Edge of Glory

There are few clever things that people understand, and many clever things that pass over heads. I hold this into account because there are a handful of things I say that I deem "clever", where most of the time people find it just plain confusing...or they just don't get it, and then the zest dies a horrible, flaming death under a red double-decker bus. 


I have many instances like this (I suppose I'm not as clever as suspected), however, one rings clearer than the rest: I remember writing to my dad about two years ago; I had mailed him a picture of the family beagle - so rightly named "Flash", but we called her "Flashy" - and I told him to keep the picture. I told him with a little air of cleverness, that I expected the picture back sometime, and that it was a promise I'd see him again. Well, a week from now, my dad will be transferred to the state prison, and no doubt, the picture of Flashy has already been mailed back to me. I thought I was clever about it, but that just shows how naive I was, and probably still am. A person should always keep an ounce of hope, even if the density of sin's gold is too much for them to handle - but, there is always a time where you just have to give up and accept whatever situation falls your way.


I'm not one for giving up easily - actually, I grudge more than I should admit - but I honestly thought that my dad would soon be free from the crimes he committed; yet, I believe that showed how selfish I was because I wanted to cheat fate. 


In a poem I read in English class titled "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night", written by Dylan Thomas, a man is trying to convince his father to stay alive, despite him dying and on his death-bed.


[Here, I shall "cleverly" insert a stanza] :

"And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

At first I found this poem great: a poem of perseverance, a poem of empowerment and the utter undeniable humanly lust to live. I admired this poem for its reluctance of aggression towards death, or in my case, giving up. However, leave it to my tediously verbose teacher Mr. BadDragon to ruin a moment. Normally at times like that I wish to get shot in the face (the very antithesis of what I'm trying to say, ha).  


He asked us, "What is this poem saying?"


So, naturally, us being teenagers, these vessels of rebellious life that we so rightly are, all figured, "Hey, it's about staying alive, to keep the fight." 


No. Wrong. Zip. It was a nice idea, but wrong sentiment.


BadDragon gave his views of the poem - Dylan Thomas, the writer of the poem, sounded completely selfish and wholly egocentric revolving the situation of his dying father. Thomas didn't want his father to die; he wanted this old, decrepit man to stay with him until the younger one was ready - it was not a matter of the old man being afraid of death, but rather the son fearing the loss of his father. In many of these posts, I've said that acceptance comes hand-in-hand with time, and that time moves either slower or faster for others than it does for you. The one thing I like about my English class is that every time we have a discussion about something we've read or gone over, I can always apply it to life. This is probably why I greatly respect my teacher, despite a horrid dislike for him every time he talks/rants/rambles/tangents off on a political whim. 


I can say I've learned nothing about English in his class, but I can truly say that I've learned a lot about my own life though his class about English. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Today I discovered something great - my father gets released from prison 35 years from now. By that time he'll be 72 years old; I'll be two months away from my 53rd birthday. It hurts to think about it, it hurts even worse to type it out and know that it's set in stone, but by this very action I step closer to acceptance; each step causes me to reevaluate my life, how I act, how I will act, and if I'll really "grow up" or not. 53 is a big number. I can only hope I'll have graduated from college, achieved a personally (versus financially) high-status career, have kids, a nice house - the whole nine yards by the time I have reached such a ripe age. I hardly feel 17, I hardly feel that I'm on the brink of 18. So how will I feel when I'm 20, 30, 40? I can't accept it - the curse of growing old.


Will I reach that edge of glory, and courageously be able to jump off the ledge by then?


My last post was about Lady Gaga. And I know it seemed like a mindless rant, but I have learned so much about myself by listening to her music. Maybe some of you empathize with how I feel - once you find that one artist, or that one song, you just know. I'm a very emotional person, and it's quite a hassle with some things. I'm sentimental, and I lean more towards thinking with my heart, with my feelings, than with my mind and rationality. To me, my heart is my rationality, my discretion. Lady Gaga makes me feel normal in the world of abnormalities; through her words I can feel that I am not alone, that somewhere else someone is going through the same pain, or even the same happiness. I am filled with so much love that sometimes it hurts, and the worse thing for someone like me is to feel betrayed of that love. And, I suppose that is why I love Lady Gaga, and why I look up to her. With every song she has, I can relate myself to it. 


