If?

If love does not survive death then love apparently has no rhyme or reason to it. This means that we are left to spend our days wandering aimlessly in a world of irrational creatures who insist on writing poetry to describe their illusions or who compose songs which cannot but help grate on the already frayed nerves of an unbalanced listener who must inwardly mourn the 'almost had it' mirage given off by that dirty 4 letter word until death personally delivers the only Truth such a love-sick creature will ever have namely, the decaying embodiment of the prized mirage. Now if it weren't for Jesus Christ, love would scare me to death before my time but thanks be to His glorious triumph over the cold clay that carpets His fair earth I can love beyond the limits of time and space. For the faithful in Christ love does not end in death but like the human mouth which says a sometimes painful goodbye to baby teeth in order to make room for mature teeth it too will undergo a transition before it begins to glisten and shine just prior to sinking it's pearly whites into the mirage-less eternal banquet of sacrificial love.

Feast of St. Bartholomew

If you must rebel, then rebel against your tendency to mediocrity. If you wish to chart a course that is all your own then learn to love sacrificially and your uniqueness will be so radical that many will not have the guts to imitate you. True rebellion is lonely if you seek the applause of waving hands that are tired out from indiscriminate salutations. Unless you enjoy run of the mill 'self-aggrandizement' with a hint of 'nobody' syndrome which comes from chasing cultural fads dictated by a fading dictator whose world acclaim has the shelf life of a carton of milk.
Be not swallowed up by the Anonymous Authority behind popularity because you may be surprised by his devilish grin. Your desire to 'belong' transcends the fleeting moments of a novelty-driven 'roller coaster' which while bringing you to the top of the world can only keep you there as long as you are willing to deplete your freedom in exchange for the husks upon which the pigs so gladly feed. Are you not worth much more then piggish fellowship or is it possible that you get a swelled head from basking in the very latest mire while others have only the hope of one day being clothed with such braggarts clothing. Are you the envy of all the earth really or sadly enough the just cause for heaven's scornful laughter. You gloat that your pockets are filled with gold while oblivious that such is merely heaven's pavement. Your chest is puffed out because your back is sore from being 'patted' by friends who see through rose-colored glasses as long as the table has plenty but if you only knew that heaven has no room for patted-backs and puffed-up chests, only exhausted hearts spent in 'being' a table of plenty in the service of God and man. St. Bartholomew, pray for us that we may have the courage to be what the world considers: heaven's lackeys.