Angst

Man is a social animal. Such are the words of many a pompous blowhard who wanted seem wise. It is true though. Some people would do just about anything if they felt it would bring them acceptance. While some are minor, others are far more serious. I keep asking myself why. Are humans really so afraid of being alone? Afraid of the dark? Afraid of...rejection? Humans are stupid. I am also human. I am stupid, but that's beside the point. Man's overbearing selfishness as a whole has led us down this bloody, scarred bridge that may soon crumble to dust.
An age where it's better to conform to the standards of others than to voice your own. A corrupt age where the light is slowly dying out. An age where people cry out for a cause to believe in, because they are afraid to lead their own. Chivalry has been dead for ages, but now the rest of its family is fading away, one by one. An age where most people, if given a choice between money and happiness, think they know the obvious answer.

The horizon, how gray it is...

-The Angst-Ridden Teenager of Yesterday

Some General Rules

1. We know nothing.

2. We know nothing of ourselves.

3. What we do know, we do not acknowledge.

4. What we do not know, we imagine as we please.

5. We know nothing of others.

6. What we do know, we choose to condemn.

7. What we do not know, we choose to ridicule.

8. We do not care.

9. We do not watch.

10. We do not listen.

11. We place ourselves before all.

12. We are trapped.

13. We refuse to believe any of them.

Be There Martians?

Sometimes, when I read some thing that's just really out there, I start wondering just how people get the idea. It's a pretty simple process I guess. You take a basic theme, boil it with thoughts for a while until it becomes fiction, add some genre, then sprinkle it with style and you're done, right?

Some of the stuff though...I just start thinking, what if God was putting these ideas into our heads because they aren't ideas. Maybe ours isn't the only Garden of Eden out there, but merely different branches from the same roots. Maybe Holmes sits in his study late at night reading about Hurricane Katrina, or Luke watches holograms of The Beatles in his spare time, or somewhere in the far reaches of space, there actually is a planet full of spiky-haired gold people who eat steroids for breakfast before they get constipated on their monkey tails.

Or maybe we're just more creative than I give us credit for.

Monochrome Rainbows part 1

In a time beyond remembrance, a child was born with sightless eyes. The child's mother and the child's father lamented their daughter's eternal fall into darkness, and did everything in their power to try and bring even the smallest lantern within her gaze. To bring an inkling of color to those stark gray eyes. Nothing worked, but the child was content. Content because, quite honestly, she had no idea what they kept rambling on about.

She could see just fine.

She saw how the village elder was a lecher, how the scholars studied only how to act as though they studied, and most of all, how deathly afraid each and every one of them was. Afraid of the darkness they could never understand. Afraid of the darkness she couldn't hope to understand either, only because she understood it so well. None would admit it, but she knew all the same. They would cling to their fire like a starving wolf to its hard-earned prey. She had found her own lantern in time though, in her own way.

"Rhia, come away from that moon-cursed flower and do your chores!"

leap of faith

she jumped into the sky
and spread her wings to fly
without thinking she could die
because she just wanted to try,
the clouds sank past her eye
of their embrace she was not shy
to ignore this feeling would be a lie
but she couldn't help but let out a sigh
for she found she could not fly

but you know what?

she tried

while her brother sat there and cried

A Letter of Introduction

I guess it saves a lot of time, but writing has got to be one of the most fallible and infallible ways of getting to know someone. It would be pretty simple to cook up fantastic tales, lavishly coated with sugary details everyone else conveniently forgot and topped with the most enticing sprinkles we never saw. Of course, few are petty enough to fabricate a letter read only by their tenth grade English teacher (and assorted others should the author in question choose to post it on his or her writing blog beforehand).

Does that sound arrogant? It sort of does now that I'm rereading it, but thems the breaks I suppose.

First and foremost, hobbies. Music is my first love, and as you already know, I'm a drummer. Not a drummer in the traditional high school sense, as in someone who's touched a drumset for a few minutes, but every little tidbit in the Percussion family of instruments. For marching band, I play the tenor drums, but this is only my first year on the line. Timpani, which also happens to be the instrument dearest to me, was the part I played last season. I also play drumset and the vibraphone in Cinco's Jazz Band, or whatever else the music says. There's just this indescribable feeling that you get when you hear something beautiful and you think to yourself, "Hey, I did that." Should I go professional or not, this isn't something I'll ever be letting go.

As oh so subtly mentioned before, I enjoy writing as well, even though I don't get around to it near as often as I should. I maintain a humble little blog that was started up about half a year ago, which contains most of my free form short blurbs. I say free form only because rubrics for anything to do with writing just irks me to no end. Yes, it's necessary for grading purposes, but it always just feels as though it chokes the work in a way. Writing to a specific type or theme is a useful skill, but it never feels quite right. These blurbs are read by a rather small audience, but they're all I want, as just knowing that I'm not the only one reading this really helps fuel get into the creative fire.

Lollers, too bad I misread the board and didn't have to do this after all. Not letting this work go to waste though D:!

And for my next trick...

I think it's sort of silly to be writing about nothing, and deeply shameful to boot, since there's always something to be written. But I've had many a conversation about nothing at all (quite literally too), so I figured scribbling a blurb about it could be fun.

It just seems like a testament to how close people are if they can actually talk about nothing at all but still be talking, and for awkward silences to be an unthinkable notion. Starting with a typical howdy-do, generic responses, generic re-responses, a few perfectly comfortable silences, hilariously unfunny but still funny pokes at just what the topic of this exchange is, nonchalant answers leaning in the obvious direction, more awkward turtles that landed on their feet and walked off, the obligatory inquiry as to what each party is investing their valuable time into at the moment, with an assortment of smileys thrown into the mix before achieving blissful randomosity.

But that's just one recipe, should we choose to call it that. Another consists entirely of insults, each getting more and more offensively ridiculous and often having to do with mothers and faces. This will carry on for a while until one party grows tired of the monotony, and calls a ceasefire, which is occasionally followed by a bombardment of grandiose compliments. I suppose it isn't really nothing, but it's ludicrous to call it something.

Needless to say, I lovems my friends, I do. Those bestest broke the sparkling new mold they came out of.