A change would do you....good?

As a child, I always hated change. I hated everytime we moved, I hated everytime I had to walk into a new classroom. And I particularly hated it when my parents decided to add on to the house, and in so doing change everything that was the place i grew up, the essence of my childhood.

But not all changes are bad things. Some changes, I have come to realize, can be good. Sometimes change is necessary in order to keep us moving forward, keep our lives progressive.

But, sometimes, certain changes, certain decisions- they're so wrapped up in varying possibilities, it's hard to distinguish the good from the bad, which way to go.

When someone thinks it's time to make a change so great, their entire life would have an entirely different fulcrum, what do you do when they ask you what you think they should do?

He thinks it would make him better, I think he's being too extreme, but what do you when he's almost made up his mind already?

Back to the Future

In the day to day chaos that is our lives, it's amazing how just one change can effect our life so greatly. In this day and age, ripples aren't just for water, and domino effects don't just effect dominos. Everything seems to effect everything, no one thing can ever go unchanged. And maybe that's sometimes a good thing, sometimes a bad thing, but it seems that, more often than not, it is the undecided changes that effect us more than anything.

If you could go back in time and change some of the decisions you made, would you do it? It seems that people have been asking themselves this question for so long that it's almost become a cliche. But cliche or not, its pertinence will continue to make it an everlasting question that puzzles so many, as they face the struggles and questions before them daily. If I hadn't left, would they have robbed the house? If I hadn't made that mistake, would we still be together? Would she still be alive?

For me, it's a question, not of life or death, loss or gain, but of love and pain. Would I have been ready if he'd shown up two years in the future? If I'd just stayed with my original choice, & not had the chance to watch the sparks fly that first day, would I be sitting here swallowed up by an emotional wave that I wasn't ready to face? And yet, if I hadn't met him that day, would I have ever met him?

When the scales are filled, the weights counted, and the answer is still unsure, the only thing I know is that I no longer know how to live without him. It is now a question of whether that will prove itself useful or harmful, and the answer is yet to be seen.

Summer Wind

As I stepped out onto the porch in the late evening hours, I took a long breath and let the sweet smell of the summer air pamper my senses. It had just rained, and the air felt fresh and calm, the breeze warm, and as it tugged at my sleeves I was whisked away to another time, lost in my thoughts for a brief refreshing moment. On any other day I might sit out on the porch and enjoy the sensation of renewal the rain washed over me, but today was not any other day. Today I had things to clean, to put together, to prepare. Today was a day for watching an old house become new- in its own right of course- and seeing a transformation long-awaited, and yet somehow feared.

It's funny, even the beat of our own hearts can change so quickly, and yet sometimes it happens so subtly that the change has come and passed before even we ourselves have any cognition of its arrival. Like the warm summer breeze and it can fly us away to something new and unexpected, then leave us thinking we had never moved, never changed.

But when a change of mind becomes a change of heart, and a change of heart becomes a motive for curiosity, it seems almost a question of logic to wonder whether the change was to our benefit. If change can be a powerful force for both, how can we tell which it will be, what the outcome will be?

If change is like the wind, and wind is everchanging, then perhaps it is in our better interests to stop wondering and start accepting, stop questioning and start acknowledging. Perhaps it is only when we accept the change that we can truly begin to understand it.

Stereotypes

Carbon monoxide is of the most deadly of gases- but not because of its potency, or even its compilation. Carbon monoxide can surround you and seep into your lungs before you even know it's there, and in minutes it's scentless and colorless essence will have sucked your life from your body, and you'll have died never knowing what hit you.

As I sat at the computer, here in the main room of my family's house, I heard my sister exclaim in surprise that there was a girl on Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader that had answered all the questions correctly. Her surprise, however, came, not in that someone had gotten all the questions right, but in that a cheerleader had.

It's almost disturbing how much a part of everyday life stereotypes have become. And whether or not we beleive we succumb to this manner of thinking, the truth of the matter is, in some way or another, we all have. Stereotypes are all around us, in everything we see, hear, read. Every step we take, they swirl around us in their unseen toxicity, just waiting to choke out our prospective relationships- how could we not begin to believe them?

