Losing myself in these crowds.

I've been struggling to write even the most simple blogs lately and I kept giving up once I start. Let's write about love, I say, my relationship, let's write about the poor guy on the street, maybe someone will learn something if I write about the economy. All of those topics are very insightful but they are not the real issues revolving around in my head at the moment. Perhaps I distracted myself with thoughts of other things to avoid deeper issues, or maybe I have a hard time being honest, not to other people, but to myself. So instead of feeding people (who for some reason appreciate the things I write, I don't know how you guys stay interested), I feel like this blog is for me. This is for reference and a constant reminder not to lead a life of false pretenses, socioeconomic expectations and proxy ambitions.

Some things are known to have a 'way' in life. The 'way' things are. And because these things are expected to be that way, I'm expected to be a certain way too. I'm sorry to disappoint the social expectations of the world but I take pride in not following a lot of these trends: having sex with someone I didn't care about, never taking a drug, embracing monogamy, wearing the clothes that I felt comfortable in, appreciating underrated music and probably others that I can't think of right now.

I'm tired of people telling me how to act, or even asking me why I act unlike my stereotypes. After repeatedly being hammered by these shallow observations it makes me wonder why I'm not a louder personality, who wears less clothes, listens to more commercial music, smokes a deck a day and fornicates in toilet cubicles. I've received the worst reactions when people ask me about my sex-life. I'm guilty of waiting for someone, I didn't throw myself at the thousand opportunities I had (and believe me they are in the thousands) to bed someone and throw my experiences away.

I thoroughly believe in living for the moment, forgetting about the consequences of tomorrow and to treat each day like it's my last. But I also have morals. Just because I have the chance to have sex simultaneously with two other people (no matter how great it feels), just because people now say that it's ok to use sex as a pass time activity, doesn't mean I do it. I have morals and it's sickening that these kind of experiences are expected of me and worse, at such a young age.

I'm not going to lie, I've had the bitter taste after sexual contact with the flooding thoughts of: 'was it worth it', 'why do I feel empty' and 'this person means nothing to me'. I feed temptation to find that I'm not actually fulfilling a need for myself but rather having my innocence sapped and leaving me hollow inside. I don't have a superman complex, I'm not perfect and I'm okay with that. I have desires and lust for certain things, but I know I can help what I do by advocating altruism. We do have the ability to think and to act, but we don't always do things in that order. But at least I can say I try.

"Be the change you wish to see in the world", a quote by Ghandi, a quote I live by. I used to be so proud to endorse this quote but over the course of the year the words slowly bent and warped to bring a different meaning, something like: "Dont change, be like the world". After being drilled over and over with the same opinions, standards and expectations by a group of people, their words have a way of falling out of your own mouth eventually. I start to think like them, I have the desire to be desired, to dress in an impressing fashion, to have certain opinions on certain things. This is a common form of influence and probably the strongest. It's true when people say that being around better people makes you a better person. That doesn't mean avoid homeless people or don't choose to be friends with someone who might take a recreational drug here and there. It means that if you suffocate yourself long enough with other peoples thoughts, there is a high chance that their thoughts will be your thoughts after a while.

Finally, I'm tired of people telling me I'm just 19. I know what I am. People can say I'm young but no one ever explains themselves. I honestly believe that there are people younger than me (who are much more knowledgeable and mature) who can outwit people a decade older than them. Age has proven to be nothing significant. I know with age comes experience, but so to comes ignorance. People use their age to disregard the thoughts and experiences of other people just because of their age. It's hypocritical and it is a refusal on poor bases. Don't let anyone disregard you because of your age. You know, it's good to feel young no matter how old you are. We might be perceived as a lazy generation but there are people as young as twelve who invent things that the world is using today. It is so important to never stop learning, not in the text book sense, but in the worldly sense. Eat foreign foods, with foreign utensils, watch a black and white film, listen to a new genre of music, write a story, learn some new words and build your vocabulary, go somewhere you've never been, all of these things help us learn and understand our world better. The biggest tragedy I see are older people who feel old enough to know enough and grow older being ignorant and using their age as a valid excuse for being wise. Wisdom is all around, it is shared. No one knows everything. Who can honestly say "you'll know when you're older" or "you don't know" when quite possibly they don't know themselves.

I'm sorry that all of this is so disjointed, but I've finally got some things off my chest. If you read this please comment your thoughts, a quote, your own piece on how you see yourself or ANYTHING! I'd love more than anything to read what you have to say, anything at all.

"Nobody wants to end up like Eleanor Rigby"

Don't you know that I never fell
Into a love that I was pushed
Confused a snatch for a catch
Confused a sheep for a wolf

Oh, your knowing eyes
They’d never tell a lie
That’s why you don’t talk
That's why I make you try

Let’s say for instance
There is nine years indifference
In a world that lacks persistence
To make things come around
Let’s say for instance
There were nine years of distance
Where other people touched you
Long before I was found

I got into something, now I can’t get out
I got into something, now I can’t get out
With your lips pressed against mine
It’s getting hard to shout

I thought I could run around the world
I made it to the door
I thought I could run around the world
I made it to the door
Was this what we hoped for?

War

Inside my chest feels like a war.
My heart doesn’t pound against my ribs like it used to.
With excitement or joy, warmth or love.
I feel like I have a weight pushing down on me.
And even though my body becomes more and more uncomfortable to live in each week, it’s not the weight I keep stacking on that’s giving me this feeling of pressure.
I have a mix in my life, a balance of work and education. Something I’ve always hoped would bring me responsibility and stability in my life.
I have a social life with a few different small groups of friends. We smile. We laugh. We sing. We dance.
I’ve enjoyed the groups that I’ve been with. At times my heart is lifted, and the pressure seems to dissapear, just like it does when I’m unconsciously asleep.
But now, I can’t keep my brave façade visible, because the hurt that’s going on inside is pushing through. Hopefully trying to escape my body, to rid me of this horrible feeling.
I feel awful. I feel foul. My mood has become increasingly sombre yet ferocious.
I wonder at times, when I’m in my bath, when I’m driving my car, when I’m walking along a balcony of a 10 story building.
Should I drop in that hair dryer? Should I drive into that tree, oncoming traffic, off of that cliff? Should I just jump off?
These thoughts snap me into reality, and frighten me away from such things. But then the pain and pressure I feel comes back, as I realise I have to deal with these feelings before I act soo radically.
I’m afraid of how I feel and how it affects others. Or if those others can even notice it, let alone ask me what is wrong.
I’m becoming increasingly cynical and depressed, and I’m afraid of being swallowed whole.

"For myself I am an optimist - it does not seem to be much use being anything else."

