Expectation and Expectancy

It's something I've realized many times before, but now it seems to be cropping up more and more. It's something I'm sure many other people have to deal with, but it's starting to get to me.
It's called expectation.
See, people have expected so much of me because of how generally conservative I am. But I've been drinking a little alcohol, smoking cigarettes, and whatever else, and people seem to think it's below me. I waited until I was 21 to start drinking (if not a couple weeks before), and I've been smoking since 19. So I've kept it pretty legal, but people seem to think it's morally beyond me. Understand that it's not. Why am I not "allowed" these pleasures when others get away scott free.
I guess the best comparison is to say that I have always been a straight A student, and my friend gets mostly C's. So when I get a C, I catch flack, but when he/she gets a C, it's still perfectly fine. Why can't we both be held to the same standards, regardless of past history?
Well, anyway...
I'm gonna do what I wanna do. If I have a friend in you, I'm sure you'll be okay with that. Unless I kill someone. You don't have to be okay with that.
Speaking of which... why in the HELL does everyone think I'm going to become (if I'm not already) a serial killer??? Bothers me a little. I have honestly been told on multiple occasions by both friends and coworkers that they wouldn't put it past me to be or become a serial killer. I suppose just remind me to delete this blog if I do start killing people.=|

Hitler, Darth Vader, and Me

Hitler was a great man. Of course that depends on how you want to define great in that sentence. He was no great man when it came to morality or spreading peace, but he was, in fact, a great man. He quickly rose to power in Germany, brought every major powerhouse on the planet to war and some of those nations to their knees, slaughtered millions of people, and the only person who managed to kill him was himself. There is no doubt then that Hitler was a man of greatness.

But what if Hitler used his greatness for good?

When I was a kid, I watched a lot of Star Wars. A LOT of Star Wars. I remember watching The Empire Strikes Back on TV with my dad when I was like five. Between that time and 1999, when The Phantom Menace played in theatres, whenever my parents would take me to the local movie rental store, I would always ask to rent the Star Wars trilogy. I can tell you, even, without looking it up, the exact date for the release of Revenge of the Sith. May 19, 2005. That's how obsessed I was. And still kind of am. I own over 100 Star Wars novels. I still have toy lightsabers (beat to hell) from when I was a kid. I have hundreds of dollars worth of Star Wars Legos and action figures.

Star Wars has obviously had a huge impact on my life, as you might imagine. So much so that it played a role in my interest in writing. I've been writing for a long time, but when I was in sixth grade, I was writing a piece of fan fiction about Qui-Gon Jinn and his apprentice that turned to the dark side before Obi-Wan Kenobi was a padawan. If there's anything Star Wars has given me, it is an appreciation of story.

I wish I didn't delete all of my MySpace blogs from a few years ago. There's one I would like to share, but it's gone. I remember the idea though, because the idea is what this blog is all about and what I've been leading up to.

(STAR WARS SPOILER ALERT... wait... you haven't seen Star Wars? What the f...)

I always used to liken myself to Anakin Skywalker (later Darth Vader). Anakin was a kid believed to be mentioned in a prophecy that told of a boy who would bring balance to the Light and Dark sides of the Force. He was a great boy, and he became a great and powerful man. But instead of defeating evil, he became the evil he was thought to destroy. For some reason, perhaps from some root of narcissism, I always thought of myself as a great boy who would grow up and do great things. One fear I had, though, and that I blogged about on MySpace years ago, was that I was just like Anakin. I was great. But I would have to choose just what kind of great I wanted to be. And I always wanted to be the good kind. The kind that saves people and flies a banner of peace. But I was always afraid that I would "succumb to the dark side."

The fantastic and terrible thing is... I have become neither of those things. I am not even the great man I thought I would be. I can look back and say I was a flawed, but great boy. But I am no great man. I have done nothing, nothing, to further peace or make something useful of myself. I sit here and write, and even then, most of the time, it's half-assed, and I don't write as often as I've set my standards for. I have not become a source of evil or good, rather, I've become a source of inaction and indecision. Life is way more complex than 14 year-old Montanna ever thought it would be. I see 14 year-old Montanna as a little brother. And I'm sorry I let you down, buddy.

What It's Like to Be Held at Gunpoint

I don't know if it's what you might think it would be like. I know it wasn't what I thought it'd be like.

As a citizen of a first world country, you know gas stations get robbed. As a gas station attendant, you know you could be robbed. As a gas station attendant working 3rd shift (10pm-6am), you know there's a ridiculously high chance that you will be robbed. What you don't expect is to actually be robbed.

I think every gas station attendant fantasizes about what they would do if they were robbed. I did, and I can tell you it's not what I imagined.

I'm not going to account the entire robbery in full detail, but I do want to tell you what it's like.

I'm stocking shelves with new product and I hear the door chime. I hear someone say, "Hey." Hell, to be honest, I don't know how he introduced the gun to my eyes, but it might as well have been "hey." I stand from my haunches and turn to greet my customer, who is wielding a small nine-millimeter pointed at me. No big deal. Wait, what? Brain turns off. Sort of. I probably got a shot of adrenaline and a racing heart, but I don't remember either of these things. I remember being shocked, but I don't remember feeling shocked. He said something to the effect of, "I'm not playin' around. Open the register." So I walk to the register an put my hands up. Still nothing. I explain that I will cooperate and open the register, and after the guy tries to find out where more money is and doesn't find any, he leaves. I don't remember being afraid. I don't remember thoughts or any sort of inner dialogue. I was a robot. Until he walked out of the door, and maybe even a little after, I was an emotionless robot. No fear, anxiety, stress, nothing. I hit the alarm, lock the door, and call 911. That's pretty much it. I'm safe and sound. The perp probably had enough to get his fix. I don't know what the hell you need $60 for so bad you have to point a gun at someone, but hey. I haven't walked in his shoes.

I can tell you I was scared more shitless when I got caught attempting to sneak into my girlfriend's window when I was 17. I'm 20 years old now and had a guy point a gun in my face. The incident when I was 17 was profoundly worse, at least as far as I recall.

Another thing is attention to detail goes out of the window. When asked what the suspect looked like, I said black, light skinned male; early 20s; 6', 150 lbs; black, flat billed hat; black T-Shirt and black shorts. Really, I was right about most of it, I think, but he was wearing a long sleeve shirt and pants. Why didn't those stick out in my memory? After playing back the tape, the cops asked if I thought the guy who came in before him was working with him. I still can't remember who came in before him.

