“If you don’t stand for anything, you’ll fall for anything.”
What has happened to the mind’s in this society? In this day and age, we have more information at our fingertips than we even know what to do with, and yet we shove these moronic “facts” down the throats of others. People do not stand…
Time moves faster and faster as one accumulates years. If I close my eyes tightly shut and reach my hands out, I can grasp the time one year ago, can step back through that barrier and place myself in the same position. I can feel the Smirnoff burning holes in my throat as I throw back shot after shot, head spinning in delirium. I can feel the grass and skin beating against mine as I roll around in the loss of inhibitions, lack of shame. I can feel lips against mine, not caring whose they are and why, just that they are there to pull me back to this world. I can feel the hand grasping mine in a fumbled attempt at affection, fear radiating from the fingertips. I can feel eyes on my back, confusion in every look, every glance. I can feel the red sheets against my flesh, not flattering or comfortable, but finally mine and only mine. I can feel the frame of the person on the car, making me forget, setting me free of my hurt, my suspicion. I can feel thigh muscles tensing at the touch of my fingers, mind immediately back to that single moment, that single mistake. I can feel my eyes stinging as my mind finally cracks; it’s over.
If lives were painted out in front of our eyes, stitched out from beginning to end, they would in no way be linear; they would be a series of branches, starting at one point and moving outwards in an infinity amount of forks. For every single action in which we take part, every single breath, every single movement, there is a choice. You have to make a decision. Yes or no. Left or right. Now or later.
We hear talk of these intangible and illusive “paths” in which we are supposed to be following our entire lives. “Follow the right path for you.” “Don’t wander onto the wrong path.” Well, what the hell are these paths? How do we know which one is the right path? How do we know how to stay on the right path?
The “path” your life is traveling is simply tracing which branch you decide to follow at every fork, at every decision. Start from the beginning, your first breath, and move through every decision, big and small, important and trivial, and there will be your path. You cannot follow a path, because you make your own path. It is created as you live out your life. It moves as you move; it elongates as you continue to breathe, continue to make decisions. It is simply a shadow of your actions, a graph charting in which direction your life is moving.
With that being said, every decision, no matter if it is big or small, is life altering, is path altering. Every choice skewers that path, sends you off into another direction, whether in a positive or negative side. Your every decision determines the outcome of your life, your path. This path can never be erased, never changed. Life keeps branching outward, moving forward at alternating speeds, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, but nonetheless always forward. Once a decision is made, it is forever engraved in your path. You can move your path in that same direction, can bounce it back in the desired side, but it will never ever reverse itself, never ever will go back to that same branch.
Sometimes I find myself running down this path, racing through the trees until I can only feel the wisps of leaves on my back, visions blurring past my eyes. Someone is chasing me. I fly terrified down any which branch I can discover first, whichever looks easiest at the time. I trip across streams, tumble down slopes, swim down rivers, all to escape this elusive transgressor. I collapse on the ground finally in pure exhaustion, fingers scraping against the ground in a final attempt to move. I turn around to face the monster, and all I see is my shadow, a reflection of my own self. The only person who can make me choose a certain path is me, the fear of me.
We drive our own selves over cliffs, scared to slow down and deliberately choose our own steps. We are scared we will follow dead end paths, dangerous paths, wrong paths. But there are no wrong paths as long as you follow your heart, trust yourself to make the right step for you. No one else can make your decisions for you. Just slow down, think, and make the right decision, not the right decision for your peers or your friends or your family, the right decision for you.
vixxey said: I usually don't follow these kinds of blogs, but I read a few sentences and instantly fell in love. *_*
:) Thanks. That means a lot to me.
I worked at Quiznos for four years of my life, from age 16 to 20. My life transitioned more than ever before in those four years, moving from a girl to a woman, an adolescent to a young adult. I loved working there.
It allowed me an opportunity to do a task perfectly.
I have always liked doing that, doing things perfectly. It builds in me a feeling of satisfaction, like no one else in the world could have done that menial task better than me. I like being perfect.
When I started smoking, I would sit on the concrete out back and take a break by the dumpsters. The Japanese people from down the strip would walk by and nod politely at me, the ladies from the nail salon gossiping and chatting at what seemed like the top of their lungs. During that time, I only worked during the summers and the heat would radiate down on me, warming up my black apron and sending beads of sweat down my face. I remember the smell, a putrid, gag-worthy smell of nail polish mixed with rotting food. Fat flies rounded by their gouging on discarded food, buzzed lazily all around my face and body, skirting out of the way of my shooing hands.