University is a place for learning, for excelled learning. In the course of 12 weeks you are assumed to be smarter in an area you subscribed to. But somewhere along the way you have to wonder, am I here to learn about Aboriginal injustice, the study of language or the theory of existentialism or am I so sick of learning about everything I have no interest in that I'm just aching for my degree? I'm certainly not saying that whole-heartedly, there is so much I love to learn and I find myself extremely engaged at times, but for the most part, university is a set of tests on things not many of us have interest in.

Today I sat in the library, completely thrown off learning I decided to entice myself with a book I brought from home. It was 'Like The Flowing River' a book that has taken me so long to read but has proven to be such an unbelievable, inspiring collection of thoughts and reflections. I'm glad I didn't read this in one sitting, I treated it like a journey, I went at a slow pace- giving the pages worth and letting their contents and meanings grow. I thoroughly enjoy this book.

The toughest issue I've had to face is the 'rest of my life'. What am I doing for the rest of my life? I struggled with this question a lot. Whenever I ask this question, a thousand others will follow. Where is home? What do you want to be remembered for? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? What is important to you? And so on.

This is what I narrowed the rest of my life down to. I want to give my all to all of the world. I want to teach. More specifically I want to teach English to people who want to learning English. Not in primary or secondary schools. In centres and universities, and places across the world to help build bridges between communities.

I want to see the world. There is so much to see for just one person and I want to see as much as I possibly can. This endeavor was difficult to conceive at first. To see the world, as a pilgrim, as a traveler, as an adventurer, it had to be done alone. But that's wrong. Self discovery, to my surprise is a journey that cannot be completed within ourselves without others to guide us. I believe the world is designed not live on islands alone, but to build bridges between each island to meet each other. And so, this is why I travel. Not only to see the deserts, villages, cities, forests and valleys, but to meet the people who live off the desert, cities, forests and valleys. That is the culture of the world, "there are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign."
Sure history is flooded in every towns' museum, but I'm there to experience the town, not learn how others experienced it.

The concept of home to me holds a strange meaning. I want to keep moving. I don't ever want to establish myself in one place. Home is a state of mind, home is the people I'm with, the feeling I get where I think 'this is sanctuary, this is where I feel safe'. I treat the idea of 'home' more as a destination, a place I want to be after everything, rather than where I sleep each night.

Finally, in the chance that I may ever fall in love, compromises must be made. Some things may even be revoked and undoubtedly justified. I accept that 'my' life will become 'our' lives, and of course: one and one make one. I have confidence in fulfilling each others dreams, aspirations, goals, aims and hopes; if we dont- then we will die trying to do that.

"Tourists don't know where they've been, travelers don't know where they're going." - Paul Theroux

Amendment: A lot of people say I'm naive, so I retitled my blog to express how I feel about that opinion. Kudos to Sir Winston Churchill.

Apples

I have a bunch of apples in front of me.
gala, lady, delicious, smith.
They're all calling to me.
I want to sink my teeth into all of them.
They're so tempting to me.
And i can't stand it.
But i must be reserved.
Because these apples are out of reach.
And i'm already stuck with oranges!

A person, a paper, a promise.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly
That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

(This poem is from a book called 'the perks of being a wallflower' by Stephen Chbosky.)

A love so deep...

She walked along the beach and felt the sun soaking into her skin. A warmth so comforting, and one which she'd missed. Around her lay the creations of her Father - those which he'd made a time so long ago that she couldn't even comprehend where his ideas came from. A time so long ago that His creations had even changed a little. Time does that to things. It can make what was once beautiful, ugly. And it can make what was once ugly, beautiful. Time can do a lot of things, but she knew it wouldn't change the way she loved Him.

The world around seemed to disappear as she let her thoughts wander. To a stranger or passer by she looked to be alone, but she knew better. She smiled a glorious smile, all to herself. Her Father was still with her, somehow. She didn't need to know the answers - she just needed Him. Her smile disappeared as she gazed at the ocean. Her face now held a different expression - one that is hard to describe. Her eyes were filled with tears, but not the sort which come from pain. Such passion and joy as cannot be described were written into each tear, but they did not fall from her eyes. She breathed deeply, filled with a love so deep, so intense, so full.

The sun reflected a million stars onto the ocean. The wonder and beauty left her lost for words. But she didn't need words. He knew how she felt. And as she stood there, loving Him for all that He is, but only truly knowing a fraction of His glory, she couldn't help but think that this creation was made just for her.

yes or no?

"The justification of sacrifice, that your morality, propounds, is more corrupt than the corruption it purports to justify. The motive of your sacrifice, it tells you, should be love - the love you ought to feel for every man. A morality that professes the belief that the values of the spirit are more precious than matter, a morality that teaches you to scorn a whore who gives her body indiscriminately to all men - this same morality demands that you surrender your soul to promiscuous love for all comers.

"As there can be causeless wealth, so there can be no causeless love or any sort of causeless emotion. An emotion is a response to a fact of reality, an estimate dictated by your standards. To love is to value. The man who tells you that it is possible to value without values, to love those whom you appraise as worthless, is the man who tells you that it is possible to grow rich by consuming without producing and that paper money is as valuable as gold.

"Observe that he does not expect you to feel a causeless fear. When his kind get into power, they are expert at contriving means of terror, at giving you ample cause to feel the fear by which they desire to rule you. But when it comes to love, the highest of emotions, you permit them to shriek at you accusingly that you are a moral delinquent if you're incapable of feeling causeless love. When a man feels fear without reason, you call him to the attention of a psychiatrist; you are not so careful to protect the meaning, the nature and the dignity of love.

"Love is the expression of one's values, the greatest reward you can earn for the moral qualities you have achieved in your character and person, the emotional price paid by one man for the joy he receives from the virtues of another. Your morality demands that you divorce your love from values and hand it down to any vagrant; not as reward, but as alms, not as a payment for virtues, but as a blank check on vices. Your morality tells you that the purpose of love is to set you free of the bonds of morality, that love is superior to moral judgement; that true love transcends, forgives and surives every manner of evil in its object, and the greater the love the greater the depravity it permits to the loved. To love a man for his virtues is paltry and human, it tells you; to love him for his flaws is divine. To love those who are worthy of it is self-interest; to love the unworthy is sacrifice. You owe your love to those who don't deserve it, and the less they deserve it, the more love you owe them - the more loathsome the object, the nobler your love - the more unfastidious your love, the greater the virtue - and if you can bring your soul to the state of a dump heap that welcomes anything on equal terms, if you can cease to value moral values, you have achieved the state of moral perfection."

-from Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

Art and Interpretation.

About a week ago I was sitting with my friend on this comfy couch at the Crown Casino looking at the sets of chandeliers across the tall ceiling. We shared one of those golden silences and it was broken when she asked me about my thoughts on an artist who took photos of naked teens and called it 'art'.