Also, I keep thinking that I wish it wasn't a black male. I'm not racist, but I wish it had a been a white guy so people won't say, "Of course it was a black guy." I don't want this one man to make the rest of his race to look bad. I don't think all blacks rob stores. I know every race commits acts of violence, but I know the stereotype hangs heavily on black people, and I want that to stop. Anyway, those are just thoughts in my head.

Peace.

"The Road Doesn't Matter"

"The Road Doesn't Matter"

Two roads diverged in my mind's view,
And three and four and a myriad more,
And by myself, I tried not to move,
And by and by, I was pushed before
One path or another, I went through.

I know what Frost was saying in his,
But my poem has a different end,
Because life is more complex than this,
And the metaphors that we try to send
Unto this world of endless choices.

For I don't know which path leads to where,
And it doesn't matter where I stand,
I know not what lies here or there,
But life, inanimate, does demand
That I decide amongst what is fair.

When I lie down at night in my bed,
And choices and actions are laid to rest,
It's then I realize what needs to be said,
That others choose my paths and best
I know that either way I am dead.

by MFW III

I Want to Do ALL the Things

I took this a few months ago while on break at work. Turned out surprisingly well being that it is from my phone's front face 1 megapixel lens.

So I've been working on this project (don't hold your breath), and it's kind of put me in a strange state of mind. It has to do with reincarnation, sort of, only you can remember your past life. Really it's just a fantasy with the idea that you will be able to do everything you want to do. Because this life is so very short.

I was thinking to myself that there are so many things I want to do and lives I want to live, and I just won't be able to do all of them. Perhaps this is why I'm so indecisive. I want to go through the Marine Corps training, and serve in the Army as a linguist, and be a part of a shooter/spotter team. I want to be a policeman and a fireman. I was to become a transplant surgeon, neurologist, virologist, oncologist. I want to write for a newspaper, work for a publishing company, write novels, teach English to kids, teens, adults, and ESL students. I want to study chemistry, biology, physics. I want to live in England, Korea, France, Germany, Russia. I want to walk, rune, bike, and drive every acre of land and road on this Earth. I want to sail every ocean and traverse every pond, lake, and river. Alas... I have but one life to live.

I don't believe I will die and then wake up to a new body with new memories and a new set of choices to make. I believe that this is my one shot, and I've got to make the best choices now. I have to decide what will make me the happiest, because in the end that's all that truly matters.

"Francois Rabelais. He was a poet. And his last words were 'I go to seek a Great Perhaps.' That's why I'm going. So I don't have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps." ~ John Green, Looking for Alaska.

I'm still searching. Maybe one day I'll find what I'm looking for. Or maybe I'll die, and hopefully do so knowing that I've enjoyed my life as a pursuit of who I am in this world where perspective is the only thing of importance.

Life Is My Master, and I the Slave

This is a golf cart tunnel @ 1AM that goes under the Bluffton Parkway. I never go through it, out of lack of necessity, but I always pass it on my bicycle when I take the Parkway. Thought I'd stop and snap a quick pic.

~~~

Alright. So I was riding my bicycle trying to think of something profound to talk about. Normally I might have a destination and so I would be forced to think about where I was going, but as I rode tonight (or this morning, however you wanna look at it), I had no place to go. I was riding just to ride. You would think that riding for more than 10 miles on a bicycle would render your mind full of topics on which to think, but that's not true in my case. I could hardly think of anything at all. I had things like: 

I'm gonna try riding with no hands for a while. Oh, hey, this is easy. I'm going to Google Map how far I rode with no hands. The moon is pretty bright tonight. It's supposed to be a "supermoon." Doesn't look any bigger than normal. Well, I suppose it looks a little bigger. This headlight is supposed to last 75 minutes, but I swear to god I've used it for 3 or more hours on the same batteries. I wonder when my tail light will go out. I probably won't even notice when it does. These trails are pretty dark. My face has wreaked... is it wreaked? Should I say wrecked? No. Wrought? Maybe. My face has wrought havoc on so many spiderwebs tonight. Dem spidas mus' be hatin'. This trail is fairly dark. I wonder if there are any people on it. They should probably have lights on them if they're out this late, otherwise I won't be able to see them...

I probably should have stopped sooner; you get the point. I was, however, able to think briefly about one topic I thought appropriate to write on. That topic is life. First, I'd like to refer you to an old Facebook note that I just posted to WOW: "Somewhat Random Musings of My Ever Twitching Fingers." In that post I talked about people saying that life is what you make it. In this current post I would like to talk about another perspective in which I see life. And again I will kill you with metaphors.

1) Life sucks. Life is great. But what's the point in all the good and all the bad?

2) First, remove yourself from your human perspective. Humans have terrible lives, but sometimes they enjoy it. What do they live for? I'm not asking for their motive, rather I am asking for the reason they exist. You could say that they have a purpose and place as organisms living on and affecting the earth. 

3) But let's break it down even further. What is the point in life overall? There are plants and animals and then there are inanimate objects (for lack of a better term due to what appears to be a lacuna). Why  does life itself exist, rather than inanimate objects?

4) And lastly, why does anything exist at all?

There are no answers to this chain of questions. But I'd like to work with them to form a new perspective.

Life sucks. Life is great. But what is the point in living? Well, who cares. It's not like you can go back into the womb. Of course, you could kill yourself, but I don't like that train of thought. Honestly though, thinking rationally, if you decide for yourself that this life isn't worth everything that comes with it and suicide is your choice, logic will not blame you. I am not, however, condoning suicide; just covering all bases.

The way I've come to see the way we treat life is in a master/slave relationship. The master wants you to clean the bathroom twice a day, milk the cows at every dawn, till the field after every picking, collect chicken eggs at the end of each week, cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, and on and on and so many requests. But the master also provides you with food and shelter and breaks here and there to ease the workload. Sometimes he'll give you a sip of that expensive champagne. You think to yourself though, he only does this for me so that I will keep working for him. 

With that in mind, you may think life is a master that has arbitrary rules and makes irrational requests, but sometimes it shows grace and provides gifts wrapped in happiness. And this grace and happiness is  life's way of keeping you alive. But that doesn't mean you should reject happiness to spite life. Because life isn't really a thing. It doesn't do anything. Ultimately, it isn't a master and you are not a slave.

I still don't believe that life is what you make it. But to me, life doesn't matter. Because to me, life has no point. There's no reason all of life exists and therefore no ultimate reason that I exist. But I do live, so I'm not going to spend my life living being miserable or missing out on opportunities for happiness. Existence is not my master, but I am its willing slave.