I made myself the same sandwich for two years straight: chipotle mayo, yellow onions, mushrooms, turkey, mozzarella cheese, lettuce/tomato. I am a very habitual person; I can eat the same thing every single day and never get tired of it. Maybe it was the stability of the job that I enjoyed so much.
I learned people.
I worked with all sorts of people, them usually not staying for too long, drifters. They were people of all sorts, young and shiny, old and worn, broken people, damaged people. But I loved them.
As in almost every aspect of my life, at first, they did not like me. I learned the store in a matter of days, not months, a curve ruiner. I felt their eyes on me when I was not looking, whispered contemptions floating to my ears from the shadows. But I learned the codes, reflected their language until I was among them, until they loved me, until they adored me.
I miss those days. I miss the simple.
It is funny how we let these words pierce us, how we let guttural sounds puncture our souls sharper than wood or stone. A few scribbles on a page, a few punches on a keyboard, have a greater effect on our hearts than blows to the face. We live our lives afraid of the whispers, afraid of pens on parchment. What will she say? What will he write?
But what do they matter?
We weave such complicated lives for ourselves, carving out new strings for every worry upon which our minds flitter. What are they whispering about me? What are they thinking about me? Do they like me; do they hate me? We try so exponentially hard for people to like us, painting over our beautiful faces with lies, covering our beautiful bodies with jaded jewels. We feel the smallest when people look down on us, the biggest when their eyes are cast upward.
But what do they matter?
Sometimes I want to run away from this world full of pain, from a people that do not understand me, from myself. It would be so easy to run, to run so fast that my sins could never catch up with me. Because you can never hide from your sins; they will find you in the deepest trenches and the highest mountains. All you can do is run.
But what do they matter?
We live, learn, die, and forget it all. So what does any of it matter?
It matters to the people whose lives you have touched. It matters to the thirsty that you have given water, to the hungry that you have given food. It matters to the downtrodden that you have encouraged and uplifted. It matters to the inconsolable that you have embraced, to the broken you have mended. It matters to the empty you have filled, to the sick you have healed. It matters to the hands that you have held, to the tears that you have dried. It matters to the people that you have loved.
It doesn’t matter what you say. It doesn’t matter what you write. What matters is what you do, how you treat the people you love. What matters are all the things you don’t say, the things you don’t write. What matters are the looks, the smiles, the embraces. People don’t care about what you meant to say, what you meant to write. People care about what you do, how you treat them, how you love them.
Make it matter.
Sometimes I let my mind wander over the way things could be, the way things should be, the way I would like things to be. I let myself enter into a world where who I am does not matter, where I am free to love whoever I want. I would hold your hand and lead you through every hard passage, down every dark corridor. I would make you smile all day long, ensuring your radiance shine through. Not a single tear would escape your eye because there would be no reason for sadness. I would shield you through the cold and bitterness of the world, and sunshine would rule our lives.
But this could never happen, should never happen, because of who I am, because of what I am. This world and its inhabitants can be so cruel. They bare their teeth at the breeze and billow their feathers at the air. Sometimes I just want to rattle this world, to spin the earth around its axel until its people are so turned about that they no longer can see “straight.”
I can see through you; I have been bestowed with this gift, this curse, to penetrate walls of pain, walls of hurt. Your heart has been shattered and pieced back together so many times that you have plastered over what is left with concrete. If no one can reach your heart, then it will be safe. But if no one can touch your heart, then it will be forever broken, no one given the opportunity to mend it. Your mouth is just like mine, not connected to your soul, but only to your mind. You know what you should say, what you should feel, in order to keep the seams of your world from ripping, in order to keep the structure sound, if only swaying. But hollow words bring a hollow world, a hollow being. It matters what you say to me; it matters what you are feeling.
You tell me I have hurt you, that I have always put others before you. And you are right. Because I will not let myself elevate you. Because you do not want me to. Because you will not let me. I will not let our friendship be forever tainted by my insecurities.
But that does not mean that is the way it could be, the way it should be, the way I would like it to be.
There is a breaking point to every soul, a moment when truth pierces the mask we deem as sanity, when insane thoughts mix with reality until the two are one. There can be no distance between the two. Where each begins and ends cannot be distinguished, blurring and entangling within each other until the world has new meaning.