[I realize that could be interpreted wrongly, but come on, gimme a break here. No, I'm not bi (well I don't think I am, anyway...that's for another post, not now), so I don't have a "poker face" (my face doesn't work that way in general). No, I don't take my bikini top off when I'm with my summer boy (if I had either, ha). I'm not flooded by paparazzi, nor do I kill my boyfriends (yet again, if I had any).] 

^Not to sound like a beezy, but this concert was bad-ass.^

Most specifically, I loved The Fame Mons†er album. All the songs on that CD were about personal monsters that we all must live with, and with that, I connected the most. Interestingly enough, when I think about it, the song that relates the most with my family problems would have to "So Happy I Could Die". Gaga talks about her relationship with alcohol in that song.

"Happy in the club with a bottle of red wine,

Stars in our eyes cause we're having a good time,

Heyy, hey-yeah...

So happy I could die."

She said in interviews about that album (which wasn't an official full studio album, but more of a..."novella", in a nice little sense) that that song means that even though you have that one pick-me-up, you still end up falling back down to earth, to reality; it's your choice if the hangover the next day screws you over or not. What really makes this album stand out is the fact that her next album, Born This Way, is the liberation from the Fame and The Fame Mons†er. It's all about self-preservation and empowerment (much unlike that damned English poem, haha). 

"Rejoice and love yourself today, cuz baby - you were born this way."   

If I wanted to be simple and to the point, I could have just posted the lyrics to Gaga's "Born this Way". We are all the Subway Kid, and we all just need to rejoice the realities of the truth - we are all lovely, and we are all perfect, despite some personal monsters. I am perfect, for I am me, and I wouldn't want to change it any other way. I don't want to change my name, I don't want to be taller, I don't need to dye my hair or adjust my personality (however, losing a few pounds would be healthy, yay for Seventeen magazine!)


I accept who I am - both my positive points, and my negative points. 


The bad situations in life parallel the good, however the good ones are avenged sevenfold. I am great because I have lived through the bad and reached the good; hell, and there is more good to come. Tying the poem by Dylan Thomas and the songs by Gaga, I feel that we all have to live through the pains of life, grow from them, and realize that there is a time to let go. There are times in life when we all need to walk away from home and bask in the world around us - learn something new.


Lady Gaga said that anyone can achieve "the fame". But, in her opinion, "the fame" isn't in Hollywood, or Billboard's Top 100. It's inside of you. I respect her greatly for that, and, despite the probable fact that I may never meet her in person, I have met her in that enigmatic spiritual sense. Besides, we are both just people - normal, fallible human beings, just trying to survive. 


I haven't reached the edge of glory just yet. But, I'm working on it.

"There's nothing wrong with that."

You know, I could totally write about some deep and meaningful, depressing-as-hell topic, but you know what I choose to talk about this time? You know what, or rather, who, always gets my hopes up, brings back my faith in myself and the world around me? Who makes me feel normal, that I can own whatever challenge rolls my way? - who always ends up making me smile with her awesomeness, with her passion for life, and with her "F*** you all, I'm gonna have fun and wreck hell!" attitude and mentality?

Lady f***ing Gaga.

So, I'm watching America's Best Dance Crew (ABDC) right now, and it's centered around Lady Gaga's music and her music videos. This is probably because there is a Gaga special on later tonight, ranging from her beginnings to now. You all have no idea how excited I am. I cannot tell a lie (ok yeah that's a damned lie right there, my face gives me away anyway), but I freaking love Lady Gaga. I cannot even fathom the depths of my extreme "like" for her. Like...oh my gawd I'm freaking out trying to talk about it now.