~~~

One last thing. Everything I wrote above is assuming there is no God and/or afterlife. Obviously if there was you could say that life exists because God created it and our reason for living is for the everlasting happiness after we die. So I suppose this post is for the atheists and agnostics. Peace.

Somewhat Random Musings of My Ever Twitching Fingers

(Preface: This is a re-post of a note that I wrote on Facebook back on October 20, 2011. I'm surprised I hadn't posted it earlier, seeing as its title is Word Once Withered's tagline.)

Usually, when I write a note, it contains words of my short stories or poetry. In this case I am writing for the hell of it. Because I just feel like speaking to no one in particular. But to you. I feel like writing to you.

Making the world your own is ridiculous. "The world is what you make it." F*** you. How about I rip your heart out and you go on making your world happy. Have fun with that.

Sometimes you can make the world, but the conditions have to be perfect. You have to have all of the ingredients. You can't build on top of a wreckage. You have to clear the build site first. Metaphors aside, when you are broken and feel the pain of such, you cannot simply move on or be happy for whatever arbitrary reason you try to rationalize.

You are going to feel the pain and it is going to hold you under the surface. You will resist. You will say that everything is going to be okay, even though you can't bring your head above the water. Soon the hand that holds you under will weaken and retreat. You're not dead. Sometimes people will die... But you're not dead. You've become numb. So numb that you don't even realize the force is gone. That you can pull yourself up. You remained submerged. Rarely, another hand will come along and help you out.

Here, though, when you're head remains submerged and nothing is keeping you there: that is when the conditions are perfect. You are numb. You are empty. The only thing holding you back now is you. You and, perhaps, "a sick desire for self-abuse." But here is where you can make the world.

The world is what you make it? No. The world is what you and 6,000,000,000 some odd other people make it. It's not just your world. It's a world you occupy with those around you. So if you do want to conquer the world, maybe you should conspire with those around you, friends, enemies, and those in between.

This world is full of sick, broken people, and you are one of them. Fix yourself. I don't know how you're going to do that, but you need to. For you, for me, and those in between. "Be the change you want to see in the world." It's a lot like voting in a presidential election. For the US, you are simply one in 300,000,000 people. Who are you? You are one lonely number. For changing the world, you are one in 6,000,000,000 people. Who are you? No one. You pracitcally don't exist.

So why change the world and why try to make it yours? Just be you. No rationalizations. No hesitation. Just act. Just be. If you're sad, I'm here to help you through it. If you're happy, I'm here to enjoy it with you. If you're somewhere in between, I'll be here to figure out where you stand.

The world can be what we make it. For ourselves. In our tiny little bubble. Everything else can be forgotten. Do all you need to do all you need to do. But do it for you. Because everyone else is doing for themselves. Nothing's wrong with that. Nothing's wrong with you.

One last thing. I love you. That's all. No need for explanation. Just acceptance.  Whoever you are, my dear reader, I love you.

Rabbit Holes

The Catcher in the Rye Book Review

Alex Foltz

                The Catcher in the Rye is a controversial American Classic by J.D. Salinger. Taking place in the New York City of the late 1940’s, it follows the story of Holden Caulfield; a teenage boy who feels alone and out of place in his world. Let me make it clear first of all that this book was not at all what I’d expected, and it isn't for everybody. There were things I liked, but there was no shortage of things I didn't enjoy in this novel.

            Let me start with the main character. These are where many of my issues with the book lie. Holden is a 17 year old boy who, typically, doesn't do very well in school. Not that he isn’t smart; he just hates it. In fact, Holden seems to hate almost everything and everybody. Overall, he’s a very pessimistic person, which allows for an interesting perspective for a novel. The problem with this is that it’s hard to like a pessimist protagonist. There are times when Holden seems to actually care about things, but they’re very rare. This is both good and bad for the book. When you finally do get to see Holden care about something, it feels rewarding, but it’s almost always followed by something negative, and it reminds you of what you don’t like about him.

            Holden also seems quite immature. Maybe this is due to a lack of social skills because he moves from one school to another so frequently. In the book he often “horses around” which is another way of saying he acts like a child. This offers a bit of comic relief at times, but more often than not it’s awkward and uncomfortable to read.

            My biggest issue lies in the plot. The problem is that there isn’t much of one. Most of the book is just Holden bar hopping around the city and complaining that everybody is a phony. It feels like it was dragged out for far too long, and because if that the book suffers. There isn’t a solid storyline here, and all of the events are brief, and in-cohesive. This is true to real life, yes, but it doesn’t translate well into a novel. What you end up with is a long, random string of events that don’t really lead anywhere.

            Now let me tell you what I did like about the book. Salinger does a fantastic job showing the inner workings of a boy who wants desperately to connect with people, but just can’t seem to do it. Although he isn't always a very likable person, he’s believable. And while you’re reading, you find yourself feeling his pain in some situations.

            A large percentage of what you read is completely in Holden’s head, and I like that. Negative sides of a character are good to have when they’re well written, and Salinger does a great job. But Holden is almost all negative, and that’s what makes him hard to sympathize with in places. But the believability is what I liked, and given a better plot line, this book could have been wonderful.

            I also liked some of the supporting characters. Specifically Holden’s little sister Phoebe. She’s clever and loving and very much the opposite of Holden. She helps freshen up the story, and she’s a welcome change to the mood of the novel. Phoebe and her effect on Holden is what saved this book for me. She helps show that Holden isn't all as angry or as sad as he first appears. Her influence on the story is what helped me put down this book somewhat satisfied.

            Overall, I feel like the book could have been shorter. Salinger does an impressive job at giving us a glimpse into the mind of a troubled boy, but falls short from a large, drawn out section of random events that feel neither interesting, nor rewarding to read. I feel like it would have been better if a large portion of events had been removed entirely. There were enough good things in this book to keep it from being horrible, but there was too much that I didn't like to make it seem as though it was worth reading. In the end I don’t feel like I've gained anything by reading The Catcher in the Rye. Being such a well-known and well received book, I expected more from it.