This sane world of ours is full of hypocrisies.
Where there is life, there is death.
Where there is blinding happiness and joy, there is seething rage, black and waiting.
Where there is togetherness and communalism, there is solidarity and loneliness.
Where there is much, there is little.
Where there is light, there is dark.
Where there is creation, there is destruction.
Where there is war, there is peace.
Where there is Heaven, there is Hell.
Where there is good, there is evil.
Where there is nothing, there is hope.
It is easy to be angry with God. It is easy to look around this earth and see raging destruction, people dying by the hands of other people, killing with bombs, guns, hands, minds. Innocent children die in droves from starvation, their bodies emaciated and shriveled. We give aid to people thousands of miles away, while our brothers eat from our trash right outside our windows. Our neighbors go to sleep cold and hungry every night, while we adjust our rose-tinted glasses on our faces. Children are fighting wars across the oceans, holding guns in their little hands, watching their villages being looted and their mothers and sisters raped. People around the world are too petrified of being blown away by gunfire and bombs to step out onto their own streets. Babies are born into lands ravaged by disease and rot, their people dying in poverty and filth. Our leadership is plagued by corruption, the desire for more and more wealth and power at the forefront. Even our own earth battles against us. Giant waves wipe away towns, wipe away faces and lives. Wind torrents away labor and laborers alike. Drought punishes the land itself, our crops, our sustenance.
Yes, it is easy to be angry with God.
And yet his praises are still sung in every land of the world.
Because there is always hope, hope for a better tomorrow, hope for a better today. We feel it in the smiles of our brothers, the eyes of our neighbors. Mothers instill its presence in their love for their children, in their protection, in their nurturing. It betrays the destruction in the first breaths of new life, creation against all odds. It feeds our souls as hands help up the stumbling, tend to the hungry, clothe the sick and dying. The sun’s rays burn it into our flesh as we are protected from the cold, from the darkness. It rains down in droplets of water, giving life to the dust and ashes. It is raised up to the heavens as we sing together, the voices of the world harmonized as one, together in our differences.
Yes, it is easy to see hope, God’s tool in our lives.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl.
And the little girl was a very long ways from home.
She was far away in an exotic land, filled with beautiful things: green, luscious mountains, rolling hills as far as the eye could see, a sun that filled the blue skies and drowned out the clouds, a heat that filled the body with warmth, cheering even the greyest of souls. Brown, beautiful people filled the streets, their whispering language sounding so nice to the girl’s delicate ears.
The little girl was having such a lovely time exploring the new land. She discovered new sounds and new smells, recording them and storing them in her memory. New smiles met her eyes and filled her own face with wide grins.
One day during her travels, the little girl found a pair of eyes. The eyes found her at the same time. They were stunning eyes; the girl had never seen anything like them before in her life. So beautiful were the eyes, that she could not tear her stare away from them; she did not dare blink or even breathe, for fear that the magic may slip away. But the eyes held pain, held grief, held fear. The little girl wanted nothing more than to take the sadness away.
And so she took some for herself.
Reflected in the eyes, the little girl saw herself as she was, a smiling girl with the world’s hope and happiness in her. But hidden in their depths, the girl saw the eyes in the future, smiling into her own. In that instant, the little girl recognized the eyes. They had always been staring into hers, would forever be looking at her.
Their souls intertwined in that moment, and it was done. A knot was formed, two parts had formed a whole. There would be no other way.
A tug on her sleeve made the little girl rip away from the eyes. When she turned back, they were gone. But she could still feel them. They would never leave her.
The little girl returned home.
Days passed. Weeks passed. Years passed.
But the eyes never left her vision. She could feel their penetrating gaze through time and space and mass, and she stared back at them. She felt it through her soul, the sadness, the longing, the need to reunite. She searched for the eyes.
The little girl became a woman.
One day, one ordinary day just like the hundreds before, the woman found the eyes again. They were everything that had been etched in her mind. Their gaze was just as stunningly beautiful, if not compoundingly so.
The woman embraced the eyes, held on fast to them. The souls relaxed into each other, and the woman breathed out a sigh she had been holding in for years. She was home.
Please fire me. I work in a warehouse in my boss’s basement and she refuses to get the mice exterminated. They poop on my desk and keyboard every...