*recollects self*

A lot of people don't like Lady Gaga, her music, her style, the whole nine yards. But, in all reality, the main reason we don't like something is because we find it a threat to our normality, our...comfort bubble (take Justin Bieber as a prime example. He really is of the male race - I know right? His extremely girly voice is just not..."normal".) Ha. Anyway. She makes me feel comfortable with my weirdness, and my eccentricities. I don't follow the "norm". As well, her music uplifts something within my soul. Listening to her music actually got me through some hard times - family issues, and all that depressing jazz that shouldn't be reiterated. She makes me feel liberated, and in all honesty, she just makes me want to...just dance. She makes my brown eyes water. She makes me want to travel to a hot beach, snag a summer boy named Alejandro, or go clubbing in San Francisco and find a disco heaven. She makes me fear Judas, drink a bloody mary, and brush my hair while running on the edge of glory.

Ha, ok I'm done with that :P

There aren't a lot of things I'd say I'm "dedicated" in (well that sounds bad), but Gaga is one of them. Yo, I even spent all of my bank funds on getting front row to her Monster Ball concert in San Jose last August. And I tell you all, it was frackin' bad-ass. It was like a damned Rock Opera with a giant-ass Fame Monster Fish-thing and it was extremely wtfffff but extremely AHHHH LADY GAGAAAAAA! She is, besides my mother, my primary role model. I aspire to be like Lady Gaga - no, I don't aspire to dress like a crazy-ass *genius* bitch, or wear some gnar wigs and run around in my lingerie (not that I have any, dayum), but I want to show my true colors, without feeling ashamed of myself.

And, ya know, I'm sure I'll make a difference. I wish to be innovative, I wish to be great. The fame isn't physical, it's spiritual. I already am famous, it's just my job to utilize how I feel and how I perceive myself to use it in life, and change lives just how Gaga changed mine. I mean, hell, I may be a crazy betch, but it takes a helluva lot to achieve Gaga's crazy-ass betch-ness.

AHHHHHH ok well the Gaga documentary is on now. SO IMMA GO FANGIRL SQUEE NOW.

[Reason for title: my mom's boyfriend replied "There's nothing wrong with that." when I told him that I was a Lady Gaga whore. I respect him, haha.]

God Tests.

[Blog Spot isn’t working right now, so technically, I wrote this on the 12th of May. I don’t know when the site will be back up, but oh well, let’s hope I don’t forget about this post/journal. Actually, I’m sure I won’t - it applies greatly to my life, and how I have been living during the past three to four days.]

On Tuesday, May the 10th, I read this short story by Leo Tolstoy in Mr. BadDragon’s twelfth grade English class (a class that I have mentioned before in previous posts, and a class that I both love and hate). The story is called “What Men Live By”, and it’s about a shoemaker named Simon, who lets this random naked man sitting on a shrine named Michael stay at his house because he literally had nothing. Now for background: Tolstoy was, and still is, a famous Russian author who wrote the magnum opus War and Peace, and Anna Karenina. During his latter years, he fell greatly into the Christian religion, and attempted to live a “pure” life (much to his family’s distaste...he sold most of his things and essentially, lived as a religious hermit). A lot of his later works revolved around God, and had a general religious allusion. 

After reading the story in class, the bell rang for lunch, and me being my happy-go-lucky self, walked over to the usual spot where all my friends eat lunch. Now, here's more background: two of my friends have been in this..."dispute", and basically, one hates the other, and the other wants to resolve it but is socially awkward and it's just not pretty. It's actually prettyyyy damn ugly. I have about six to nine friends in my group (some just come and go), and that day we had about eight people eating lunch together. 

So. One friend, whom we'll label as ZD ("Z" for his name and "D" for "Derp", because he's the awkward one) confronted GR ("G" for her name, and "R" for "Rawr" because, well...you'll all find out). Now, GR had posted some "unfriendly" words about ZD because he's been pissing her off to an extreme degree, and when he confronted her it came out as a threat. So what was supposed to be a resolved dispute ended up into an escalated one...and both ZD and GR started yelling at each other. It didn't turn out very well, because those where were not in the fight didn't even try to stop them from screaming at each other. Me included.