The pictures of the naked children were in a gallery in Italy but it was closed down before it opened. A minority of people expressed that it was pornography, rather than art and this uproar caused the artworks to be closeted from the public eye. These are my thoughts:

If a man walked into the gallery looking for art, he will find art. If a pervert walked into the gallery looking for pornography, he will find pornography. Art is, and always will be, based on interpretation. Coincidentally, about a week ago I flicked through quotes by dead people (something I do more than I should) and found a quote by Gloria Leonard, a porn actress. She said "the difference between pornography and erotica is lighting."
I think Ms. Leonard was making light of the perception of pornography and erotica when she said this because though everyone is looking at the same thing, it is often viewed with different angles.

The man who was second best.

Everyone loves the winner. He tries so hard and often is followed by a remarkable success story. Who deserves the winning trophy more than the winner himself? I don't have anything against winners, but the person who comes runner-up will always take my heart. The person who was known for trying and not succeeding and still manages to hold his head up high. He is proud, because he simply tried. He failed and he works harder. He loses but he isn't a loser. So to every runner-up in the world, be proud of not succeeding the first time, but never accepting failure, because it is you who keeps me going in the end. Thanks.

With age comes ignorance.

There is probably a 7 year old child who has experienced so much more than any one of us and will not know how to put it into words. There is probably an 80 year old man who was too scared to step outside of his house and experienced nothing, with nothing to teach because he was frightened to learn. There are people who think they know more than you, who have 'experienced more' just because of their status, their fame, their age especially. No one knows everything and no one can possibly judge how much someone else knows. If someone flunked school, does that mean they are unintelligent? Einstein didn't even make it through school and now he is and always will be one of the most well-known scientists of all time. When someone tells you, you're too young, you don't know, you'll find out one day; don't believe them. Grasp absolutely everything and learn from every moment. Even learn from the people who are too ignorant to know that curiosity and imagination are the tools used to seek discovery.

I believe the most smartest, hopeful and influential people are the onces who once were told they were crazy, stupid and unrealistic. As for me, I like reality, it's a nice place, I wouldn't live there though.

Short Fiction: "Cigarettes"

She lit a cigarette, sucked it in and as she exhaled the sickening scent gradually sapped her anger and left with the crisp autumn air. As her emotion escaped her she was stuck with the one person she hated most. Herself. Because facing herself was hard. It was better to have an inner demon of anger or despair to blame for such spontaneous outbursts, but when her peaking emotions were drained, there was nothing but a hollow woman leaning on a balcony watching the clouds silhouette the moon. Tonight she felt destined to be alone, there was no company the night could give her. Even the moon hid from her.

The mood of the past five minutes was gone. There was nothing. Her mind had stopped and her emotions extracted. But she knew this would not last. Inside the room lay the rest of her life that she had to face. She wanted to stay outside. It felt timeless. But as she tried to avoid her life, the re-commencement was inevitable. 

For one night she wanted nothing to do with anything. No ties. No duties. No jobs. Nothing that could lead to anything else. This is why she smoked cigarettes. The addictive drug that claimed lives, and willingly, it claimed her own. She wanted to be content in one moment. Constantly moving forward tired her and she merely wanted to stay in a single moment of her life and take it all in. Life was too fast for someone who only wanted to breathe.

Two people in different places.

They said "I don't think you should worry about finding love. Just remember to take your heart wherever you go."

I sat there and I smiled at how simple a task it was to take my heart wherever I went. I really like those simple answers from such complex questions.

Assignments

Motivation is hard to find in a teenage boy who only ever wants to sleep, eat or socialize with people he wants to socialize with. It's not that the teenage boy does not want to achieve or pave a path to a prosperous future, he just wants to savior the moments of being completely dependent and un-relied upon by his family. It is a supreme once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don't know if the actions I take are always the best. I don't know if living life the way I push myself to live it is 'right' either. There is no right way to life. We all have been thrown into different situations, we are each facing some sort of battle, we have each fought our own demons in our life.

Personally, I have found that the most hardest obstacle to overcome in my life, is myself. Anyone can tell me to do anything, but whether I do it is up to me. Anything that happens in life is up to the way I perceive it. Anything I am taught, I can choose to learn or disregard. Not everyone with do things that people tell them to do. Not everyone will see a tragedy or an epiphany when you do and people will refuse to learn about something they won't care about. We shape who we are. Sometimes I wonder if I am doing it right.

I wonder if I have spoken to the right people and made the right friends, spent my time effectively and been who I want to have been and not what I want others to see me as. I'm scared of the paths I've taken and the choices I've made. Were they right or wrong? Do they mean anything at all?

I think all of these things and then suddenly realize that I would never care about such things if I acted as myself, did things I wanted to do and learned as much as I possibly could. To wonder if you've made the right choice is pointless once it's been made. All you can really do is accept things, such as yourself, for who/ what they are.

And of course, one teenage boy right now at this moment is neglecting his assignment to write this down. To waste time, to find an excuse or just for the sake of writing something, he chose to write something down.

money

i heard someone talking to her husband about a relative who pours the plastic packets of soy sauce from chinese restaurants into his soy sauce bottle at home, apparently to save money. her husband said, "i guess he thinks his time isn't worth any more than that."

One Dollar Plus One Dollar Equals Three Dollar$

I recently and heavily discussed the true meaning of a ‘holiday’ on the public calendar such as; Easter, Mother/Father’s Day, Birthday’s and Christmas.

It was not hard to get the person fired up since ‘they’ were speaking of behalf of ‘them.’

Firstly, I pointed out that advertising business’, particularly, America, is to blame for the over dramatic-commercialism that brainwashes unsuspecting mild intelligent human’s.

There comes a time in all our lives, supposedly, where we celebrate mothers just for that one day in May. I suggested what is wrong with the other possible 364 days of the year to show people affection? Although it’s this one day in May where everyone rushes down to the local shop to buy the crap on the shelves, wrap it, and send it. This somehow makes out that the deed is done for anther year when in actual fact their contributing to their own downfall, since they have to better their gifts for the year following.

Apparently, this holds more significance than any other day in the year to send a person a ‘gift’. Naturally, we’re all reminded of this, because of the billions of dollars wasted in spending plus sending you and me junk mail that reads;
MOTHERS DAY THIS WEEKEND, BUY HER CRAP AT MY SHOP THIS YEAR

I’m not a religious person but I know this occurs with Easter as well. The death of Jesus Christ is a good enough reason to eat a ten dollar pack of chocolates? I can’t see that as a strong reason to mark an occasion.

Birthday’s as well, it’s a well known fact that people may say ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have…’ or ‘I don’t want anything this year...’ but deep down in their sub-conscious small mind that they really wanted that toy or designer dress they had been waiting for since their last birthday.

Not forgetting the biggest ‘holiday’ of them all; Christmas. Sometimes money can divide a family rather then bringing together on the most ‘joyful’ day of the year. Money also contributes to the mud we all stand waist high in, known only as, debt.