6/10

~~~

Montanna Wilber

I don't remember what I was expecting when I picked up this book at Barnes and Noble. I thought to myself, "John Green loves this book," and, "this is supposed to be an American classic." I read the first page in the store and was surprised right away how this author from the 1950s wrote much like authors today. After having bought the book and reading more into it, I became annoyed by Holden's broken record of word usage. Everyone's a phony. This book was good and all, but it could get on your nerves sometimes and all, especially if your a phony and all and don't see yourself in the mirror that is Holden Caulfield.

Holden buys a red hunting cap that reminds him of the color of his dead brother's hair. He rejects society's "phonies" and school systems. The irony lies in him being a phony himself and also being very smart. 

He disgusted me at times, and that embarrassed me as I read because I kept seeing more and more of myself, realistically, in this majorly flawed protagonist.

There is one part in particular near the end where Holden receives a brilliant bit of advice from someone he admires, and then this mentor goes and ruins it. It reminds me of how a child can look up to his/her parents for so long and then one day realize that they are human too. And does this realization affect the credibility of truth when it comes from someone seen as imperfect?

I think Alex made a lot of good points that I'm not going to iterate. Here, though, are my two cents. I was probably just as annoyed and bored by this novel as Alex, and I agree that it does not have a well-woven plot. But as an artist myself, I can forgive the book for its lack of plot, because Mr. Salinger was able to paint, in my opinion, a perfect masterpiece of that which is the imperfect, confused, and immature teenage mind.

I have to give this two ratings... As far as enjoyment goes: 5/10

As far as art goes: 10/10.

"Unedited Selfishness"

A Poem

Am I trying too hard

To speak my mind

To those of you, who

Don't care to hear

About how I feel

Or what I have to say

About pointless things

In a rather fancy way?

So I want your attention,

Every ounce of it

and more.

I want you to care

And tell me that you do.

Because if you do care,

Then I matter.

If you don't,

Then my life is as pointless

As this poem

And every other work

I have ever done

And even written.

If you make me matter,

I will make you matter

To me, too.

But then again...

You don't care that much

About yourself, either.

By MFW III

"Better"

A Short Story

Can you fake this? Everyone is watching you, but no one is paying attention. Tell them everything is okay. Tell them you’re fine. Better yet, tell them how well everything is going. Tell them lies. You know as well as I do that it’s better for their sake; besides, you will be fine. The only ones who will know you’re faking are Santa Clause and God, and as far as you know, Santa Clause isn’t the only one who doesn’t exist. You can fake this.

            “Darling? Darling,” she asked, stirring him from his reverie.

            “What? Sorry… I was just thinking,” he said as he shifted in his seat.

            “About what, dear?” she asked with her usual sweet voice.

            “Everything, I guess,” he said, giving her only a second of eye contact.

            “Like what?” she asked worriedly.

            “It’s nothing,” he replied with a forced smile.

            “Okay.” Her look of worry remained. “I love you.”

            “I love you, too,” he said.

            The sun was beginning to set as their short-lived conversation ended. Light emanated from beyond the small forest outside of her house. He felt a searing pain in his gut; his face contorted into fear.

            “Love?” he said.

            “Yeah?” she replied.

            Don’t do this, you fool. You will only hurt her. She deserves better than this, better than you. Don’t burden her with your troubles. Just tell her a lie; it will work better than the truth. Don’t be a damn idiot. Ask her how her day was. Ask her if she’d like to go out for dinner tonight. Whatever you do, don’t do this. Don’t be a fool.

            “Would you like to go out tonight? Movies or something?” he asked.

            Looking sort of puzzled, she said, “That’s not what you wanted to ask. You have that look. What’s wrong?”

            “I don’t know,” he said. She didn’t reply. He waited, but she said nothing; she just stared at him, waiting. After a few seconds he repeated, “I… don’t know.”

            See, it’s not so difficult. It’s better this way. She won’t have to feel like she has failed when you’re gone. She’ll be sad at first, but someone will take care of her. She’ll be okay. Get through her, and everyone else will be a breeze. Your best friend will be okay; he’s got other friends, better friends. Your parents will be particularly upset, but they’ll get through. No one is going to blame you. Keep lying. It’s not so difficult.

            She got up from the couch on which they were both sitting and moved to her piano. She stood before the piano, pulled the bench to her, and sat. Hands raised above the keys, she began to play. It was beautiful. The notes flowed perfectly. She began to sing. She sang softly enough that he couldn’t hear the lyrics, but her voice was beautiful, perfect. He closed his eyes. Pain radiated from every part of his body. His head felt like it was swelling, and his face felt hot. Voices, images, scents, sounds, emotions, and feelings all began to flow throughout his body paining him in every imaginable way. Her voice stopped. Soon after, the music did, too. She sat quietly at the piano. He looked up to her and saw a tear roll down her cheek. Pain fired more powerfully through his being. His eyes locked shut. Tears welled within. One slipped.

            “I want to die,” he said.

By MFW III

Plans, Schemes, and

My subconscious conspiracy to overthrow life.