Actually, we all ended up scurrying together, and then huddling behind each other like the "soggy-breast, cow stomachs" we were (Missy Elliot, anyone?). Finally, after many awkward glances at each other and trying to drown-out the vulgarities that floated around us, my friend Mariah, whom none of us would have expected to stop anything, stood up, stood in-between them, and stopped the fight.

The reason why I'm writing this post is because I find that the last few days should be held as a reflection of who I am, and what I have either become, or regressed to. Why I'm saying this is because all throughout the vociferous fight, I thought to myself that I should stop the fight, that it was my job to stand up when nobody else would. People look up to me as a person and a friend, and I have failed them by scurrying away like a coward, by looking away when I knew I was failing in my moral convictions. Originally, I was sitting near both ZD and GR, I should have stopped it as soon as the first curse from GR escaped her lips.

I name this as my first God test. And I failed. 

[I'm a religious person, I believe it God, I believe in Heaven. I just find it hard to place all my trust in Him - I know I should, but I doubt. I don't know exactly what I'm doubting, but I hope I find out later in life because I want to walk up to the pearly gates, and hug my dad without tears of sadness, without bitterness. My dad isn't dead, but it's almost the same as if he was, maybe even worse. But that is a whole different story in itself that I'd really like to not get into.]

Ok, now take a deep sigh, and lets fast-foward to later on in the day. 

I went to Hometown Buffet with my family (omfg I dislike that place), and after we all eat, we sort of hang around in the booth to let our stomachs settle before we leave. As I sit there, I see this middle-aged man leave his table with his group of friends and a dollar falls out of his pocket. I watched it fall out. I watched him leave the area. I waited around like a damn spider waiting for its prey, and then walked up, and snatched the dollar. As soon as I picked it up I felt this immense feeling of guilt; I practically drowned in it. My steps got heavier as I walked back to my booth, but I immediately smiled and said, "Hey, I snagged a dollar that someone dropped."

"...that someone dropped."

Not, "...that man that sat near us."

But, "...that someone dropped."  

And right then and there, I felt like a horrible person. My second God test, and I failed. Failed with flying satanic red colors (insert sad-face). 

However, before we left, I placed that same dollar on our tip pile. I knew if I was to keep it, that one dollar alone would haunt me until I either gave it away to someone, or bought something for someone with it.

So where does Tolstoy's story tie-in with my God tests? Well for one, the story was about God testing Michael, a fallen angel. Michael displeased God, and didn't follow out with one of His orders, so his wings fell, and he had to live on Earth. Simon, the shoemaker, was conflicted with either walking away from Michael, now a naked man sitting in the freezing Russian cold, or helping him and letting him stay at his house. Simon chose the latter, and in the end Simon and his wife helped Michael regain his wings and fly back to Heaven. I suppose reading the story made me feel that life - or God - was testing me, and in realization, I have been failing in both morals and ethics. I stole a dollar. There's no way around it. The man who dropped it wasn't that far from where it fell, I could have caught him before he walked out.

I love how reflections follow a single reference. It's just one more thing to keep track of, but in the end, it's worth it.  

Super Powers

I couldn't sleep last night because it was really warm (and my grandmother was loudly freaking out on the phone to her brother-in-law in speedy-ass Filipino) so I started thinking about random things. Actually, the term I coined for myself was "intellectually snowballing" when in this mental state. You know those random thoughts - where one thought leads into another thought, so on and so on. Well, so I was thinking, there super warm in my bed, and I got to the idea of super powers.

My best dude friend John said that he'd really like the power to read minds. And, from what I can infer about my friends, and what they would want as super powers, I believe that their wants indirectly reflect their personalities - and, in more cases than one, their insecurities.

This, of course, is definitely just a theory. Besides, I have already talked about this with one of my other friends.

One would like the power to shape-shift. John, of course, would like to read minds. I would like to turn invisible. The reason for this is that I would really like to hide, and stick behind the scenes where I wish I could dwell. Insecurity? Indeed. I don't like people seeing me sometimes, I'd rather hide, disappear. But in reality, I'm one that's always in the front, one whom is always being followed - the leader. I'm not complaining, but here's where my contradiction kicks in. I'm a "natural leader", despite my wants to be a follower. It's quite interesting.