When a person pointed out, that there are also days like, ‘Earth Day’ I begun wondering how many people gave this ‘holiday’ a second thought? Or fact that they never even heard of ‘Earth Day,’ highlights the difference of ‘important’ and ‘unimportant’ ‘holidays.’

I very much doubt that I’ll live to see the day where everybody stops celebrating such occasions without stronger convictions.

Maybe I’m too much of a persistent thinker.

Or maybe I’m just a realistic thinker.

You be the judge.

What do you think...?

Deaths Cycle (Poem)

Forever lost in heavy mist blinded, consumed by darkness, it hates.
It ponders lifelessly, soullessly it wonders the forgotten palace it calls home.

Distracted by the blackness of its body, it assumes battle plans.
Undoubtedly craving for souls, it gives off a cloudy aura.

You can not kill it for it can only kill you, do not fear it for it does not fear you.
At the sound of death it hunts, lusting for fresh souls, it appears.

Struggle all you want for when it is your time, its your time.
It casts a deadly fear in your eyes, you will scream.

You are cast into oblivion, where you find darkness.
Roam freely for the world you have been cast has no end.

You are forever lost in a heavy mist blinded, consumed by darkness, you hate.
You ponder lifelessly, soullessly you wonder the forgotten palace you call home.

You are now it.

*I would never really post such a dark poem, im genuinely more toward life like poetry. This is just resembling how i have been feeling the last couple weeks.*

A Sentence Tells A Story

We have all heard the cliche 'A picture tells a 1000 words' well i decided to look a little further into it and found out that its the Chinese proverb where in actual fact the literal translation is:

A Picture's Meaning Can Express Ten Thousand Words.

I started to think about it and thought of something similar which actually caught me by surprise. 'A Sentence Tell A Story'. If we can really express ten thousand words just by looking at a picture then i believe a sentence can reveal a story.

It may not turn out to be a true story but if our minds can come up with ten thousand words then our minds can also turn a sentence into a story. Take this for example: "He was only 16 when he looked right up into the sky to view the clouds as they passed by resembling time lost now that he is 30".

The story does not have to come out being as big as the 'Harry Potter' series but if you thought about that sentence i do believe our minds would be running around with ideas for a story.

To many kids and teens these days take their minds for granted.

Just a little thought i had i found to be interesting. What do you think?

march

months later
we are less like lovers
and more like students


[i'm hoping none of you read my other blog, because i've just despicably double posted.]

Feels Like Home

The air so heavenly, it feels so surreal
This place feels somehow familiar
The wind passing through the tree leaves
This place feels like home.

Everything here is so gentle
A sense of warmth that attracts a smile
Everything around me gives off a happy aura
This place feels like home.

I feel i traveled so very far to get here
There are some old friends here to
I feel there is something different
This place feels like home

So different; so much that i like it
Safe, Secure and far from trouble
Flowers are blooming here
This place feels like home

Sudden flashes of white light
I wonder if this is a dream
No, this is no dream
This place feels like home

Because this is home
This is my dream
My dream come true
I finally made it.

Im in heaven.

R.I.P Nan - Love you always and forever.

My philosophy on friendship

Without other people, I would not be myself. Without help from others, I would give up. Without someone else caring, I wouldn't care about myself. But when someone else is in trouble, it is VERY important you return the favor and without owing anything, you do everything you can to help them. Because that's just what friends do. And that is what makes us who we are. Because together we really are unstoppable. But alone we can only be stopped.

Her Scream Resides - James

Just like a cloud in the sky, in time it fades away
Just like the sound of your voice getting softer
Feeling the heat rise up pressuring your decisions
Choking the life right out of you...


Would you want it any other way
What would you want me to say
Its all over, its to late
your decisions lead to your fate
Her scream resides…

Life for you came to a hold; it began to blur

You wished you were a never-ending story

Feeling your way through life as if you new what was next

Not everyone’s wish comes true…

Would you want it any other way
What would you want me to say
Its all over, its to late
your decisions lead to your fate
Her scream resides…

There is no perfect ending

Words wouldn’t have changed anything

Would you have the world known you tried?

These are my last words before you died

You wanted there to be some other way

There was something you wanted me to say

Its not over, Its not to late

Your decisions lead to your fate

Her scream resided...

It wasn't until a complete stranger asked me...

"What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail?" that I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

And in my mind I had said: "Well...I'd like to build an orphanage, I suppose."

The man then stared into the crowd and said "Well why haven't you?"


Amendment: For anyone that lives in Australia, you may know that orphanages do not actually exist and have been replaced with foster and state care. So building an orphanage was more of a directional answer than a solid and direct one. I'd like to imagine myself involving youth in whatever career I choose in life.

Recognition Is A Reward Fit For A King

'Thank You'

Its a recognition of the deed you have done. Some people take it for granted and feel like it is not enough, no, they want more ... money and power. I would have to say recognition is a reward fit for a king.

Sure you do not gain money or power from a 'thank you' but you should have a little respect and gratitude, accept it as good faith and move on. Recognition is more powerful then most people realise. Some think its just a word, while others have a sense of accomplishment toward a unselfish deed.

To many people are forgetting the purpose of recognition, its not always about money, nor' is it always about power. Recognition is something you receive from an honest person in the world who struggled with something you were able to help with.

Genuine people who would go out of their own way to help someone in need should expect nothing more yet nothing less than a thank you. Just remember that a thank you is a reward for unselfishness, its recognition that you have done something good.

Cherish the words, they may not come often in this world.

The Honor Badge

Honor can be brought back your virtues. Honor gives a social distinction of what is right and what is wrong. But is society always right and is honor only your pride on your sleeve? How important to you is it to be good and how important to you is it to be be good and better than everyone else? Not only that, but to show your honor. Honor is given and never bought. It is something that has to be earned, but I can't say I appreciate, no matter how well intended, honor can be when its thrown around to belittle others. People flash their pride and expect us to feel bad for ourselves. 

Recently I experienced the feeling of my dream being crushed by someone's deceitfully powerful hands. How can someone destroy your dream? By achieving it and doing better than you had envisioned. I take a bitterness toward that, which I believe to be wrong but my anger is good at taking control of things like this. When something hurts me (and believe me I am a masochist on the inside), its always an emotional hurt rather than physical. It's starting to leave scars. 

I feel like I've changed, not because of surroundings, people or influences of some sort, but because continuous injurious events. Like any wound it becomes a scar if it goes deep enough. I don't see the point in honor, but dreams give people reasons to live. Reasons to hope and find something that is worth their lives dedication. I find honor to be something that shows on the outside and says nothing about the inside. Just like a badge. It seems like nothing more than a social recognition. There will always be reasons for why people are honored, and some of these people really have evoked incredible notions. But for me, I'd respect a poor man who tried and failed at everything he did and still wears a smile just a little more than the man who grew rich and studied and became the best. Not because of Honor, but because of his dreams.

zine

hi everyone-

me and my friend patrick [i've posted on his account by accident, and from the looks of it he also commented on one of Bez's stories] have started a new zine called Tom-Tom - after the main character in The Million Dollar Hotel. we're putting together a mail subscription list, and i was wondering if any of you would like to be on it? send me an email with your address if you would. cost for the first issue is obviously nothing; we haven't worked out a price if you decide to keep getting them.

