"I always watched that show. Which was your favorite?"
"I liked the pink one. Everyone did."
"No! She's too perfect. Buttercup's the best."
"You're always like that, Sydney."
"Like what?" I was clueless, as usual.
I purposely go against the crowd. At least, according to Sheila. She said I always tried to be different, to think different. I told her that I was as mainstream as mainstream came, giving my taste in music as evidence. I then promptly distracted her with a recollection of a funny event that had happened earlier that day that she missed while she was in the bathroom. We laughed off the moment and that little moment was most likely forgotten. For her, I mean. I still visit that moment and, more often than not, go off on one of two tangents.
I often ponder my explanation to Sheila. Why would I ever want her to think that I was (am) mainstream? I have to hide my Seventeen magazine subscription from her out of the fear that she'd be disappointed. She might think that I'm going to the dark side (which side is that, I wouldn't be able to say). But this tangent often leads to more questions. Was I anti-mainstream for Sheila? Why was I selectively main? How do I subconsciously choose what to tell her? Am I mainstream? This leads to the other tangent. Am I considered to (somewhat) be anti-stream?
Honestly, if you asked me and gave me enough time to contemplate it, I'm neither nor. I dabble in life and I wear oxymorons like I wear my favorite pair of Converse. I am not a single thing. I am a combination of so many things. It’s like making black out of other colors. It’s warmer that way, more human, more relatable.
Being a combination of things, I thus have a combination of influences in my life. While I am not all the way mainstream, I am not completely anti-mainstream. My iPod is filled with Top-40 pop but I know old school soul songs by heart. I like flimsy and frivolous chick flicks more than anything with substance. But that’s simply a personal choice. My biggest influence comes from the media. I take away what I will, what makes sense. I read about other people’s ideas and perceptions and whatever is plausible is added as a possibility. I am my own ideas tweaked by my experiences in life. Only what I choose to influences me. I shall not be subjected to ideas without a base foundation strong enough to support my own weight.
Giving enough thought to it, I do suppose that I am somewhat subconsciously anti-stream. When given the chance, I would go the other way. Take the left line, go the traveled road because others would take the less traveled. I would hate popular things and I abhor the very sacrilege gum that seems to have wedged itself into the woodworks of my school. But I cannot say if I do that because others are doing the opposite. I enjoy what I do. Is it me going against the grain or is it the grain being against me? Who truly decides what is or is not mainstream? Dictionary.com defines mainstream as “the principal or dominant course, tendency, or trend. However, with all of the people going anti-stream, are they becoming the new mainstream? It is an oxymoron in itself.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Don't Laugh
And in that moment, there were only three things that I was absolutely sure about.
First, her name was Abigail.
Second, somewhere, deep inside of her -
having been cultivated since birth-
she coveted a happy ending.
And third, there was no chance of me giving it to her.
Pfft. I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. This came into my mind while listening to the 50 Taylor Swift songs of my iPod on repeated shuffle (Don't judge me) after a few story ideas popped into my head. And I admit: I'm pretty darn close to actually doing this. Which is saying something.
Just a couple of short story entries. Nothing much. And they'll mostly revolve around Abigail but maybe a few other people in her life and then maybe a few randoms to give it some color.
I kind of already hate Abigail from what I fleshed out from her character. Idk, it's just that I don't like her type. I tend to choose to write about someone I don't like. I think it keeps me from MarySue-ifying them.
ButButBut Abigail is a Sue! Her middle name is Mary! (Which I just decided while typing that sentence) She is every cliche in the book and she wants every cliche in the book. And while her people surrounding her are more GenreSavvy (I've been troping too much) so I like that conflict they have. But I don't want the reader to hate her. I want her very likable, maybe even pitied.