~~~

Pretty much nothing has come out this month due to my new apartment and my trying to settle in. I think I'm pretty settled at this point. I set two poems and two short stories to post for this month even though they're nowhere near on time. That's okay though. Things are about to get interesting, for me anyway. I'm beginning a novel finally. I plan to have the first draft completed by April 30, 2013. The working title is Project Civilization. More information to come.

~~~

This does NOT mean I will stop blogging. Just bare with me if I miss a scheduled post. I'll have a calendar up here for you soon.

"Stuck"

A Poem

I am broken like glass

And have no ability

To act or react

Accordingly.

My heart is pumping air

And my lungs are exhaling blood.

Hope is so distant

When all that is left

Is lost time.

I am broken down

And have lost control

Of all sound

Body, mind, and soul.

My eyes are screaming tears

And my ears are tasting regret.

Hope has always felt so distant

And all that is left

Is to find what has been lost.

By MFW III

"Talks With God"

A Short Story

From a Broken Father and the Daughter He Holds

* * *

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…

Ecclesiastes 3:4

“God,” pause, “Thank you for everything you have given me. Thank you for my beautiful little girl. She is so beautiful. Please, take care of her. Please, keep her safe when I cannot. And help me raise her in a way most pleasing to you.

          “And Father… I come now for guidance. I need your help. I need you to keep me strong… for my little girl and for you. I… I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. She’s the only thing keeping me here… keeping me with you. I love her so much,” louder now, “Oh, God… please, help me! Please, take away this pain! Take away this misery! Please. I need you,” almost whispers, “Father, please,” tears streaming, “please, help me. It hurts so much. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.

          “I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. You’ve graced me with this sweet darling and I am so ungrateful. Forgive me. Thank you so much for her… for this piece of me… this piece of Sarah. Thank you. I love you,” deep breaths, “Amen.”

          Darkness swallowed him at the foot of his bed, all of him but the necklace. Little light from the alarm clock on his dresser reflected off the silver butterfly charm. After his prayer, he remained kneeling with his hands clasped together, tears continuing to stream down his face. Slowly opening his eyes, he saw the dangling shine of the butterfly. With his deep breaths, the butterfly flew, defying gravity with silver strings holding its wings.

          As his wife’s charm swung from his neck like a steadily slowing pendulum, images flooded his mind: Blonde hair danced around a pale face in the evening sunlight during a calm breeze. Holding her hands in his and smiling at her, he disappeared into the blue of her eyes. She smiled back, and the sounds escaping his mouth sounded much like laughter. They danced together among trees, and as they danced he saw the necklace bounce against her chest. When the charm caught the light of the descending sun in his memory, he returned to reality. The necklace was almost completely still. His eyes then caught the blue LED of the alarm clock: 2:50 AM.

          A pitter-pattering of footsteps came from outside his bedroom door. Rising slowly, he wiped his tearstained cheeks with his bare forearm. He pulled on a shirt before moving to the door. He turned the knob with little noise and pushed the door, revealing a low light from the hall. He left the door open behind him and walked toward the kitchen. No one was in the hall, but his daughter’s bedroom door was cracked slightly. The bathroom door was closed, as well as the door to his office. His headache pressed him to continue into the kitchen.

A light that originated from above the stove guided his way; he moved toward the fridge. He opened the door and instinctively grabbed a bottle of soda. “Drink some water, Love. You’ll feel better,” he remembered her say once. Changing his mind, he kept the door open a moment longer. He replaced the soda and closed the door. Instead, he grabbed a small glass from a cabinet, and then filled it with water from a door on the fridge. He raised the glass to his lips and drank slowly. When he stopped, his empty mind filled with thoughts out of nowhere. He set the glass on the counter and walked slowly toward his room when his heart began to abuse the confines of his chest.

The hair on the back of his neck rose for more than just the cold. Thoughts of his wife attacked him from every vantage point. Each and every lovely memory was another stab to his gut. Every memory, except that of a dance. The first time he laid eyes on the girl who would become his wife, his wedding day, his honeymoon, the birth of his daughter, and finally, the sight of his wife’s dying form; they all attempted to take his life. But again, there was the memory of a dance. An evening outside, feeling the subtle wind, the sun on his face, his wife in his arms, and the presence of God all around him. This memory resounded again, slowing his heart and soothing the pain in his stomach.

He realized he had stopped walking in the middle of the hall. Before he went to continue on his way back to his empty bed, he heard a voice.

          “Dear God,” he heard come from his daughter’s room, which was just before his and after the bathroom. He looked through the partly open door at his kneeling, six-year-old darling. She was kneeled at the foot of her bed, hands clasped. A night-light illuminated her being and much of the room. “Thank you for this day. Thank you for my good daddy.

          “Daddy needs your help. He misses mommy a lot. Is mommy having fun in heaven? I hope she is. I can’t wait to see her again; I miss mommy, too. Daddy says you helped mommy. He says you helped her to not hurt anymore. Will you help daddy to not hurt anymore? I hope you will.

          “Amen,” she finished. She then crawled quickly onto her bed, lay down on her side, and placed her hands under her head.

          “Annie,” he whispered as he pushed open her door. He walked to her bed and laid himself down. He pulled his daughter’s small form into his arms and held her. “I love you,” he said.

          “I love you, too, Daddy.” She looked up at him as he embraced her. He saw her lids slowly close over her blue eyes. He brushed her blonde hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek.

          He held her there until she fell asleep. Even after she entered a world of beautiful, happy dreams, he held her. After some time, he whispered to God, “I love you.” And with the gift of sleep to him, God said, “I love you, too.”

By MFW III

...

Looks like daddy has to make up for lost time.

New Home

I've been gone so long. Here's why.

War and Love

What is it like to wake up to a changed world? 

When citizens of the United States woke up on the morning of December 7, 1941, what did they feel? When they heard President Roosevelt say in his Infamy Speech, "Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger." We and our children are in danger. When they heard the anti-war and isolationist leader Charles Lindbergh say, "Our country has been attacked by force of arms, and by force of arms we must retaliate." Peace is not an option. I wasn't alive then and neither were you, most likely. It is simply history. The horrifying date of infamy.

When the citizens of the United States woke up on the morning of September 11, 2001, what did they feel? I was in fourth grade, eight years old. I didn't feel anything. I was in a world where I witnessed everyone around me feeling a great emotional, sad, confused, and angry response to the terrorist attack. I was not afraid because all I had was fourth grade math and English and my best friend next door. None of that felt like it was in danger. So even the modern day of infamy had no emotional impact on me. Bush said, "We have seen their kind before. They are the heirs of all the murderous ideologies of the 20th century. By sacrificing human life to serve their radical visions - by abandoning every value except the will to power - they follow in the path of fascism, and Nazism, and totalitarianism. And they will follow that path all the way to where it ends: in history's unmarked grave of discarded lies." Gives me chills, though I hadn't heard it then.

Ever since I started gaining an understanding, or rather, the birth of the internet and social media during my teenage years, I have checked the news religiously, waiting to wake up to some form of terror. Don't be mistaken, I have done such not because I am afraid of what might happen, rather I am afraid of not knowing it has happened.

The closest I've come to any sort of grave news was actually good news when Obama announced the catching and killing of Osama bin Laden. It was late at night, I don't remember the time exactly, but I remember seeing something on the internet about bin Laden's death. I went to the living room in my mom's house and turned on the TV. Every station showed a hallway with the President's podium, lacking simply the President himself. A scroll across the bottom of the screen read that Obama was to brief America on the death of Osama bin Laden. I waited maybe fifteen minutes, staring at an empty podium. Finally Obama came to and started, "Good evening. Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of al Qaeda, and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children." I felt chills and a sort of excitement. I woke my mom up so she could watch too.
There was this big ordeal going through social media, Facebook specifically, where everyone was all gung-ho about bin Laden's death. Then, all of a sudden, there was backlash from some people about how we shouldn't be celebrating his death. So I responded, and I'm paraphrasing because I can't find the damn Facebook status from May 2011, "No death should be celebrated. The fact that someone had to die does not permit joviality. However, the fact that no more deaths will come at the hands of this terrible man is cause for celebration."

Even with these things, I have not woken up to a world that felt as if it had changed. No. For me, the world changed when I discovered love, and also when I lost it.

Sure that sounds romantic and all, but truly, my world view is what changed. I think anything that has the ability to disrupt and threaten your happiness can change your world, at least from your perspective. Do you think the Japanese were as terrified as Americans on December 7, 1941? No. Do you think Americans were as terrified as the Japanese on August 6, 1945? Probably not. Do you think you were as terrified as I when I felt a world without my love? You might not have even known. And if you did, if you were around then, you would say no to that question. And are the likes of World War II and the War on Terror comparable to my own personal and infamous love? Maybe not from your perspective. World War II and the War on Terror threatened life. Love threatens happiness. What is one without the other?

"Caution: Bridge Ices Before Road"

ATTENTION:

Important announcement.

[ERROR. ERROR.]

WARNING:

Hitchhikers may be escaped convicts.

[ERROR.]

DISCLAIMER:

May cause seizures.

[…]

Listen;

I have something to say.

Cough. Cough.

Careful;

Don’t trust anyone.

Cough.

Just know;

It can happen to you.

…

by MFW III

Rewrite

Alright. Looks like it's time for another change. There needs to be one I think. I must keep experimenting. Some things are working and others are not. For example, the only constant is posting these weekly posts that are simply the "somewhat random musings of my ever-twitching fingers." To be honest though, while not particularly planned, I haven't exactly allowed my fingers to work their magic. Two good things came of the past two months and those are "Thoughts That Think" and "Before Your Eyes." I still have the last piece of the latter to post, and I'll let you know when I do. I will let everyone know what's going on via the new blog page on Facebook.

Let me try to organize this (more for my sake than yours).

1) Facebook Page

Yesterday I was messing around with details on my Facebook profile and saw that one of my listed jobs (Words Once Withered) did not link to anywhere (duh). So I decided to create a page for it to link to. And I haven't really done all that much with it, but my plan is to use it to allow a better "follower" system. People could subscribe to this blog via Blogger, but it's going to pester them with unwanted e-mails. Some people are okay with that. People like me are not. Also, I hate pestering people on my own Facebook page, so if I have a separate page for this blog, then not only can friends that like it see updates and posts, but also people who are not my friends on my personal page. Solves a bunch of problems. So if you haven't already, go like Words Once Withered on Facebook!

2) Mondays...Where I talk about things...No more recurring themes...Unless truly necessary

If you go back and look at the Monday posts of recent, you'll notice a common theme. I don't know what to write. My life is pointless. I want to do important things. And stuff. I'm going to try to cut back on unwanted content and deliver on fun, interactive, entertaining content. Unwanted content such as...

3) Reviews...Better known as "The Posts Everyone Skips Over"

I like doing book reviews because they keep me reading and writing. I like movie reviews because they give me an excuse to go out and watch good movies in theatres, or talk about movies everyone's already seen that I love. Well, this month is the last for book reviews, and there will be no more film reviews (but I'm still going to go watch movies). I will simply create a list of notable films and books. If you want to read/watch them, by all means. Otherwise they will just be pretty lists to look at.

4) Short Stories/Poetry

I will give you ALL the poetry and short stories in good time. But I'm going to stop creating new short stories. They are a lot of work and black holes of imagination. They're so short that they are almost not worth the effort. But...this doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing creatively. The whole point in short stories for the past six years has been to practice for the big leagues. But writing short stories is like practicing baseball T-ball style. I need to go out and practice like the big kids do. Maybe I'll win big, or maybe I'll fall short, but either way is practice and exactly what I need. We'll see what comes of it. I'll keep you posted. Heh. Get it?

5) Music

Yeah. I may have told you I would have a short story called "Closure" as well as a song with the same working title. Ironically, I have not provided you with any sort of closure regarding either of those really. I did plan to write a totally different story than "Before Your Eyes" as well as a song to accompany it, but that didn't work out, clearly. Alex and I planned to do a cover of a song to replace it, but my fingers died because I haven't played guitar in a while. We still might do the cover, but he will do guitar and I will be working on the piano parts. But from now on, I'm not planning any music posts. I love playing and creating music, but I'd like to focus on other things.

6) Pictures

Yeah. For reals, bro. There will be pictures. This place is going to start feeling pretty homey.