Today's Fight...

The following is a piece of fiction and was not intended for any particular person.


“Inflict? Or Waiting?”

She slammed the door behind her. She turned on the computer, searching, finding, reaching for someone. She longed for closure and so much more. She was neither ugly nor the essence of beauty but her opinion was widespread.
She made herself be heard but couldn’t hear herself…

Her only friend was occupying the backyard. That friend never spoke back. Never gave her disloyalty but only acceptance. Every time the friend looked into her eyes, there was no hate, no disagreements and no blame shifting, but only its full attention for support. She could never ridicule the friend, no matter how bad she was tested.

Her assumption that; the lack of prevention was the key to unlocking the friendship door and letting freedom prevail. She tried to understand others when she wasn’t understandable. Her grip on the trophy was now slipping away with her hopes and emerging nightmares. She could no longer handle the insecurities of fate.

She turned off her computer.

Now silence.

Like the trees outside stretching it branches out to hold the sun.

She had forgiven the unforgettable, and forgotten the unforgivable.

The day was over, the damage had been done.

She went to sleep to prepare for tomorrow’s battle.



Footnote: I choose the title because it’s an anagram of
“Fictional Writing”
I should also point out that I rushed and compacted this in one night; usually I spend more than a week’s time coming up with fictional material.

yes?

true love never can be rent
but only true love
can keep beauty innocent

Yesturday was Today, Tomorrow

The following is a piece of fiction and was not intended for any particular person.

“Clarity”

The smell of gasoline invaded Jack’s nostrils as he stepped onto the bus. The street was busy, it was peak hour. No space for thinking. He regularly noted the amount of cars and people. There was always the old lady with the white handbag, the tall man in a pinstripe suit and most distinguishable of them all was a little girl with golden-straight hair. But of all of these details he made sure that he was safe, and not just on the bus.

Jack had become accustom to each and everyone’s company on-board. Like himself, for sitting only on the left-hand side, each one of them had their own distinct behavioural characteristics. Jack chuckled every time he would overhear the music through someone else’s headphones on the opposite end of the bus. If it wasn’t the music he was listening to, then it was the gentle calm whistling noise of the breeze passing by his ears when the windows are down. He would like to sometimes imagine that voices were talking to him through the wind, trying to reach out to him and tell him something valuable. He enjoyed the one and a half hour bus rides. Whenever he could, he would lay back deep into his seat, with closed eyelids and picture the rest of the journey home.

One afternoon, where the sun seemed to light-up every part of the bus, Jack noticed a person come onto the bus. This was no ordinary person; this was a person Jack had never seemed before on his rides home. He was curious as to what behavioural characteristic he was going to remember this person by. The skinny long legs, the dark coloured sunglasses identical with the hair would be enough he thought. The person had a tattoo on their ankle, he couldn’t make out what it was, but its importance was matched by the sheer size of it and amount of skin it was covering. The person gently sat down one seat in front of Jack, placing the almost-seemingly weightless bag beside them and falling back into the seat. Appearing to be asleep, Jack leaned forward enough from his seat to whisper, “Hi, are you new around here?”
Silence at first, rising from the seat and turning around was a snapped response,
“Afraid not, are you?”
Breaking a smile, Jack noted how friendly this person was by the facial expression;
“Nah, I live way out over there…”
He announced while pointing through the window into the distant nothingness.
“…But I do like it around here, there seems to be quite a number of quiet people so I guess it’s a nice feeling coming here”

From then on, the two spoke as if they knew each other their whole lives for the entire journey until the person bluntly interrupted Jack to mention their stop was next and will not return back onto the bus since it was only a one-off trip. Jack, apart from being a little sadden by this, was surprisingly upbeat since his day got better knowing he made at least one person happy today.
The person stepped off the bus, paused, turned around to wave once and starting walking. Jack nodded, waved once and pierced the sky to see how clear it was.

He thought he could change a person’s life today that would change his own life tomorrow.

To the wind (kiss me once more).

how​ man​y people actually think abo​ut the​ win​d? where did​ it sta​rt,​ whe​n doe​s it stop? who​ gave birth to the​ winds?​ was​ it the​ ocean that cra​she​d and​ fou​ght​ wit​h the​ roc​ks in its​ way​? did​ the​ ocean eve​n nee​d the​ win​d or did​ the​ win​d eme​rge​ fro​m the​ voi​ces​ of the​ wat​er?​ why don't i notice when it kis​ses​ my face and​ tangle​s bet​ween my fingers and​ leaves me.​ and​ i wal​k in wan​der​ and​ won​der​, a simultaneous movement from my mind to my fee​t. like a mechanical instrument that nee​ds a chain of cog​s to function.​ the​ further i walked the​ fur​the​r i thought int​o thi​s. i asked​ myself​ if the​ sam​e breeze​ wil​l eve​r com​e again to gre​et me.​ has​ it see​n the​ wor​ld,​ has​ it see​m me before​? and​ as it ble​w awa​y i was​ saddened that the win​d would see​ the city, the desert, the​ ocean and​ the world all at once...and i would just walk home and hope it would ret​urn soon to tell me of all​ its adventure​s.

crush.love.lost.

I think I'm the obsessive kind of lover. But I was not always that way, over time my heart had quietly longed for something, and its need grew. I'm the kind of guy who has been single for far too long to take the chance of 'taking things slow'. The kind that urges for some sort of reassurance. Had I of never met them I would never feel anything for them, but I have met them and I feel something. My feelings and thoughts often become confused with each other and I panic. Do I step back, or forward, or not at all? Do I tell the truth, use romanticized tactics or wait?

The other day I wrote down "I was inevitably crushed by a crush. Of course it was going to hurt. No matter how long you know someone, how well or even how much you think of them, a crush will always end. Always. From there it becomes nothing, or everything. The end or the beginning lies at the end of a crush's road. What I didn't accept from people was 'it wasn't meant to be', which I do not believe to be true whatsoever. If things happen for reasons and misfortune brings something that is 'not meant to be', then was it meant to be that I should have been crushed or even met the person in the first place?

And so now I sit here, not talking, just staring that computer screen with the longing for a 'hello' from the person I am destined never to be with. And I'll wait until the clock strikes twelve and I will give up. But my thoughts of them will continue. I felt invited to their lives only to arrive at the door with it being locked. Call me and lock me out. And now I have to walk home alone again."