This is how I write really. I just go out there and bam. Something, anything, inspires thoughts. And then I think those through until I get somewhere. And I'll already be halfway thinking something out when I realize it has potential. There will be a line or a paragraph or a title or something that will click and then I'm like, "There's something in that." And I don't always realize it. That's why I talk things to my memo recorder. I can't tell if something's gold. I have a document that's just lines or phrases or ideas that makes me go, "That's good," just in case I get something from that someday. But, usually, when I write something down, it just doesn't read write and that what keeps me from writing things down. I blame my handwriting. And I'm easily distracted. Even right now, I keep going between writing ideas down, writing this, playing Burrito Bison, listening to music, and focusing on the television.
"That's your problem right there! Life's not a movie and you can't script everything out, you petty control-freak"
^^^Example^^^
I talk things out. I expand and expand and expand and just detail things. Without even thinking, I know the character's favorite flavour of ice cream and why and what kind of colors they prefer and whether or not they're a White Sox fan.
But, my kind of writing is involuntary. I can't sit down and just come up with idea. But when I have one, little stuff will appear everywhere.
Stories play like movies in my head and depending on my feeling, I know whether or not certain details. For a story I've been writing for 2 years, I still have no idea who the protagonist's boyfriend is. His face is blurred and I can't hear people call his name. But when I figure a piece out, the fog clears.
Hm. This went from being about the little Twilight thing to a rant about me writing. Meph.
First, her name was Abigail.
Second, somewhere, deep inside of her -
having been cultivated since birth-
she coveted a happy ending.
And third, there was no chance of me giving it to her.
Pfft. I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. This came into my mind while listening to the 50 Taylor Swift songs of my iPod on repeated shuffle (Don't judge me) after a few story ideas popped into my head. And I admit: I'm pretty darn close to actually doing this. Which is saying something.
Just a couple of short story entries. Nothing much. And they'll mostly revolve around Abigail but maybe a few other people in her life and then maybe a few randoms to give it some color.
I kind of already hate Abigail from what I fleshed out from her character. Idk, it's just that I don't like her type. I tend to choose to write about someone I don't like. I think it keeps me from MarySue-ifying them.
ButButBut Abigail is a Sue! Her middle name is Mary! (Which I just decided while typing that sentence) She is every cliche in the book and she wants every cliche in the book. And while her people surrounding her are more GenreSavvy (I've been troping too much) so I like that conflict they have. But I don't want the reader to hate her. I want her very likable, maybe even pitied.
This is how I write really. I just go out there and bam. Something, anything, inspires thoughts. And then I think those through until I get somewhere. And I'll already be halfway thinking something out when I realize it has potential. There will be a line or a paragraph or a title or something that will click and then I'm like, "There's something in that." And I don't always realize it. That's why I talk things to my memo recorder. I can't tell if something's gold. I have a document that's just lines or phrases or ideas that makes me go, "That's good," just in case I get something from that someday. But, usually, when I write something down, it just doesn't read write and that what keeps me from writing things down. I blame my handwriting. And I'm easily distracted. Even right now, I keep going between writing ideas down, writing this, playing Burrito Bison, listening to music, and focusing on the television.
"That's your problem right there! Life's not a movie and you can't script everything out, you petty control-freak"
^^^Example^^^
I talk things out. I expand and expand and expand and just detail things. Without even thinking, I know the character's favorite flavour of ice cream and why and what kind of colors they prefer and whether or not they're a White Sox fan.
But, my kind of writing is involuntary. I can't sit down and just come up with idea. But when I have one, little stuff will appear everywhere.
Stories play like movies in my head and depending on my feeling, I know whether or not certain details. For a story I've been writing for 2 years, I still have no idea who the protagonist's boyfriend is. His face is blurred and I can't hear people call his name. But when I figure a piece out, the fog clears.
Hm. This went from being about the little Twilight thing to a rant about me writing. Meph.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Modern Day Slavery
Lazy Week post :-D
I actually wrote this a while ago for Gilly Lit
"Willingly, no one chooses the yoke of slavery." -Aeschylus
Some would say modern day slavery is parents forcing their children into chores. I'm not talking about the normal pick-up-your-clothes or clean-your-room chores. I'm talking about the help-re-tile-the-roof and clean-the-basement-even-though-you-haven't-gone-down-there-in-months ones. Whether or not those who say so are right is not of my concern.