Personally, I'd hate to read minds. My God, why would I want to hear the thoughts of other people, especially if they were thinking bad things about me? Sure, you can be the gossip-hound (such as John, who really is a gossip-hound...yet we still love him!), but when the gossip gets aimed towards you, well...you're bound to become a very angry person. As for shape-shifting - hell, I'm happy how and who I am. Why change? That's too much work, plus being more than one person would probably bring the same amount of problems as knowing the insults of another person's mind.

"Hey, I'm a lion today! Oh dammit, there are no antelope to eat. Hey, I'm a fly today! On shiznit, I'm stuck on a web! Hey, I'm John today, oh dang it I need to gossip!" (Haha no offense, John, you're just an example).

"Hey, I can read that chick's mind...oh God, she hates my guts and thinks I tried to steal her boyfriend, when in all actuality he came onto me! Oh, she wants to slit my throat? Well...that sucks..."

Well, anyway, that's all for now. I'd prefer just chillin' by myself, alone - rather than other things. But hey, that's just me. It shows how much I was a loner I am, but not. Since I am the leader, anyway.

:D  

Epic Mofo.

I am suuuuuuch an epic mofo. Like, honestly. I'm not even being sarcastic, either. Just now I was looking up some of my earlier files from when I first got Pancho (my Macbook Pro), out of boredom. I was supposed to go watch Tangled at a friend's house, but those plans died horribly, so I needed to keep my attention occupied.

Yeah so. I found this file. And it really blew me away. I surprise myself. All. The. Time.

Here goes:


"I find myself falling more and more into the insatiable, undying disease of wanderlust. I need to explore the world. I need to find myself in my roots by leaving those whom I know, and that which I live. I need to drive endlessly with myself, and get a taste for some small dosage of the world, if only a short drive up north California. More and more inspires me for this travel - this new freedom that is adulthood. Dr. Seuss said “Adults are obsolete children.” This is true for some cases, however I find myself falling more into the “absolute” child stage. I feel that I will forever be “me” - Shalica Mariee M. Riley. Five foot, one-and-one-half inch. Dark brown hair with the amazing bang flip. Full cheeks with a shiny white grin, and happy dark brown, essentially almost black, eyes. I will retain my love for skinny jeans, brushing my hair when I probably shouldn’t, smirking at a witty (or not so witty) joke, and thinking that I’m clever. I will keep my expressions, I will stay “cute”, I won’t change. 


I know who I am, so I know that if I leave, I’ll forever know where I was from, who made me, who formed me - my malleable self - and how I was produced into the person I am now, and who I will be. I want to walk the concrete jungles of New York scope out the Empire State Building, I want to listen to legitimate country music in Nashville, Tennessee. Hum along to the jazz of Harlem, blink in awe at the voodoo of New Orleans. I want to sail the seas along Baja California, walk the grade up to Mount Fuji - learn kendo and make a garden of sand and tranquility. Grow a bonsai tree, live forever if not in the physical form, but the spiritual form. I want to attend classes and seminars in San Jose State University, buy a Volkswagen bus - old hippy status, no doubt - and drive endlessly.

Knowledge paves the way of life, but knowledge doesn’t mean you have experience. Experience is gained when one is witness to a consequence - either good or bad. Humans are slaves to emotion - emotion causes consequence. With experience you gain knowledge, and a new wisdom for the world.

Despite what some may disagree, I believe that life is fantastic. As well, I can honestly say that I am wholly afraid of dying. I can’t comprehend how terrified I am of leaving this earth, and all its beauty. Why were we made and set into such a big world just to leave it at some time? I don’t know when I will pass on. I don’t know when any of my friends will pass on (oh God, I pray it’s of old age - I don’t think I could take any of my friends passing on at this age). There is just so much to do, and there is just so much I can do, and so much I can’t. This shouldn’t even be considered a blog post, if I ever decide to upload it. This is my thoughts, my journal, my diary. I don’t care what others say - this is me in written form. I cannot enunciate, nor pronounce any better than in writing. I cannot say what I want vocally without sounding like a complete moron. I hold contempt for myself at times. I wish I was smarter. You can call me smart through writing, but I will hold it in low esteem - this is not genius. This is me.