What do you do in these situations? So many people cancel the theory of love at first sight and also won't believe that love can start as a seed and blossom into something beautiful. I'm repeatedly told that love won't work if two people do not feel the same from the start. Then were all those romance movies in vain? The girl who had it all vs. the guy who fell short of anything bearable in his life and yet he somehow 'won' her over.

Do you wait for them to be ready? Do you make the opportunities or wait for them to come? In a sense, a crush is the happiest kind of loneliness, so close to something and riding on the edge of what could be nothing at all. Just like the song, "There Is No Mathematics To Love and Loss", I don't believe there is any real way to fall in love other than the way you already have. Is it really possible to love like you have never been hurt? Because to be honest, right now I am hurting like I have never been loved.

The early twilight of the iguana

One night I was almost seventeen. I sat down in a brown velvet armchair to read Pablo Neruda because I’d just discovered I was too chicken to drink my first can of Guinness. The house was very quiet and very empty. The black beer had been sitting in the corner of my oma’s pantry, surprisingly. I casually moved it to the refrigerator door on the first morning while I was unpacking my groceries. I’d been eying it for three days. The whole idea was risky. Who knew what would happen if I popped it open and downed the whole thing, like I wanted to? Guinness was muddy and delicious and Sophisticated-Proletarian, but in the last six months alone I had become friends with a university dropout who busked as a card magician for a living and was in a band, started dating a boy, acquired a pocket knife that flipped open like a switch blade, stopped taking violin lessons, stopped going to church every Sunday, and started studying harder than I ever had in my life. Within a month my first published poem was going to be coming out in an alternative feminist literary journal. Some other night it would seem perfectly normal and innocent, but there are nights when deciding to drink your first alcohol alone is a destructive idea. There are nights when you are almost seventeen and using up experiences much too frivolously.

Out Of The Light Appeared The Darkness

The following is a piece of fiction and was not intended for any particular person.

“Child’s Play”

He whispered her name twice softy, waiting for a response
“Gabrielle, Gabrielle my love are you awake?” No reply.
He complicated his decision to get out of bed for breakfast, when he realised his hand was still around Gabrielle. He waited another several minutes before finally making the assumption she would wake up.

After a few minutes of birds singing in tune with one another, Gabrielle finally rose from the bed, gave Jacques a peck on the cheek, then proceeded to enquire about his concerning and distressing facial expression.
“I hope you weren’t waiting long, last night was fantastic we should do it again sometime although this time without the formalities…You looked stressed, what’s wrong?”
Her curiosity started running her mouth.
“I mean, what happened last night? We enjoyed ourselves, had a few glasses of their finest wine…I don’t underst-…oh, was it that tall man in the pinstripe suit? Don’t worry about him honey, he was a jerk”
Jacques anticipation over-powered his conscious.
“No, No, No! We’ll talked about it later I’m hungry for breakfast, Matthews is making pancakes with salad and yes, it was that man that annoyed me but I’m not going to let it affect me”

At the breakfast table Matthews prepared the meals and promptly left the room to continue his house cleaning duties.
“Is it nice dear?”
“Yes, isn’t it always?” replied Gabrielle.
After a mouthful of salad Jacques explained the current status of his employment.
“You know that merger that my boss wanted me to push? I said to him I need more time for family, you can’t keep me locked in my office like a lab-rat. So he agreed and now I have a month off. Isn’t that great?”
Gabrielle looked directly into his eyes and simply opened her mouth gently. “Yes”
Jacques finished his breakfast and took the plates from the table and then started washing them. “I guess this means I’ll have more time for the kids”

Midway through the evening Jacques went upstairs to the children’s bedroom.
“Edward, make sure you clean up after you play with your toys. You don’t want them to get dirty because you can’t play with them later.”
Edward began protesting.
“But dad, Violet said she would play with me and she didn’t. I wanted her to play with me, it’s not fair and I always play with her when she wants me too.” He said almost in a whisper. Jacques lifted Edward onto the top bunk-bed. Violet by this time was asleep on the bottom bunk.
“Edward my boy, that’s life, sometimes you don’t get what you want…Maybe Violet and you could go to the park and play there together?”


Edward pulled up the doona and rested his head on the pillow. “No”
“What do you mean no?” Jacques was surprised now; he had never seen Edward act like this before.
“I don’t want too”
“She’s your sister and you only have one”
“No… I like it here better, it’s safer… None of that dirty stuff you find in the park” Edward spoke with triumph.
“Ok but what will happen when your sister wants you to join in her games?”
Jacques was now trying to pierce his argument.
“I’ll think about it, and then say ‘maybe’ if she plays a game I like then I’ll join her”
Jacques conceded.
“We’ll talk about it more in the morning; you have a big day tomorrow, your back at school”

Jacques headed out of the bedroom, paused at the doorway looked back at Edward and thought. *You know, when you’re a bit older you’ll learn to love your sister very much* He paced himself down and up the stairs to collect his paperwork and brought it to his office next door to the children’s room, he wasn’t getting any younger.

He logged on to his computer and brought up the search engine. He typed in ‘puberty.’ To his amazement, he sat quietly flicking and scanning over pages of FAQ’s over this topic. Jacques always enjoyed the quiet time he got, ever since he got his new job at the firm he rarely had time for his wife, kids and more importantly himself. After an hour or so, he logged off and crawled into bed beside Gabrielle . He whispered to Gabrielle;
“The kids… the kids grow up so quickly…it wont be long before the kids have kids of there own and we’ll be much older”
Gabrielle agreed. “And forgotten…”

To the girl I never knew.

I was sitting on a bus. My old school bus, but nothing changes. The same driver, the engine makes the same the sound, the same roads are taken and even some of the same people are taking their usual spots. I don't usually imagine another driver, different seating arrangements, alternate sounds or different paths. I took all these things for granted. To go further, I relied on my hearing to hear the engine, my eyes to see the passengers and my touch to feel the vibrations of the locomotive. All of those things I took for granted. The fact that I was breathing on that bus, sharing the air with those people and experiencing the same thing, I took it for granted. It seemed like something that's there forever. It was a simple bus ride.

What if it crashed? What if someone died? What if something really insignificant changed? Like the sound of the engine…would I notice or even miss the old sound? Would the experience be any different? One small thing can literally change our world.

So I was on the bus and my friends regurgitated some news for me. It was about a guy I was fond of. I knew him, a lot of people did. He was in a band and I had seen him at so many places and I could only pluck up the courage to speak to him once in my life. I didn't know him well, I always wanted to though, he had the trait of a mysterious figure that made me long to know more about him crossed with the look of typical teenage apathy that gave me the impression that he was just like everyone else in the room; even me. But he still sparked an interest deep down no matter what I've heard about him.