That is to say, I can't touch that.
Most people would talk about the sweatshops in China and other places of that sort and about the fact that those 200 dollar shoes that you bought last Christmas with your babysitting money could be made by kids making maybe $2 a week. But, as you can see, I'm not most people. I don't know much about sweatshops. I have a general idea but that's all it is, a general idea. The impossible has happened: I'm afraid of information. I'm afraid that I won't be able to go to the mall and not break down crying once I see a box of Nike gym shoes. Crying is not something that I enjoy doing and I certainly don't enjoy doing it in public.
I don't know much about other countries. I don't take A.P. Human Geography like the crazy ones and we're still just learning about the long ago history of Europe in World Studies. I've stopped watching the news due to the fact I have much better (and more pleasant) things to be than hearing the same depressing stuff over and over. I know practically nothing about other countries. I don't think that we can help unless we help ourselves first. Would it be right for me to help my friend study for her French quiz while I'm failing Spanish? I don't so. As selfish as it sounds, in some cases, you have to put yourself first. And this is one of those cases.
There's not just life overseas. There's life here too. Coincidentally, modern slavery is not just the people across the oceans. There's some America too, just better disguised.
I'm talking about those working for low wages and doing everything under the sun and the moon. What else should you consider it? When obviously being stretched farther than you should be (than you job details) and earning less than you should be, isn't it the same as the sweat shops? In this case, it could be worse. America is supposed to be setting an example. How can you save those across seas when the people are being pushed farther than the land goes? What I mean by that is that people are being pushed off farther than the dock extends, being pushed into the water.
And, as sad as it is, most can't swim.
People have too many hats on one head. Human heads aren't big enough for that, regardless of how big the egos are. We are not silly putty, nor Play-Doh (If anything, we are 999-piece puzzles: impossible to put together and your bound to lose a few which means you'll never be again once you leave that safe box. Heck, you might not even come with all of the pieces). You cannot pull us apart and expect us to go back just like before. We are not a product built by the wonders of engineering. We are people. The stress is making more and more become obese (from comfort eating and trying to feed yourself on less money than you should make) and die quicker (once again from the obesity and the fact that stress in general takes years off of your life).
That being said, the true question lies in whether or not that counts as slavery. Most would think a slave is someone who works for someone else for nothing and who are held against their will. Dictionary.com defines a slave as the following:
1. a person who is the property of and wholly subjected to another; a bond servant and 2. a person entirely under the domination of some influence or person.
So, it seems to me that a slave is someone trapped with someone else in power. Sounds familiar? Even though you're getting paid, if you are stuck under terrible conditions working for the looming powers that be and hold you against your true will and wish, youare may be a slave.
Another example, a much more morbid one, is regular slavery. No one is safe from it. Men, women, and children are being sold all over and all over the world. This is outright underground slavery. Human trafficking is the third most profitable crime, after drug and arms dealing. And once you're sold, you're gone. You will never be the same. Things will happen that you can't undo, that'll scar you for the rest your life. These scars will not even hold a match to the scar you got from falling out of that tree that your mom told you not to climb when you were 7 but you did anyway. This one is emotional, deep and growing.
The worst part? It'll never fade.
Human trafficking is good ol'-fashioned slavery, just color blind (an improvement that I want to be proud of and I don't at the same time. It's progress. We're coming to the point that the races are so equal that everyone's fair game. But how can one accept the conditions it's under?). Everyone is sold. Everyone is taken against their will. It's rare when someone comes out alive and even if you do, you're changed forever. That is slavery and it's happening today. Right now, some woman in Nevada is being sold to a pimp while a young girl in Wisconsin is being sold to a creepy old man. All while you're watching an episode similar on CSI: Miami on the TV.
