Fallout

I find it hard to constantly be surrounded by the unambitious.

It feels like it's a void, slowly sucking the life blood of dreams. It's as though every thought or idea becomes cloudy, and uninspired; so dim are the plots we toss around. They bear no weight, seeing as few care to take the time or effort to accomplish such actions.

Hopelessness.

I'm not approaching the sensation by any means, but it is disheartening to be surrounded by it. It's as though the appending epidemic has happened; the widespread plague of spirit and dreams. Who would of known that the apocalypse wasn't all fire and lightning? It is burning, though, a slow and agonizing death for all mankind. The virus to be desensitized, and to be demoralized.

I hope there are more out there's willing to pick up arms against it. I hope people continue to build homes, not just houses.

I hope there's still heart out there.

At a Glance

I have found that in my life there is at least one lesson from everyone you meet.

And those that teach you endless amounts of things, they are people that for the most part impact your life the greatest. These people may not even be living in the same city, or era, but just by the echo of their exsistance, the duration of their lives and however it may overlap with another is enough to completely affect thousands of minds for eternity. Religion, science, music; anything.

One lesson I've learned was a silent one. The lesson itself was not verbalized, but was, however, taught. It wasn't instructed, but well delievered.

A person's eyes reveal a lot about themselves.

I have met many people, and I have gazed into many sets of eyes, and people are astounded by the ability I have to read them (often times) like books.

But this realization would not have come to me had it not been for the blue eyes I met in my seventh year of school. At the time, I hadn't a clue. Infact, I think I may have just been able to comprehend this, just now. But for years, the set of eyes that made me glance a little deeper into everyone else's, the one person who inspired me to learn a little more from everyone I met, to see the truth and beauty in everything, has moved away.

And I miss you dearly, Tesla Adrianne.

Flatline

Sinus

The morning comes more quickly. It seems like barely minutes pass, and then tomorrow swiftly slides into the present. Like the invisible, kinetic shift in time that somehow the world dedicates itself too. The sun slowly rises, and as it stretches to yawn and radiates its glow upon the face of our little planet, generations of creatures make their way through the duration of their lives.

All in a day.

3384, 22 867, 11 254. We are all counting days until our final one. An accumulation of a measurement. We are all here, living for something, and sometimes when there's nothing left else...

There's tomorrow.

In the meantime, we work and pay bills, go our own ways, live to get by. Happiness has been tagged and it's not something you can put on the credit card. Instead, we use cards and coins to purchase enough just to feel like we have died successful. We bury ourselves alive in our luxuries. We enslave ourselves to whatever it is we are told to.

It's enough blogging. Now comes a journal, and book.

Monument

You're in a building when an earthquake strikes. You're walking down the street when an obnoxious truck takes a turn too fast. A tiny air bubble dislodges and bursts a tiny vessel in the brain, and before you can blink again you're on the floor.

Death doesn't scare me. It's everywhere, always. At a closer glance, we were designed to perish by whatever immaculate creation. Looking back through picture books and history lessons, one thing that has never ceased is the end date. Maybe (if one's lucky) the date is pending. "To: Present". However, whether it be man, process, or idea, one day will be the last day.

The wind snaps a flag pole from the top of a building, which soars gracefully as a spear down, down towards a sidewalk full of pedestrians.

Death is not my concern. It's the after thought that bothers me.

The tears, the suffering of whoever is left behind. "Oh I can't believe he's gone", or "He was just so young", and my least favourite, "What a terrible way to go".

Pain is a product of the shell we're living in. Death is the inevitable fate of the shell as well. The two coincide deliberately, and cooperate (unfortunately). However, this still does not concern me, and I don't want it to concern anyone else about my end either. What I want to pass forward is much different.

I'm afraid that when I die, so will my ideas, my hope, my faith. The belief inside of me that things can be different. That change is beautiful, even if terrible. I wish these things were stored inside little glass jars and kept deep inside of my body. In bones and muscle and organs. That way, when I passed, my flesh could be ripped open, bones cracked, limps torn apart in order to reveal what I truly wish to pass on throughout generations. The truth behind why every inch of me wants to make history.

All in little glass jars.

Coins

My family was never really religious. When I grew up, my mother did tell me about God though. And the bible. And how God was a divine being that watched over us, and our actions. God would ensure the safety of all that believe.


So I prayed. I never really knew how. It was an awkward conversation in my head everytime. I prayed for change for others. To better their lives. To stop seeing a world of people living in poverty and misery, no lives bearing any happiness. I prayed for the harsh realities to all fade. I closed my eyes tight while I lay in bed, and I spoke out into the universe. However, each night I prayed, I never did aloud. I never produced the sound. I never muttered out into the open.

And so, there was never a reply.