Before I dive into the deep end with this story, remember that this is gratifying information and a lot of it could be twisted, nevertheless, I'm sure that the conclusion is so surreal that you have to question if these events can actually happen to you.

He had a girlfriend, from what I heard they were happy. They were the teenage couple who were going to be together forever. And there is nothing wrong with that. There is a feeling about a teenage love that makes you feel like you have found exactly what you were looking for at that moment in time. It's grace. It's as if it is too good for you to have but you are lucky enough to have it. Maybe it was for putting up with everything at home, the fights at school and the fact that no one understood you. Solace and sanctuary could be found in a soul. And for him that soul was awaiting his arrival miles away.

He traveled, quite literally, from the bottom of the country to the top waiting so long to see her. He assumed everything, he imagined everything they would and could get away with. They were both waiting for this moment. A meeting between two vacant souls to stifle each other so they could never feel alone and unknown again.

He got off the plane trying to collect his excitement and put them into the words he rehearsed days before. He was ready, until a phone rang. Phone calls, like bus rides are something we just assume have little to no importance in our lives whatsoever. But phones, like bus rides can change our lives in a matter of seconds. News was delivered to him that the soul he had traveled so far to see had lost its light.

A car accident. An unfortunate car accident. Another statistic. A lover. A death. To me the worst thing about death is what it can do to the living. It was never about where I was going but what I was leaving behind. And to this day I want to take it with me, I want to take it all with me.

He was cold. He was alone. He was unknown. He felt as if he fell short of something that everybody else around seemed to have, yet too senseless to know what it was. He was breathing just because he was alive. But he didn't feel like living. Not today. It's like a limb torn from his body. A whole limb. How can you function without a limb…did you even want to function? He was still here, but where was she? What was she thinking about right now?

(This is a true story, I had written this blog a long time ago and I have asked for permission to post it. So thank you to those people for taking the time to read it and allowing me to post it.)

When The Balloon Can No Longer Take Any More Air.

Ever wondered why we get sick and tired of each other's nonsense?

It came to my recent attention that necessary fixation to hold and analyse onto what people say now becomes a time-consuming exercise. Apart from the occasional lament day-dream moment, people would be foolish not to believe a day goes passed without pondering a person comments and what they meant by it.

A typical mindset might be to shrug away those off-the-cut remarks. But what happens when it all gets too much? When the person you love, your friend, your family member just pushes you until you explode and then, in an instant, you become the troublemaker. The person accused of dealing out punishment and unjustified speech about a person who, in the first instance, struck the balloon in our minds that pops after unequivocally destroying the void of peace.

How would you move on? Blow-up another balloon and start over with the person? Or condemn them until satisfied they have redeemed worthy respect?

Once Again,

The Mind Wobbles...


A good life lasts for a generation,
A good name lasts forever...

- Japanese Proverb

Don't Let Go

No one can have their cake and eat it, too. We are not just having our cake, my love. We are sitting here in the candle light, hiding here in the dark, digging our arms up to our elbows in lucious chocolate syrup and smearing jam and cream over our faces.
One day, one fine day, my delicous friend, someone is going to notice the crumbs on your chin. Someone is going to comment on the wildberry sauce on your sleeve.
The difference we can make now is to chose, and to chose now to stop. Or if not stop, then limit our appetite to the occasional brandy snap. Or if not stop then...

Does the word 'marriage' frighten you?

This is not a wise choice, but an essential one. Because those living on dry bread and tepid water will protest, loudly, if they found out what we are supping on in here in the dark.

Go now, my deluctable love, licking your fingers and wiping your mouth on the back of your wrist, and do not return unless you plan to give me that shiny band of gold that would make our feasting so much less abhorrent to our associates.

When the world crumbles like a cookie

A monstrous wall of ice in the arctic circle.
Etched with the years of the tides and the world's history.
Similar enough to that of a persons life.
Although short lived, knowledge comes flooding in with every event in your life.
If you have a bad accident, you are careful next time you're in a similar situation, so as not to get hurt.
If you get lost on your way to a party, you learn your way next time you travel to the same location.
The ice shelf in the arctic has no choice to how it collapses like a paraplegic in therapy.
Crashing into the freezing pure water below it. Erupting waves and destroying life as we know it slowly.
We have choices as to how our life comes crashing down. Crumbles to pieces like a dry cookie in your clenched fist. The same fist that curls whenever you think of your anger. Your nails digging into your palm, ripping up the skin like it's a block of cheese.
Unfortunately, the mistakes that we make can be catastrophic. Some part of our life might seem blissful. The happiest era you've had in your personal cocoon. And other parts seem to diminish or alter drastically. Just like the world we live in.
Who's to say that everyone is happy? Who's to say that no one has any problems? Who's to say that one heart shouldn't hurt, one mind shouldn't sting and two eyes shouldn't bleed tears onto the shirt of someone who gives a damn?
Answer my riddle, and feel free to have my trust back. Rebuild my wall of ice and preserve the entity of friendship within my arctic circle.

“Failure - When your best just isn't good enough.” -Larry Kersten

i have never felt so petty to somebody in my life. i stood before someone so high above me that i felt like i actually might be better off below the ground. there is less heart strain involved in giving up right there at that moment. am i that frivolous?

i walked into this mans office and he had an entire wall dedicated to his books on life and anything relevant to life. what shocked me more is that he possessed the bragging right to some of these books (a whole shelf) because they belonged to him. he was the author.

with him was this opulent-looking lady who wore that critical, yet artistic frown that anyone proud and narcissistic would have. she too, was an author. now probably everyone of you on here know that what i want more than anything in my life is to see a book with my name on it on a shelf at a bookstore at some point in my life.

theres a lot of words to describe how i felt in that office. like 'naive', in the ways i thought i could be seen at eye-level with the caustic man before me, or unworldly, the inexperience of living a life, but the one that stood out for me most was 'stupid'. I felt so stupid to allow myself to believe i could get to something so easily.

but it made me wonder. did that man or even the woman begin as me and with my thoughts? we're they born genius? was i born anything less than that? i just want to share to people what i have to say, and by meeting these people it felt like all my questions to my life were trivial. that maybe i should just stand down and realize im not as great or capable as i originally thought i was.

walking out there, i felt a defined numbness and an apathy towards my future ambitions. what i dont understand is how can someones presence pirece through all of my dreams so easily? a persona that can make others feel far more inferior and unimportant. he was a prideful, egocentric man and i was just a boy who wished there was something he could give to the world.

this realization has a lot to do with growing up. nothing is easy. but can something truly be too hard, too far or too unrealistic? is this what separates the logical from the dreamers?

post-modern kids

I'll build
an origami aeroplane
from these words:

safety and sour sugar

and I'll build
a pilot
from this word:

fly

I'll build
the crumple-crash

crash!
crumple!

until one day
accidentally
I build death
with this word:

die




I wrote this poem several months ago, but I've been thinking about post-modernism a lot lately, and about how the post-modern worldview has affected the "youth of today". I've come to a few partial-conclusions.