The woman would have been taken while on her morning job. She would have been called "feisty" and "a fighter with a heck-of-a-lot of fight." She will go on to prove that, fighting at every chance, amusing her captors. She would be held down and injected, the drugs racing through her system. She would try to fight again and again, a much harder task this time. She will become sedated and quiet while she constantly fights for her consciousness. She will subsequently lose that fight, and she will wake up randomly underneath different men, and, after moments that will feel like many eternities, she will pass right back out. She will be caught in that vicious cycle till one of the following happens: she is rescued, deemed unnecessary and thrown out like old mop water, or dead.
The young girl will fare no better. She would have been taken while walking home from school, distracted with thoughts of biology and geometry and whether or not she should say something to Jessica, who keeps insulting her to her face, regardless of being her "best friend." She will be taken to the old man's house and kept locked in the basement. She'd be too afraid to fight back, an innocent soul who wouldn't even know the first thing about fighting. She would just be asking to be let go and hopelessly bargaining with the promise of never telling another living soul. He would laugh at her requests. I suppose the all do. What evil person wouldn't laugh at the naive girl who thinks she'll ever be able to escape. He will then assume control over her. A teenage girl against a grown man is not a fair fight. he will dominate her, and she will lose that brilliantly bright and bubbly personality of hers. her hair will lack luster, her skin will pale, and her eyes and face will appear to have sunken in.
Slavery's not just over seas. It's in our backyards and in our alleys. It's in our offices. It's down our streets. It doesn't only come out at and may not be obvious to see in the light of day. I don't care what Lincoln has done, what the laws say. It may be outlawed on paper and in the history books, but it's still happening here, here in the land of the supposed "free." It has adapted to the times and moved into and under the official name of "business." It has moved online and towards the safety of fake names and accounts and rerouted IP addresses. The government may have gotten smarter, but so have the white (and blue collar) criminals.
It's been 148 years (and 43 days) since former President Lincoln announced the Emancipation Proclamation, about 145 since Congress made it official with the 13th amendment, and we still have slavery. Go figure.
I guess I wrote a lot about this topic is because it hits me hard. I'm African-American. Somewhere along the lines, my ancestors were sold and brought to America to work for the settlers. Yeah, that was fixed but it's back (did it ever leave?) and I feel trapped. I just can't win. And now, it's not because I'm black. It's because I'm young or a girl or attractive or just in the wrong place at the wrong time while the wrong person wrong idea about me. How is that fair? I know that life isn't fair it's just that, it's just that... How is this right? Is it right that I can't escape? Or does this not come down to the matter of right and wrong.
Lock up the children, the pets, and yourself, America. No one's safe from the terror. Not even a 14-year old Freshman who likes yellow and writing. I mean, come on! I am not for sale. I do not have a price tag on my foot or a bar code underneath my jeans. Don't even searching for one, I've just checked for you.
Of course, whenever you don't come with a price, they'll just put one on you. They'll pencil it in on your heart, a pleasant thought indeed.
I actually wrote this a while ago for Gilly Lit
"Willingly, no one chooses the yoke of slavery." -Aeschylus
Some would say modern day slavery is parents forcing their children into chores. I'm not talking about the normal pick-up-your-clothes or clean-your-room chores. I'm talking about the help-re-tile-the-roof and clean-the-basement-even-though-you-haven't-gone-down-there-in-months ones. Whether or not those who say so are right is not of my concern.
That is to say, I can't touch that.
Most people would talk about the sweatshops in China and other places of that sort and about the fact that those 200 dollar shoes that you bought last Christmas with your babysitting money could be made by kids making maybe $2 a week. But, as you can see, I'm not most people. I don't know much about sweatshops. I have a general idea but that's all it is, a general idea. The impossible has happened: I'm afraid of information. I'm afraid that I won't be able to go to the mall and not break down crying once I see a box of Nike gym shoes. Crying is not something that I enjoy doing and I certainly don't enjoy doing it in public.