~~~

I suppose that's it really. This isn't much of a Monday post, but I had to give you something. Hopefully your day is better than this writing. Remember!

Green Apple

So last night I was partying hardy. And by partying hardy, I mean partying hardly while I observed everyone else drinking and dancing and smoking and asking whether they got laid or not even though they were too drunk to move two feet without falling forward, or so drunk they thought it would be a good idea to stage dive into the sea of floor. And while everyone was partying hardy, I was drinking my cream soda or Coke from McDonald's. Tasted the Jolly Rancher and the Green Apple Smirnoff that reminds me that I don't drink because, hey, that green apple stuff tastes really good and this guy doesn't like the idea of getting drunk or addicted. One sip of both as I watched everyone doing their thing. I played beer pong which should have been called vodka pong, but it wasn't really fair since my partner had to drink everything while I carried around my McDonald's fountain cup.

I got home at 4 AM and somehow I was the one hungover. Now, I've never been drunk or had a hangover, but I imagined that was what a hangover felt like when I woke up this morning. And by this morning I mean... three hours ago.

Blogs are better with pictures. They're also better when you deliver on scheduled content, but hey, at least I gave you a picture. And this is unscheduled, which is better than scheduled. Suck it.

"Before Your Eyes"

A Short Story

What’s the setting? Well, everything around me feels black, but I know it’s mid-afternoon on a cloudless Tuesday. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s Tuesday, but I don’t think that matters. Currently I’m staring down the barrel of a .38 Special waiting for Death to swing his scythe. I suppose that seems like the conflict, braving death and all, but it’s not. Conflict involves a protagonist and I guess that’s me. In my story it is, anyway. And so the conflict is not facing death but rather braving the question of who I am as I am standing on the edge of the cliff before it crumbles into the abyss.

My life flashed before my eyes…

I

I used to play baseball. It was everything you might imagine it would be. T-ballers, coach pitch, little league, pony league—all waiting to win their respective games on their respective diamonds of differing size and population, waiting to get their turn to bat or to catch the next fly ball so their parents can applaud their success, and waiting to eat corndogs, hotdogs, hamburgers, and french fries while they watch their friends play the next game. Such was the atmosphere of my county’s youth baseball outings.

We mimicked Major League Baseball teams for name and jersey color. My team wore green and sported yellow A’s on out caps for Oakland Athletics, and we were playing the Baltimore Orioles. I was the catcher for our no-win little league team. We always lost, and tonight we knew we would lose. It was upsetting and some kids took losses harder than others, not to mention the perfectionist parents who would scold their children for not being good enough, or, even worse in my opinion, the parents who would tell their kids that loss teaches them values in life. You won’t hear parents telling the same things to cancer kids.