Of course, there's always a truth inside the lie- certain personality traits, disabilities, habits, even upbringing often influences people into certain circles or actions. And as we feel out our own self, search for the true person we will become, recognizing these is almost imperitive to finding our place in society, the niche where we as a person can be the happiest for ourselves and greatest help to others.

But when we set label to person, description to label, we stop looking for where to belong, stop searching for the better of people, and start putting up fences that block out the possibilities of individuality. Instead of seeing in the crowd the people we will get along with best, we stare out at a sea of cliques, each with an impersonal description set to the beat of a negative tune, and suddenly our list of potential friends is cut in half, and we don't even realize the harm we've just laid upon ourselves. Its amazing how something so simple and virtually undetectable can be the death of something so great and powerful as a friendship, sometimes even before it's had a chance to begin.

If we could learn how to block out stereotypes, to see each person for who they are as an idividual, and not as a label, would we have more friends, or just more respect for the people we've never really clicked with? And if stereotypes are so rampant and virtually undetectable, how can we unlearn what we've been programmed to think?

But then, maybe it's not so much a matter of erasing the old, as it is a matter of writing the new. Maybe, instead of labels,we need to learn personalities, reasons, mindsets. Maybe one day we can all see that people aren't labels, they're just people.

Vantage Altered

It seems it is simply in our human nature to avoid change at all costs, and when threatened with the change, it is often that we shut down and sink down inside ourselves, clinging desperately to the pieces of our past we want to keep. But what is it that makes us hate the change? Is it really our love of what we have, our fear of losing it, or is it a fear of something new that may not meet our expectations?

But whatever our reasons for shutting out the waves of change, the outcome is always the same, no matter how hard we try to keep it from happening, how much we try to stop ourselves from changing, the world around us will always go on changing, with or without us. The question is, when the change happens, will we be part of it?

Add to the Chaos

I feel like writing, but about what I don’t know. I wish I had my stories from the other computer on here. I really feel like writing in Erin or Memory Writers, but it’s been so long I think I’d have to read from the beginning before I could continue the stories again. Sometimes I feel like it’s a complete impossibility for me to have an original idea. I feel like everything I write is a spin-off from one thing or another. And half the time I don’t even know what it is I’m writing about, I just start writing and it develops into something or another, but whatever I decide to entitle it may or may not have a thing to do with the actual story itself, I might just like the way it sounds and slap it on there just so I have something to call it by.


Maybe that’s the real story. Maybe what I’ll end up writing a book about, when all is said and done, is myself. A bit conceded sounding, I know. But somehow, all things considered, it’s what makes the most sense. I’ve tried writing story after story, and somehow in the end I always end up writing about something going on in my life, or the fact that I’m having trouble coming up with a story.


So there’s your story right there: a confused kid who loves to write but can’t. The only problem is, I hate to end up just another autobiography.(Do I sound like a narcissist yet?) I’d always imagined writing a science-fiction or fantasy book. But then, it seems that what we’ve always wanted and we can actually have tend to end up being very different things.


Here’s some more profound thoughts to add to the mix: I don’t know.

And the Winner is . . .

It's funny how we think. Sometimes there are things we want to do, but in the back of our minds, we have a tugging desire to do something else in its stead. Whether the former is the right thing to do, and in fact the thing we should want to do, there's remains a greater want to do the latter.

However, upon forced decision, we may choose the right thing to do, and thereafter realize how stupid of ourself it was to prefer the other idea in the first place. And yet, beyond that occasion our opinion is somehow again swayed to the former. So what makes one change their mind? Why are we so determined that one thing is always better than the other?

And yet, I've never questioned if any veggie was better than carrots.

Ode to an Underscore

It seems a recurrent pattern in the human life to hold an emblazoned desire to be correct. Despite all logical evidence held against the theory or hope they consider impervious to life, one’s stubbornness to admit erroneous reasoning is virtually impenetrable. We spend our whole lives thinking and hoping that just around the next corner we will find our egos improved in our accuracy, only to be so often disappointed to find that in our imperfection, we were, in fact, dead wrong.

Abiding by this thought, it seems an odd idea to think of that, when speaking on the subject of novels, novellas, or other such forms of story, we take the precise opposite approach: it is our deepest desire to find ourselves inarguably and unequivocally, in the wrong.