I don't know much about other countries. I don't take A.P. Human Geography like the crazy ones and we're still just learning about the long ago history of Europe in World Studies. I've stopped watching the news due to the fact I have much better (and more pleasant) things to be than hearing the same depressing stuff over and over. I know practically nothing about other countries. I don't think that we can help unless we help ourselves first. Would it be right for me to help my friend study for her French quiz while I'm failing Spanish? I don't so. As selfish as it sounds, in some cases, you have to put yourself first. And this is one of those cases.
There's not just life overseas. There's life here too. Coincidentally, modern slavery is not just the people across the oceans. There's some America too, just better disguised.
I'm talking about those working for low wages and doing everything under the sun and the moon. What else should you consider it? When obviously being stretched farther than you should be (than you job details) and earning less than you should be, isn't it the same as the sweat shops? In this case, it could be worse. America is supposed to be setting an example. How can you save those across seas when the people are being pushed farther than the land goes? What I mean by that is that people are being pushed off farther than the dock extends, being pushed into the water.
And, as sad as it is, most can't swim.
People have too many hats on one head. Human heads aren't big enough for that, regardless of how big the egos are. We are not silly putty, nor Play-Doh (If anything, we are 999-piece puzzles: impossible to put together and your bound to lose a few which means you'll never be again once you leave that safe box. Heck, you might not even come with all of the pieces). You cannot pull us apart and expect us to go back just like before. We are not a product built by the wonders of engineering. We are people. The stress is making more and more become obese (from comfort eating and trying to feed yourself on less money than you should make) and die quicker (once again from the obesity and the fact that stress in general takes years off of your life).
That being said, the true question lies in whether or not that counts as slavery. Most would think a slave is someone who works for someone else for nothing and who are held against their will. Dictionary.com defines a slave as the following:
1. a person who is the property of and wholly subjected to another; a bond servant and 2. a person entirely under the domination of some influence or person.
So, it seems to me that a slave is someone trapped with someone else in power. Sounds familiar? Even though you're getting paid, if you are stuck under terrible conditions working for the looming powers that be and hold you against your true will and wish, you
Another example, a much more morbid one, is regular slavery. No one is safe from it. Men, women, and children are being sold all over and all over the world. This is outright underground slavery. Human trafficking is the third most profitable crime, after drug and arms dealing. And once you're sold, you're gone. You will never be the same. Things will happen that you can't undo, that'll scar you for the rest your life. These scars will not even hold a match to the scar you got from falling out of that tree that your mom told you not to climb when you were 7 but you did anyway. This one is emotional, deep and growing.
The worst part? It'll never fade.
Human trafficking is good ol'-fashioned slavery, just color blind (an improvement that I want to be proud of and I don't at the same time. It's progress. We're coming to the point that the races are so equal that everyone's fair game. But how can one accept the conditions it's under?). Everyone is sold. Everyone is taken against their will. It's rare when someone comes out alive and even if you do, you're changed forever. That is slavery and it's happening today. Right now, some woman in Nevada is being sold to a pimp while a young girl in Wisconsin is being sold to a creepy old man. All while you're watching an episode similar on CSI: Miami on the TV.
The woman would have been taken while on her morning job. She would have been called "feisty" and "a fighter with a heck-of-a-lot of fight." She will go on to prove that, fighting at every chance, amusing her captors. She would be held down and injected, the drugs racing through her system. She would try to fight again and again, a much harder task this time. She will become sedated and quiet while she constantly fights for her consciousness. She will subsequently lose that fight, and she will wake up randomly underneath different men, and, after moments that will feel like many eternities, she will pass right back out. She will be caught in that vicious cycle till one of the following happens: she is rescued, deemed unnecessary and thrown out like old mop water, or dead.