Even a genius is just a normal person.

Thus so, I am wanderlust. My mind travels where my feet cannot. It’s a charming thing, this idea, this vicarious sense. You can call me deep, you can call my shallow, you can even call me stupid, moronic, or even vain. I’m as vain as I allow - you don’t own me, you cannot comprehend the convictions of my mind. You cannot break into my skull and steal my thoughts because they are solely mine, and that I love, I shall not part with. 

And thus the contradiction occurs. “And that I love, I shall not part with”. I am a liar, yet I speak the truth. This falls back to where I am at personally, and spiritually. I want to leave this place, my “home”. Yet, I will always stay. This is my place. It cannot be taken from me. I’m a writer, and artist, I sketch with pen and I paint with, well, paint. You can beat me and throw me in a gutter, rape all that I am with all that you are, and I will never be broken. I want to believe this - and I am sure I do - but doubt always flutters around the air.

You know, maybe I should write an autobiography, or like, a memoir. I’ve started a few times, but I never got a hold of it. I never grasped what it truly means to write about yourself, and the personal evolution that comes along with regaining lost memories, and reliving the past. I’ve written essays of personal experiences that have changed me, but...did I really understand them? Maybe I did...maybe I forgot. Doubt. A great emotion, because it makes you “doublethink” things. It makes you reevaluate how you act, and why you act the way you do.

Sure, I sound stupid when I talk (or speak, whichever floats your boat). But who doesn’t? Who doesn’t make that occasional slur of the tongue, where all consonants and vowels fail at making sense, and become such unintelligible jargon that you can’t help but throw a hand over your eyes in shame?"

Yo, so that's all I have. And it's kinda funny too since my thoughts have changed sooooo much since then. Like, the document was written months ago. Since then my thoughts on dying has changed, I don't really want to leave hella far away anymore (though exploring the world is definitely still there). It's amazing because my writing is so...intense. Epic. "Sophisticated" and stuff. I should write philosophy textbooks or something, cuz I kinda sorta own face.

Yeah well anyway, that's mah post. Yes there are typos, but I'd like to preserve the richness of it all by not fixing them.

Human Connection w/ Foghorn Leghorn

    After waking up from a congested 7-hour sleep, a sleep where I couldn't breathe due to phlegm build-up and a sore throat, I get up and opened my laptop (which I deemed rightly so "Pancho") to finish some college application sheets. After logging into the SJSU site, and calling the Housing Department/Orientation management and shiznit like that because they screwed up on my payments, I look up to the top right corner of my Safari browser in exasperation (Mac computers for the win, screw PCs) and see that I Google Searched "Foghorn Leghorn".

    That made me go "wft".

Foghorn Leghorn

Looney Toons? Why would I do this? What was this connection, where was the liaison? Where did this concern my life? Was I just curious, or on crack (or did I overdose on tea, like usual)? Well, thinking back upon my congested 7-or-so-hour sleep, I fell back into the thoughts of earlier this morning. 3am to be exact, and a blurry flood of memories returned back into the pores of my wrinkly brain.

    I was staying up late with two of my good friends, because the other two I was Skype chatting logged off for the night/morning. I was talking to one friend, Ari, and the other, which of course, was Katie. I was busy being artsy, so I didn't reluctantly stay up with Katie like normal (cuz I want to go to sleep, dammit), I went with it willingly. I had something to keep me preoccupied (because I was...artsy. And I'm not too bad, either) so I was chill with the all-nighter. Ari was on Skype call, while Katie was only on the chat.

    So, around 1-2am both Katie and Ari get quiet - you know the "quiet", where nobody talks but you know they're there. However, Ari's cat kept walking over her keyboard, and turning her computer off, so she kept unexpectedly logging out of Skype. For those random periods of time, it was just Katie and I on the chat - and that's all it was, type-chat. Not voice-chat.