I guess these are things I thought about as I sat on my haunches in front of the umpire as the next-to-bat approached. Kids around the field chanted “here batter, batter” trying to throw the skinny boy off his game. And that was the plan, to catch him off guard. For the two previous batters I signaled our pitcher to throw curve balls, high balls, and low balls. So that is what Number Six was expecting now. I signaled three fast balls in a row to which this expert player struck out.

This was a tactic we recently discovered and employed. We would throw curveballs and the likes to the bad hitters and straight, fast balls unexpectedly to the good ones. It seemed to be working. At the current third inning the Orioles were leading five to one. We managed to slow their lead. Unfortunately, we did not have any good batters on our team. We had a mix of poor hand-eye coordination, fly balls, and slow runners that didn’t know how to lead or play pickle. I had bad hand-eye coordination myself.

We went up to bat and I wasn’t one of the three leadoffs, which was all the Orioles needed to bring in the next inning, so I didn’t get to bat, but I would sometime in the fifth inning if everything went as it had been. By that time the Orioles scored another run and we were still stuck at one. I was second to bat and watched the kid who scored our first and only run strike out within four pitches. I was next.

My heart raced as per usual as I got into step behind the plate. I scraped my feet across the ground like I saw the pros do and tapped home plate two times with my bat. I pulled the bat over my shoulder and stared the pitcher down. I noticed him looking at whatever sign the catcher was giving him. I didn’t know what to expect. Here was where my hand-eye coordination came into play. And… throw: low ball, no swing.

“Ball,” the umpire said.

I relaxed and tensed the bat over my shoulder as the catcher tossed the ball back to the pitcher, and waited for the next throw: fast ball through the middle, no swing.

“Stee-rike one.”

Relax, I thought.

Throw: fast ball, swing, miss.

“Stee-rike two.”

I sighed but kept my head and eyes level. My heart was racing and I tried to keep my breathing steady to no avail. Two fast balls in a row meant he was trying to throw me off, but I swung, so he probably thought three fast balls would be way out of the park. He was right.

Throw: fast ball, swing, hit. Way out of the park.

This was the part I forgot to tell you before. I was a terrible batter, but I was a great runner. I ran like the wind, cowboy. It was kind of pointless really, since it was an obvious homerun, but I heard everyone chanting my name. Adrenaline was pouring into every part of my body for so many reasons—the crowd, the running, the excitement of my accomplishment. It was a small win, but a win nonetheless.

My team was telling me what a great job I had done, and at the top of seventh inning we were tied six to six. In the end we did lose nine to eight, but you couldn’t tell. My team’s parents crowded around their children praising us for our comeback and how we almost beat our opposition. We lost by a hair, but that game became the most memorable comeback of the season. It was the most runs we’d ever had in our streak of losses. We may have lost, but it was a victory nonetheless.

II

Before we got married, Sadie was my high school sweetheart. She was the first and only girl I ever went all-the-way with. I’m sort of proud of that. She’d been around the block before and was worried I’d want to see other girls, but the way I figured it was you don’t fix things that aren’t broken and if there’s something better out there it doesn’t matter unless you know there is or if what you have is bad or mediocre. That was the other thing. Sadie and I had many a good time, but she would freak out when things settled down or got locked into patterns of monotony.

I was only seventeen and didn’t play baseball anymore, though I still watched it religiously. Sadie wasn’t as into the sport as I was, but she would pick a random team to root for. When I and my friends talked sports I would ask her what her team of the day was and she would say White Sox, and I’d get mad. The next day I’d ask again, and she’d say Yankees, and I’d get really pissed. To be fair, I loved the entire sport with all its teams and every player. But when it came to my Boston Red Sox, well there is no other Sox team and the Yankees can go to hell.

Every once in a while a player would come out having used drugs or steroids, and Sadie would say, “See. This is why I don’t like baseball. It’s full of grown men playing games like boys, bragging like men, and trying to manlier by doing drugs and hulking out.” I would just be upset that another good player got caught. And they were all good players, even if they weren’t all good people.

Sadie and I didn’t fight often, and when we did it really wasn’t all that bad. However, there was this one time when we really got into it. We were watching a Red Sox game at my house when she got bored and decided to strike up conversation. I didn’t mind that she did, but I didn’t respond well to her joke.

She said, “I’m thinking about getting a Yankees tattoo on my left breast.”

I responded with a joking intent, but was actually serious at the same time, so maybe she saw through that. I said, “You’re not getting a tattoo anywhere.”

She replied in anger, “I’ll get a tattoo wherever I damn well please.”

“I didn’t mean it like tha—“

“No, don’t lie to me. You meant it whether you meant to say it or not.”

“You know I don’t like tattoos. They are just as wonderful as any other piece of art, but they—“

“Detract from a person’s natural beauty, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How about I stop shaving my legs? That’s natural beauty for you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“And why not?”

“Well, for one, you’re removing something rather than adding,” I said, which was not the best wording, and I probably should have started with my second point.

“So I should go get a breast reduction?”

“Not. The. Same.”

“Why. Not?”

“Because your hair will grow back!” I said, which didn’t help.

“You’re missing the point,” she said.

“Yeah. You’re right. What are we fighting about again?”

“You! You trying to say what I can and can’t do with my body. Just because you love me doesn’t mean you own me.”

“I do love you,” I said.

“Don’t do that, dammit.”

“Look. Listen. I hate tattoos…”

“I know,” she started.

“Hold on,” I said. She sighed in return, but I ignored it. “I hate tattoos. I really, really, really don’t want you to get any, but you can do whatever you want with your body. I might not like it, but you can and I will love you all the same.”

“I don’t want a tattoo,” she said quietly.

“I know,” I said.

“I hate you,” she said.

“No, you don’t.”

“No. I don’t.”

[TO BE CONCLUDED]

Recurring Theme

No one said this was going to be easy. Now, to be honest, I'm not even trying, am I? If I was I would be promoting like crazy, putting a little money into it, writing more intriguing posts, and would have a  better, non-generic site design. Ah, but here's the thing. I don't want to spend any money on this. I only really care that my friends read (even though a lot of things I post they don't care to read or I normally wouldn't actually tell them). I might have said it a million times, but it's really just to keep me writing and on a schedule. The schedule part is kicking my ass because I'm bad at doing things in a timely manner unless someone is on top of me [insert joke about how she doesn't think anything's timely when she's on top of me (>.<)]. I should be a comedian. Or maybe not, because I'll never write anything funny without someone on top of me [insert joke about how she doesn't think being on top of me is a laughing matter]. Okay, I'm done. (That's what she said.)