The young girl will fare no better. She would have been taken while walking home from school, distracted with thoughts of biology and geometry and whether or not she should say something to Jessica, who keeps insulting her to her face, regardless of being her "best friend." She will be taken to the old man's house and kept locked in the basement. She'd be too afraid to fight back, an innocent soul who wouldn't even know the first thing about fighting. She would just be asking to be let go and hopelessly bargaining with the promise of never telling another living soul. He would laugh at her requests. I suppose the all do. What evil person wouldn't laugh at the naive girl who thinks she'll ever be able to escape. He will then assume control over her. A teenage girl against a grown man is not a fair fight. he will dominate her, and she will lose that brilliantly bright and bubbly personality of hers. her hair will lack luster, her skin will pale, and her eyes and face will appear to have sunken in.
Slavery's not just over seas. It's in our backyards and in our alleys. It's in our offices. It's down our streets. It doesn't only come out at and may not be obvious to see in the light of day. I don't care what Lincoln has done, what the laws say. It may be outlawed on paper and in the history books, but it's still happening here, here in the land of the supposed "free." It has adapted to the times and moved into and under the official name of "business." It has moved online and towards the safety of fake names and accounts and rerouted IP addresses. The government may have gotten smarter, but so have the white (and blue collar) criminals.
It's been 148 years (and 43 days) since former President Lincoln announced the Emancipation Proclamation, about 145 since Congress made it official with the 13th amendment, and we still have slavery. Go figure.
I guess I wrote a lot about this topic is because it hits me hard. I'm African-American. Somewhere along the lines, my ancestors were sold and brought to America to work for the settlers. Yeah, that was fixed but it's back (did it ever leave?) and I feel trapped. I just can't win. And now, it's not because I'm black. It's because I'm young or a girl or attractive or just in the wrong place at the wrong time while the wrong person wrong idea about me. How is that fair? I know that life isn't fair it's just that, it's just that... How is this right? Is it right that I can't escape? Or does this not come down to the matter of right and wrong.
Lock up the children, the pets, and yourself, America. No one's safe from the terror. Not even a 14-year old Freshman who likes yellow and writing. I mean, come on! I am not for sale. I do not have a price tag on my foot or a bar code underneath my jeans. Don't even searching for one, I've just checked for you.
Of course, whenever you don't come with a price, they'll just put one on you. They'll pencil it in on your heart, a pleasant thought indeed.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Something to Believe In
Yeah. Just finished reading WGWG by JG. @ 2am. Sleep is obsolete.
Rhyme.
Um, these are the rare moments where I get thrown headfirst into a twister (not tornado, because right now I have an image of Dorothy, Oz, and Kindergarteners in my head) and I see why people have religion.
Controversial moment time.
I don't honestly believe in religion. I'm not saying this to start a fight but it's true. It's an unseen thing that I can put myself behind. I get it. I get it. It's called "faith" for a reason. You have to give something without knowing you'll get something. I get it. Faith is taking the first step when you don't see the whole staircase. <---Quote from Martin Luther King Jr. (my childhood hero) according to a television commercial.
I'm a skeptic. There's no way I'm getting on a staircase where I have no idea if the whole thing's there. I'm not putting myself out there like that, no thank you. I can't believe in something invisible. There was more proof of Santa and The Tooth Fairy and look how that turned out. I take the Bible as an interpretation of how things COULD have happened and leave everything we don't know as it is. We can't say what happened or didn't. We were there. (<-- Motto for most of things in my life) So who are we to say what did or didn't? Prove your theories, people. And science, don't get me started on science. I've got a major problem with people arguing against religion with things that they only know because some people, once upon a long time ago, agreed to them. Which is what religion are.
Hello pot, hello kettle. Have you two met?
This is why I'm agnostic. I can't say what is or isn't true. I'm merely mortal and who are we mere mortals to say what history is? History is hisstory. He who fights to see the end, gets to write the books. I'm sure those in England see the American Revolution differently.
Not the point of this post really. I've just realized that while looking at my humidifier which really should have been emptied weeks ago.