I have to admit that I am guilty of approaching thought-systems on an emotional level as well as an intellectual one, and post-modernism makes me want to cry. I'm depressed with the lack of ambition and enthusiasm I see in the under-30s around me. They seem to have no desire to learn, or to discover, or to revelate or to philosophize. But their condition doesn't surprise me, because I notice it in myself almost every day.

It seems to us that all the important books have been written, all the profound statements made, all the great discoveries published. It seems to us that everything there was to know about human nature was explored in the classics, and then refuted in modern psychology, and now we know everything there is to know about our emotions and motivations, and it turns out that they are nothing by chemical reactions and explainable synapses. It seems we might as well do what we want. It certainly doesn't seem worthwhile to attempt to say anything new about the human condition. And since what comes closest to modern truth is so discouraging, why should we want to learn about what has already been said anyway?

The same thing happens when we examine science and philosophy. The more we realize that the sum of human discovery seems to have led to the conclusion that reality and truth are fabrications of language, and that humans are not of any real significance compared to the random, huge, and impersonal schemata of the cosmos, the less we want to know, and the less we feel we have anything to say.

The result is a disinterest and a dislike for learning, and a general hopelessness with certainly must affect aspects of our lives other than the intellectual one. For me, it has driven to an apathy and agnosticism that frightens me. Has anyone else experienced this?

On a tangent, I like to call myself a writer, and sometimes I realize that I believe more in the words than in what they say.

Like You Mean It ...

Ignore ignorance ...
Bliss for a while
End a convo with a smile and a cherio

Wonder about things out of the norm
"I wont give up, I'll never give up"
Understand the meaning ...

Say it like you mean it.

I will ignore ignorance
I will wake up tomorrow feeling blissful
I will end every conversation with a smile and a cherio

I will wonder about things that dont happen often or not at all
I will say that i wont give up and that i'll never give up just so you know
i understand the meaning.

I understand it when you say i can change
I understand the consequences of being plain

At my own peril i will change for me and not for you.

Do you find that a person will say something and mean something else? Do you find people will only say things that they feel will make you feel better but not actually mean it.

Where are the people who care in the world, just a little bit. Who would simply go out of there way to say something they mean. "i love you" I truly believe the 3 words are passed there useby date after the 1st year. Its just a feeling. Do you understand? Say your answer 'Like You Mean It...'

The Two Essential Truths About Hippies

"The first can be described as chronic passivity in relation to the stream of life. Part of what it involves is dependence, a willingness to let chance or the conduct of others determine one's fate, a blind confidence that some provision will be made for one's survival and welfare.”
“The second, irresponsibility, freedom from obligations”
- Hans Toch, Professor of Sociology

I quite enjoyed reading this earlier in the week. The first impression I got was to wonder what ‘that feeling’ must of felt like during the ’60s when war was occurring but people still flocked annually, during summer to San Francisco to take recreational drugs and party.

I sometimes took it upon myself to imagine living in a world like that currently. No wars, no violence, just absolute freedom. But of course we would still have to deal with world issues like racism, hunger in Africa and the homeless.

It’s disappointing to understand that there are so many people around the world with money and power to change and develop the place for the better but don’t, only to strengthen their own personal gains/ends.

If someone came up and asked me, “Would you consider living with a hippie?”
I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes and agree.
Naturally I would expect that home to hold morals such as unity and peace.

Indeed hippies did manufacture and begin a cultural revolution, but they were still simple people with common ground to reach.

That’s my belief, for a higher society to work we need peace.

As I stood at the edge of nothing, I saw everything.

stand on the edge of a building and see how small you really are and appreciate it.

people are so focused on being rich, being famous, being everything they think they need to be. they always look for the the thing that makes them imperfect. but imperfection is part of beauty. its part of life. for some reason we thrive to find the things to make it better.

what do you already have? why arnt you happy? what happened to the little things in life that make the bigger things seem so trivial. like that dollar that goes to the homeless guy, the butterfly thats stuck in the spiderweb or those smiles that you give to each other that mean nothing outside of being happy with where you are and who you're with.

why does everything have to lead to something? why must we run straight to a climax? what happened to being content and staying in one moment. freezing clocks, not caring about how far you are, how you're going to get back or even if you were planning to go back in the first place?

2007

nothing profound here, i'd just like to know what you guys read over 2007, which books you enjoyed the most, which you thought were well-written, which changed the way you think, which the rest of us might enjoy... come to think of it, don't limit yourself to books. movies and albums of 2007 would be interesting to hear about as well. and what are you planning to read/watch/listen to in 2008?

My Heart At My Sleeve: To Write Love On Her Arms

There are times when I am burning to writing something, just the pure urge to pound my fingers to the keys until I realize I have nothing really to say. It's as if whenever I lack inspiration there is a calling card that sends it right back to me.

There is a tendency in me that adores everything about the internet and loves to bound me to a computer chair and divulge into a whole world of people I may never communicate with otherwise. Through the mind swept sensation of the internet, I have learned probably more than I have in school. I've joined clubs, kept myself entertained, made incredible friends, and believe it or not, I use it as an online journal. The internet has been criticized enough to leave a lovely scarring and lasting impression on the people that are not too tech-savvy to not appreciate it at all.

What if I said that the internet has saved lives? I'm confident that a lot of the people that read this briefly know about To Write Love On Her Arms. If those who don't, I'll keep it short and sweet for you: To Write Love On Her Arms is a non-profit organization and its aim is to spread hope through the world and to reach out to the sufferers of self-inflicting wounds, depression, addictions and obsessions. It began as a story about a girl who committed herself to escaping the emotional pains of her life through physical pains. Sadly, her story is a common one and even I can say that I relate to it.

This organization is best known for its clothing. As I type this I am wearing a gray t shirt that has printed on the right "To Write Love On Her Arms...rescue is possible". It's not everyday your heart is at your sleeve and most t shirts today only have lewd and indecent remarks anyway, but this top is what I am all about.

Rescue is possible. Love is the movement. Stop the bleeding. Three of their 'mantras', if you'd like to call them that. I want to be there for anyone in need. And the needed need to know that people will be there for them. I know how being alone feels and I know that I was not alone at being alone. Let TWLOHA be the first step to recovery. It was my recovery...not only to me but as many as a hundred more sufferers. Most of all, it played the role of a reminder that people did face the feelings I felt, that they did resort to the things I did, that they did overcome the traps they fell into. The legendary Beatles sing "love is all you need" and it's true. Knowing people are willing to walk with you through whatever it is you are facing is such an incredible feeling and I promise you, rescue is possible.

For anyone that wants more information about To Write Love On Her Arms visit their myspace right here: http://www.myspace.com/towriteloveonherarms