[vent]

How often do we stop to consider just what it is we are doing?

This entry merits a change in perspective. Today and yesterday in my English class, there they were: the precious little bundles of potential, sitting at their desks, reviewing in preparation for the writing portion of the Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills. They, or rather we, were going over what to do and what not to do, and thusly scanning our curious eyes over past answers to the "thought-provoking" essay questions. The quality of any given answer is ranked on a scale of 0 to 4, with a 0 being the lowest. Feeding our memories with ill-given responses is all well and good

I want to stop writing this.

Someone neglects to provide any evidence. Laughter. Someone misspells the word "beast". More laughter. Someone believes that a woman with multiple sclerosis hiked the Himalayas. The room continues to echo. Now, granted, there are always going to be people who don't care, who refuse to care. But then too are the children who try, try with all their mind and might, and still come up short. And we respond to their so-called feeble attempts with laughter. Are these people in the room with us? No. Are they aware that their best efforts are being thrown on stage before a storm of putrid tomatoes, only to be ripped apart by fools who take their gold for granted? No. Does that make it right? You can try to justify yourself...you can try to say that you're only making fun of the writing and not the person, but then you aren't only scorning their work, but their very way of thinking.

I am in no position to say anything. I laughed too. I can try to justify myself by saying I didn't laugh as long or as often, but that is no excuse (yes, I'm perfectly aware of how self-gratifying that sounds). But consider the position of the hypocrite. Is it not still better to try goodness only half the time, than bad forever?

Do you feel anything, as these words pass from my keyboard to your screen? Do you feel...bad, now that I've brought this to your attention?

I shouldn't have had to.

[/vent]

Try Again? [Yes] [No]

What happens when you give up? What happens when your troops abandon that final bastion? When you stop relighting the blown out candle? A flash. The enemy rushes in. It's all over. No second chances, it's too late for that. You made the wrong decision. You lost hope, and gave up.

Why?

Giving up is for the weak. For people that fight for things they don't believe in, or just lose faith. Don't be like that. If you believe in something, it's always worth fighting for. Always. You wouldn't believe in something not worth fighting for. So don't give up. You're better than that.

There's no such thing as not being "good" enough, or "smart" enough, or "cute" enough, or "strong" enough. That's what people say when they give up. When they can't see that there is always a way. Are you like that? Are you good enough?

That's what I thought. Now put another quarter in, kid. It's game time.

A Comparison from Twit

Confidence

It's like gas. Too much, and nobody likes you. But you'll always need some to get where you're going.

The Egg or the Chicken...?

It was a bright, sunny day. The farm animals couldn't have been happier, lazing about, going about their farm animal lives. The chicken, however, could not help but be discontent. He had heard the farmer sharing a riddle with his wife. The humans both got a good laugh out of it, and the matter was soon forgotten, lost in the mist of human worry. But for the chicken, this was no simple riddle. This was a question that may provide an answer towards his existence. As a result, he snuck out of the coop that very night, intent on solving the mystery that had plagued him throughout the day. There was only one egg left, so he would have to use extreme caution in his interrogation. The chicken entered the shed where farm animal spoils were kept and counted his chicken blessings that the room was deserted. Except for the egg.

The chicken was nervous, more nervous than he could ever remember being before (which wasn't a very long span regardless), but pressed onward, sweating his chicken sweat all the while. After hours of tortured marching, the chicken finally made it across the room, and opened his beak to ask the fateful question...

"Hold it right there, bub! Don' even think about opening that cluck-box o' yours."

The chicken was so startled, he felt sure he would have laid an egg himself, if he had been capable.

"Yeah, that's right. I know exactly what ya were gonna ask. Lemme tell ya somethin' right now: forget about it."

The chicken was becoming quite offended with this turn of events. He was supposed to be the intimidating one. He was the one who had the idea. After all, he came first.

"Oh don't go spewing your baloney to me, bub."

This was getting decidedly off-beat.

"Lemme ask ya, what difference does the silly mess make? The egg hatched, leading to the chicken. Or...the chicken laid the egg. There's the possibilities. Who cares how it happened? Will your chicken kibbles start tasting better once you know? You just wasted a wonderful day wondering about a wonder that, quite honestly, is wonderfully pointless. Don't wanna waste that chicken brain o' yours? That's fine, fine. Try looking around you then. An egg. A life yet to be lived. Endless possibility, right there, waiting to happen. Doesn't that boggle your chicken mind? Look at yourself. A life in progress. Experiences that have happened, are happening, and still waiting to happen. A work of art in progress, really. Your life is begging to be lived, boy. Get your chicken butt out there and get to it. And keep thinking about that egg. About what will happen. Possibility."

The chicken smiled a lot more after that. Kept away from eggs though.

Rites of Passage

I don't even know what to say about this. The only problem is that the marimba part vastly outweighs the other three parts except for certain sections. The vibe solo is nothing short of perfect. Or rather, the key is. I can already think of ways to change it...

http://www.tapspace.com/rop.html

I know I go to this website too much.

Finding It

Where do I want to be in twenty years?

Where do I want to be in ten?

How about five?

Two years?

Just one?

Where do I want to be in six months?

Or three.

Or one.

Where do I want to be in a week?

Tomorrow?



Happy.

Isn't that all that matters?

Is this naive?

I'll just make my own Neverland, but I won't do it alone.

The Simple Truth

It is not enough to simply say. It is not enough to simply hear. It is not enough to simply see...no, not even enough to simply do. One must go further, beyond the mere saying, or hearing, or seeing, and even the doing, and try to feel. Feel...with the heart. Cliché, to be sure, but no human being ever got anywhere by simply doing. Or rather, no human being was ever happy. Isn't that what really counts? A man can do any number of bodily exercises, and do repetition after burning repetition, but unless he stops to feel, he will only become another number on the charts of modern life. Number One, perhaps, but a number nonetheless. A woman can do all manner of mathematical calculations, and quickly rise up the monetary chain, but unless she stops to feel, the countless, countless numerals are empty. A child can achieve the very greatest of results, on a scale of zero to a hundred, becoming the envy of the crowd and the apple of his parents' eyes...but at the end of all that labor, tedium, and terrible pressure, the child is still but a number, without feeling. Without the feeling of that blazing fire burning in his belly, there can be nothing beyond the doing. But, should even the smallest of sparks fall into a kindling heart, then the smallest of lights will appear, and from that smallest of lights, the smallest of flowers will bloom. With that, the path will not quite be the smallest of paths any longer.

It's the simple truth, it is.