got me the most was dated august 28th. It dealt with the human desire to leave a mark; to make something of the lives we lead. Ive come to terms with the fact that anything or "me" will never amount to anything or ever be remembered as "great". I remember an essay once that i had to write and everytime i wrote (and rewrote) it i hated every word i wrote even though it was what i believed. On paper what i belived seemed so plain and commonplace....why wou...

"Life is a hospital where each patient is possesed by the desire to change beds. This one would like to suffer facing the stove, that one believes that he would be cured next to the window. It seems to me that i would always be will where i am not, and this question of moving is one that i will discuss endlessly with my soul." Charles Baudelaire ANYWHERE OUT OF THE WORLD did he read my mind? everywhere is my hospital bed. i move here/there and i think someone somwhere else is finding ecstasy elsewhere. contentment evades me like the women of my dreams, like fame, like money, like power, like intellectual stimulation. Chicago has art, Seattle has music, New Orleans has mystery, Paris has culture, Spain has elegence, London has fashion, New York has trend, and my apartment has... only me.

readthe book "tuesdays with morrie", realize that life is but a vapor. make the best of every relationship, every second your alive, and person you encouter, and every dream you acomplish.

Victor Hugo once wrote: "Without a doubt i have you. Surely I see you. Thinking is the winde in which dreamers are drunk, I know. But sometimes I'd like to be dreamed of too. When you are like that in your book, all evening, sunk." (V. Hugo- words in the shadow.) How utterly true, "thinking is the wine in which dreamers are drunk..." introspective, autobiographical, "to really know myself" (aristotle)... all goals, never a reality. I love "thinking", in a way. Complexity adds to mystery, which appears alluring at first. After awhile it gets old, people feel like they have to walk on pins and needles around me. Its not true. Solitary is elegant, it is in these moments when your heart can finally hurt. Its in these moments when the music life produces can finally move you. Its the time when dreams are dreamt, and suddenly realized. I guess you could say i wish i was perpetually intoxicated, on a different wine.

well my feeling today is best understood by my favorite band at the moment CURSIVE driftwood; a fairy tale So he would sulk and drink and mope and cross his arms and hope to die. ANd then a fairy came one night to bring this sorry boy to life. She pulled some strings and spun him about. That boy sprang up and began to shout, "My arms, my legs, my heart, my face they're alive!" And she would cry, "Liar, liar! What have I done? You're no lover, and I'm no fighter." (The story goes on) So he would buy her things and kiss her hair to show he was for real. And she would take those gifts and kisses though just stringing him along. She knew about those wooden boys- it's an empty love to fill the void. "Pinocchio! Oh boy, how your nose has grown!" So he would cry, "Liar, liar! I'll prove it to you!" But then it grew He had grown tired of her So it was true He left her apartment And he walked all ...

it is better to love and lost then never loved at all.

though 1000 daggers stuck in my chest, so your arms persuade to stay one more second. though bricks were placed on my ribs, so your attraction for me is thus. why am i here? what am i doing here? do i enjoy torture? does my quickening heartbeat amuse you now? my hands remain sweat ridden but my arms are growing tired, i don't know how much longer i can hold you now. you lie to me, not just with your words but with your embrace and charm. the way we touch, the way you smile when i glace at you... i now see as a lie. your waiting for him, so why do you keep me around. he is stringing you along, and in return you are pulling these threads attached to my side... and it hurts like hell. this is a war between you and him AND I AM THE CASUALTY! i just want to go home, i just want to go home.

if i could re-live last night over i would.