The point is, this is one of those moments where I see why people need it. Why people need to believe in something. Why they need to feel that there's something more after life for them, that there's something, someone, watching over them. It would be a nice thought, right. Someone higher, pulling strings so you don't feel guilty. It's like when your parents are there saying that they'll know everything and that some how keeps you out of trouble.
This is a moment where I wish I had something to believe, to blindly trust fall into. Something to turn to, to have define you. But then, whenever I consider "finding faith", I'm reminded that it's like trying to believe in Santa again. It's a lie to me. And it's not fair to those who believe unconditionally.
So yeah. Sometimes, I wish I had something a little like religion on my side.
Rhyme.
Um, these are the rare moments where I get thrown headfirst into a twister (not tornado, because right now I have an image of Dorothy, Oz, and Kindergarteners in my head) and I see why people have religion.
Controversial moment time.
I don't honestly believe in religion. I'm not saying this to start a fight but it's true. It's an unseen thing that I can put myself behind. I get it. I get it. It's called "faith" for a reason. You have to give something without knowing you'll get something. I get it. Faith is taking the first step when you don't see the whole staircase. <---Quote from Martin Luther King Jr. (my childhood hero) according to a television commercial.
I'm a skeptic. There's no way I'm getting on a staircase where I have no idea if the whole thing's there. I'm not putting myself out there like that, no thank you. I can't believe in something invisible. There was more proof of Santa and The Tooth Fairy and look how that turned out. I take the Bible as an interpretation of how things COULD have happened and leave everything we don't know as it is. We can't say what happened or didn't. We were there. (<-- Motto for most of things in my life) So who are we to say what did or didn't? Prove your theories, people. And science, don't get me started on science. I've got a major problem with people arguing against religion with things that they only know because some people, once upon a long time ago, agreed to them. Which is what religion are.
Hello pot, hello kettle. Have you two met?
This is why I'm agnostic. I can't say what is or isn't true. I'm merely mortal and who are we mere mortals to say what history is? History is hisstory. He who fights to see the end, gets to write the books. I'm sure those in England see the American Revolution differently.
Not the point of this post really. I've just realized that while looking at my humidifier which really should have been emptied weeks ago.
The point is, this is one of those moments where I see why people need it. Why people need to believe in something. Why they need to feel that there's something more after life for them, that there's something, someone, watching over them. It would be a nice thought, right. Someone higher, pulling strings so you don't feel guilty. It's like when your parents are there saying that they'll know everything and that some how keeps you out of trouble.
This is a moment where I wish I had something to believe, to blindly trust fall into. Something to turn to, to have define you. But then, whenever I consider "finding faith", I'm reminded that it's like trying to believe in Santa again. It's a lie to me. And it's not fair to those who believe unconditionally.
So yeah. Sometimes, I wish I had something a little like religion on my side.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Rebels & Regrets
Rebels with a cause
May not fall short of their plan
May not turn back
Rally all the rebels
Stand tall for your beliefs
Wave you flag
Speak your name
Belt it out
But be warned,
It may not be easy
The path is perilous
With many an obstacle
You have a cause
a reason
a method to the madness
and for that you stand
You fight, knowing you may die
Knowledge that you may lose
May cause moments of hesitation
But be warned
Those mere moments
of hesitation
May hinder your fight
So press straight on
Don't look back, want to go back
It is too late to go back
True rebels have made their stand
So radical, no time to changed minds
No regrets.
No cause for regrets
Rebels with a cause
have no cause for regret
May not fall short of their plan
May not turn back
Rally all the rebels
Stand tall for your beliefs
Wave you flag
Speak your name
Belt it out
But be warned,
It may not be easy
The path is perilous
With many an obstacle
You have a cause
a reason
a method to the madness
and for that you stand
You fight, knowing you may die
Knowledge that you may lose
May cause moments of hesitation
But be warned
Those mere moments
of hesitation
May hinder your fight
So press straight on
Don't look back, want to go back
It is too late to go back
True rebels have made their stand
So radical, no time to changed minds
No regrets.
No cause for regrets
Rebels with a cause
have no cause for regret