I went years praying, and praying, and watching nothing happen without my hard work. I took care of the ones I loved, and I looked after them. Suddenly, I realize what God was. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The riddles have been solved. I don't pray anymore.

I speak.

Speaking in Tongues

Time is money. Money is a waste of time.

There is something inside of me that still cannot process the desire of mankind to be subjected to blindless consumerism and the painfully obvious accumulation of power and exploitation of the working class in capitalism.

But, I digress, I didn't decide to write to bash politics, but rather, to reveal my grievence. I feel so incredibly bound by numbers. It seems as though every mile is just another bill, and every ambition a new budget. I just simply wish that every whim was so obtainable that I could begin pursuing my desires as soon as the thoughts themselves are born within me.

Money? Money is just an inconvienience. A man's soul has no price, so it is a shame that our desires are worthless.

Mine aren't.

Glow

So let me straighten this all out.

It's 1:06 AM, when I look at my watch. I'm strolling out of Wal-Mart with a few things I need; the typical midnight shopping spree. It seems I can really get what I need in the dead hours of the night. As I pass into the cool summer air, and the orange and white glow against the pavement, I hear the usual sounds; cars racing on the Deerfoot, airplanes taking strangers to and from the port. And, strangely, the sound of sticks scratching the pavement.

It was as I drew closer to my car that I realize these sticks were none other than hockey sticks. There was a large group set up outside Deerfoot Mall playing street hockey. There was a large lamp set up to illuminate the playing area, two nets each with a goaltender, and many players in jerseys, with socks and shin pads. The game was also being watched by twenty or so spectators in sweaters and with blankets.

It was in these moments that I realized the true majesty, and magnitude of two things in my life. Hockey, and night.

The grace and thrill of the sport. Truly, it keeps the heart of sport, and challange alive. The cold, jagged gashes in ice that are leave as footprints on the snow. Evidence of life, of happiness.

And night. How though we live in a world controlled, there is still the hope of humanity by dusk. The darkness compels honesty, and the ambitions of hearts to fulfill themselves. There are no boundaries of what can be achieved.

I drove away smiling. Maybe there is a chance.

I Am Rich

Being free is harder than it sounds.


What I lack is not the ability to be unique, noticed, and defiant, but rather, the energy to ensure I continue doing so. To keep rolling with the punches and speaking out against the things I wish to change.

June is perhaps the most tedious of months. Exams linger like the scent in the presence of a wet dog. Though it was fun at first, it has rather become annoying, another waiting game. But once this is all over, only the world is next. And I have slowly begun to realize just how malleable it is. Great leaders before me have used this to shape the world as they would like, and I will do the same, however, the shape in question is not my own. What I wish to see is everyone shaping their world around them into what they wish it were. "From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs."

Mornings are much easier spent doing things enjoyed. Such as work and play. I want to fill a house with good friends. I want it to be awake 24/7. I want the rooms to be sound proofed, so each being can roam and be restless, and play instruments, and yell and shout at their own free will. I want the kitchen to be large, and full, and people to make their way in and out of the house like it were an airport. A place to reflect on where one has been, and where one is going next, and who with, and to celebrate.

I have been curious lately. What has drawn us to the flame for years? Why are things of nature so much more rich? I think we've lost our roots. We need to realign ourselves to the earth.

At least for the sake of raspberries.

Dismissed Inhibitions

At the end, there is a mirror. It seems everyone who makes it to this mirror sees themselves, living backwards. The same life, the same footsteps, all on rewind. Like the last stance, infront of this giant mirror, the last vision is an evaluation of the entirety of exsistance. At this point in time, facing what a lifetime has accumluated, it seems what it was worth is what we are surrounded by in our final frame.

Personally, I will smash the mirror and make my way through.

The end of high school was something I've long awaited. And yet, in my final days, I see again my time there. I see my triumphs, my successes, my failures. The things I have dreamt and have yet to do. The laughter, the joy. This recollection does not issue any regret, or any remorse for leaving, in fact, it renews the joy within me. Finally, the walls are coming down.

Summer has fled, or so it seems. Cold still bites at skin, leaving it red and raw. Bones crack and ache with the coming rain. The sky argues, and become frustrated, and grey. I wouldn't mind if they would open up and release a shower for days. I feel as though ideas, and passion has been sleeping far too long. This restless bear is stirring, is hollow, hungry.

January is the target. My travels will take me to South America, and deep into the heart of a revolution that churned the world. I will meet, and learn, and soak in all I can, be it the rays of the sun, or the salty ocean.

I had better get to work.

A Bitter Start

This is the first entry.


It wasn't long ago that I was writing. Really, what has been eighteen years was really a long introduction to the world. And to be quite truthful, hardly equipted me with the abilities and wisdom to survive in this lifetime. But what had been a two year gap between ink blots served as a harsh awakening to the position of the world, and my purpose. Building a niche, just to belong.


That silence has ended.