     And here is where I came across this feeling:

     One can be on a voice-chat and not say anything, yet still feel that a person is there with you. You don't have that lonely feeling, where one is on just a text-chat, and nobody types anything. With text, you know that a person is there, but you can't feel them. Here is where I feel that some modes of communication, such as text and IM and things, fall obsolete to the original call. Even if you're not saying one word, or making any noise, you can still feel the human connection with the person you're with. It's a more intimate feeling, where just sitting there with a screen full of typo-ed and slangy IM terms seems a little more desensitized. I personally like the phone call. I like hearing my friend's voices, I like being able to pick up the tones in their voices, if they're sarcastic, happy, sad, bored - anything. You can even read their faces, just by listening to their voice. That, my friends, is a pretty cool thing.

     Now don't get me wrong, sometimes texting is just the better choice, and even the faster choice, but nothing beats that personal human connection with one friend to another with just a simple call.

[Yeah so Foghorn Leghorn was the catalyst to my semi-serious topic. And I still have no clue why I Googled him. But thinking about it made a good point; I hope I wrote it well enough so people could understand it.

     "Doo-dah, doo-dah, lump-teen-dozen and a doo-dah day!"]

The Importance of Being

Today my English teacher encouraged us to write and read blogs. This is kind of funny because I do "write blogs" (derp, whaddaya think this is??), but when I thought about it, they are nothing of real importance. Sometimes, there are more things to write about than the small instances in my life - a CD, for a concrete example. In past posts, I was writing for the sake of talking, and not for the sake of thinking. So, here's my feeble go at something "important", or rather, something that's serious.

We're reading 1984 in my class, and my teacher brought up the discussion of fears. Julia, one of the main characters in the novel, seemingly has no fear - she's an all-for-nothing, "Screw you Mom, I'm gonna blast my music loud and piss you and dad off!" kind of girl. She is, essentially, a rebellious teenager in a woman's body who flips Big Brother the bird, not giving a damn of the consequences. Winston, the main-main character of 1984, has many fears (getting caught by the Thought Police, getting vaporized, etc), but one of his biggest freak-outs are rats.

Rats.

It's like, really Winston? Rats? You're a pansy-ass...

Tying-in all of these facts made a great discussion, so my teacher, Mr. BadDragon, asked us:

What do you fear? 

Naturally, no one raises their hand (ironically, I was going to say some of my fears, but public speaking is one of them).

Are you afraid of snakes? Spiders?
Are you afraid of public speaking?
Are you afraid of losing a parent, or a pet?

Here, it hit me -

Are you afraid of never finding love?
Are you afraid of losing a loved one?

My heart skipped a beat, then began to anxiously flutter - the normally cold room started to get nervously warm. All throughout BadDragon's questioning, I was quietly glued to my chair, afraid to say out-loud to the class that I was afraid of death - not others' death, but mine; not exactly how I die, but what happens afterwards when you seep into nothingness, a memory. To those who are spiritual, yes I believe there's Heaven, but I don't want to stop breathing because I don't want to stop thinking. I can't imagine myself gone. The words of my teacher dawned on me - never finding love, losing a loved one, and even losing a parent...

These all made me feel that my fear of death was inferior.

I can worry all my life about when I die and what happens after it, but just thinking of love...either losing or never gaining it, makes a sad life, and makes me think that my own fear is utterly selfish. We all want love, and even if you want to deny it, we need it. It helps us carry on, it helps us grow. Like Julia, we're here to live in the moment, but like Winston, we still need to be careful and watch our next step. We all need to cherish what we have, and just go for it - why should I get freaked-out by the menial thoughts of me dying, when the thoughts of losing a best friend, never finding that special someone, and the truth that everyone dies at some point, are the harshest realities of all? I am a person who feels; I need to be reassured of the little things, as well as the big. Love brings you life, and those who don't have it are dead. But, worrying about dying, which is an obvious fact of life, is just a waste of time.

The amazing thing about it is that acceptance comes hand-in-hand with time; however, some don't even make it that far, and you can only come to terms with it, hoping that it'll all get better.

I'll say it again: Love brings you life, and those who don't have it are dead.

Stupid reflection rant is stupid.