Look, it's like 10PM and I'd rather be doing other things. The funny thing about it is that the only other thing I'd rather be doing is replaying Mass Effect (I'm a girl this time XD). And yet, I don't even want to play video games either. I mean I don't usually play video games, but I guess when I do I go all out. Mass Effect was really good though, story and all. That's why I'm playing it again. Also because I have nothing else to do. I would be reading another book if it wasn't for the short story I need to have written within the next two days. I don't like to write stories and read books at the same time. I have an issue with being productive.

So here's your recurring theme. It's all about not being productive and working for nothing at all, really. I'll draw you a diagram:

Do you see? I go to work just so that I can go to work. I mean, I live in the process, so that's good. But I want more out of you than that, Life! Besides. I don't feel my contribution to society is enough to think this diagram is anywhere near appropriate. Maybe I should contribute to charities so that I would feel like I am providing for society. Oh, wait, I do that. Still not enough.

Maybe I should go help people build wells in Africa. Join the military. Or maybe I could study super duper hard for SATs and ACTs and take an IQ test to prove to people my college is worth paying for and I will become a doctor or a physicist or something. My interest in math and chemistry lately is kinda awesome. Anyway. None of this is likely to happen. But I believe that it could if I wanted it to.

My contribution to society is this shitty blog. A lot of the short stories and poetry I have written are pretty great, but they don't touch enough of my fellow 300,000,000 Americans.

I need to write a book.

My life is lived and ruts. I live in them long enough before I decide to escape and fall into another.

The Fault in Our Stars Book Review

The Review

So I had originally set out to read Of Mice and Men, because it was Alex's most notable read. I want to read all of my closer friends' favorite books, but some of them are stubborn and don't have a favorite book. Well, one of them was Alex, and all he could tell me was that Of Mice and Men was a very good book. But now that I've introduced him to the lovely John Green he has fallen in love and named The Fault in Our Stars his favorite book evarrr.

After having read Green's newest novel, I still feel more resonance with Paper Towns. That is not to say I didn't like Stars. Stars is a fantastic novel with characters with which I could sympathize and fall in love with and try not to cry over around my co-workers.

Hazel Grace is dying slowly of cancer. She meets the wonderful Augustus Waters who is missing one of his legs from his own battle with cancer. You're told at the beginning of the novel that it is not if Hazel dies, but when. So going into the novel you already know things aren't going to end well. Stars portrays the tragedy that is life and that is cancer. It's all a side effect of dying, and love is a side effect of life.

The male author, John Green, creates a story from the perspective of a female protagonist who falls in love with a boy. Green somehow makes the reader, male or female, fall in love with Augustus (no homo).

Stars is fun and sad and romantic and happy. It's a portal to the world of cancer, or better yet, an insight into our own world in which we are all dying.

10/10

Quotes from The Fault in Our Stars

• "You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world...but you do have some say in who hurts you.”
• “Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.” 
• “'Some people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them,' I said.
  
  'Right, of course. But you keep the promise anyway. That's what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway.'"
• “Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin.”
• "The marks humans leave are too often scars.”
• "I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.” 
• "My thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations."

"Death and then the sea..."

Death and then the sea

I ask: what do you see?

What do you see in me?

I began as a seed

And will end as the myth

     you never read.

I will be tossed and turned

Thrown into the vast arrogance

     that never learned.

Love, death; and then the sea

I ask: My Love, why did you leave?

Why did you leave me for the sea?

by MFW III

Basics

I wanted to talk about talking about thinking about thinking about things. And the reason I want to talk about it is just so that I can say that sentence. But really I'd just like to talk about thinking about thinking about things. Still with me? Of course not. Let's continue anyway. (Speaking of "let's," or "let us," Alex and I were talking about the phrase one time and how silly it was, so instead we insert "we." "Let's go" becomes "We go.") *Ahem* We continue.

I was thinking about the short story I would like to write for this month because, no, I don't have a story yet. Does that mean I will fail? Well, no. I could always post an old story you've never read. Who would know? (Alex and a couple others might know.) So, I don't know what to write. I wanted, basically, to write a love story. A good love story where not only do the characters fall in love, but the reader falls in love as well. In the process of thinking about the short story, I started thinking about it in relation to a long story, or novel, that I want to write. As I was thinking about the novel, I thought about it's complex design and how could I fix these things? I decided to strip it down, back to square one, back to the basics.

With that thought in mind... I started to think about myself as a human being. I was having a conversation the other night about how as a human being I have a desire to survive. Survival is food, water, shelter. But I decided to strip my being a human being down to it's basics too. What am I, first and foremost? I am human, yes, but I am something even more than that. Strip my body away and what am I? Consciousness. A soul, if you will. Of course, as long as we're referring to it as consciousness, it needs the body to be conscious. So my body and I are one and the same.

But what about that word usage? "My body." "My hands." "My legs." "My feet." "My. My. My." And at this point I've written "my" so many times that it looks to be spelled wrong. Oh MY mind's wonderful ability to lose understanding with repetition. And maybe that's the way life works. I see "my" so many times and ask: "Is that spelled right? Why is it spelled that way?" Maybe life should work in a similar manner with another repetition. Doing the same thing every day, waking up, going to work; maybe I should ask: "Am I doing this right? Why am I doing this at all?" Back to word usage... Why is it that we apply owner ship to body parts? I would say, I guess, that "I" is the collective body, because I can also say "my consciousness" and "my soul." So I can't really track down the source of "I." "Me." Who owns whatever is "mine."

If I strip myself down to the very basic consciousness, though, then food and water are only fuel for my body, my vessel. I know what my body wants. But what does my soul want? Love? Happiness? Perhaps. It's either God's cruel joke, or nature's. I'm trying to figure out a way to say the joke's on them. But either way, God or nature, the joke will always be on me.

And back to thinking about life and why I do what I do. Why am I doing all of this? Who do I go to work everyday? Well, I need money and job to get money. But why do I need money? So that I can buy food and shelter. Except, I could just as easily leave to create my own shelter and hunt and garden for food. Why choose this strange social life? Will someone come with me into the wild?

Why am I writing this blog? To hone my writing skills and keep myself on a schedule (a schedule where I write the posts at 12:30 AM the night before it is set to post).

Why am I writing these short stories? Also to hone my writing skills.

But what is it I want? I want to write novels. So why not write one? Maybe I will. Maybe I will.

Strip everything down
to its
basics.