It has always been among my greatest of aspirations to be a writer whose enchanting plot twists baffle the minds of the readers, wows them into awe when they come to find at the climax of the story that their long thought out conjectures were, in point of fact, a far cry from the out workings of the plot. But then, in point of thought, it seems passions always come with a second ideal.

I have found there to be two kinds of books in this world: those that end how you expect them to, and those that don’t. But the irony lies not in the fact that we are inclined to read both, but in that, despite the opposition in story climax, both actions produce an equal, yet opposite, reaction. So maybe we knew he was going to kiss her, or maybe we’d been waiting the last three episodes to hear her tell him the truth we knew she’d reveal, but the fact that it happens nonetheless brings a rush of excitement, and it is even more the story itself- the events that lead to the ending we knew was about to happen- with which we are enthralled. Yet, upon finding our assumptions to be incorrect, in those stories whose ending disproves our suppositions, we are equally impassioned by the story for its glorious ability to engage and confound.

But the question at hand (though perhaps an entitlement to that which is ever indicative of nothing more than a poorly underscored thought, if even worthy of such,) is whether one ought be favored over the other. Perhaps it is an unnecessary question to the general outcome of life, but it is a particularly pertinent one to the outcome one’s story. It is all too often I find myself trying, with what could scarcely be considered ease, to write a story which may both enchant the reader with storyline while yet amazing them with an unexpected outcome, and ultimately ended up completely scrapping the story, for lack of enough imagination to combine the two.

So which, I have come to an end to ask myself, ought I write about? Is it better to have a story whose every plot twists engage the reader to such a point of enthrallment and exhilaration that even as simple a task as setting the book down becomes devastatingly difficult, until they have read the very last sentence and are nothing but elated and surprised by the ending underscoring the genius of the writer‘s imagination; or one whose very interpretation of an account touches the reader to the point of admiration and respect for the writer and their ability to capture not only the beauty of life and its accomplishments, but also the devastation, the emotion, the passion with which we each choose our own path, the relation we each hold to the other people in our lives.

The one may leave you exhilarated and surprised, but that’s it. A momentary bliss, and now that you’ve solved the mystery there’s not much point in reading the book again. On the other hand, a story whose characters hold the enchantment may pull you in with an all out excitement of peoples ideals, failures, and successions, but in the end it is the truth that actuality cannot be affected by a story book character that will lead you to delving into another book and hoping to escape reality for a little longer before you have to deal with real life people.

But then, perhaps it is the perspective that has been the problem all along. Perhaps it is not the better of two greats we must choose, but the lesser of two evils.

Careful Juliet. . . You've Done it Backward

If you are thinking one thing at one moment, then something totally different the next, an instantaneous change of mind, which idea was right? Or were they both wrong? And when thereafter you are inclined to inquire of yourself the proper- or perhaps the realistic- viewpoint, did you ever really believe that first thought in the first place, or was it just an illusion? Something you wanted to believe just to have something you believed in?

It is said that with the right evidence a case can be solved with considerable ease, but perhaps it is not the evidence we are lacking, but rather the solution itself, which will inevitably bring us to the evidence we so often seek to find. A backward method, yes, but nonetheless conducive to the ends, as the end is in fact the means.

And when all is said and done, the question is not one of considerable cruelty, but rather plain and simple: is it the truth that keeps us from accepting the reality, or reality that keeps us from seeing the truth?

Chaos

When accidents become intentional and intentions become accidental, it becomes evident that there is more going on than what is apparent to the eye. It is the lies that aren’t told that sometimes are the ones that truly effect us, and under the spell of complacency, we underestimate hearts and find in our minds our own ideas of what people are like. What one day was the childish reaction to the body’s ideals can soon become the unending chaos of realism, but whether it is truly in reality or in the reality of possibility it is almost impossible to determine. Despite constant efforts to contain said chaos, as time continues it becomes virtually impossible to ignore such a longing. Nights are spent awake with roiling thoughts and days are spent with throbbing headaches from a mind in desperate attempts to cover up its vanity.

Where hearts are sown together with patches, and minds strung together with lies, what is it that makes us tick? If we were to pluck the strings of our own hearts, would they sing the notes we want to hear? If the inner voice of contentment spoke not what the confusion of the mind stands to reason, where would our loyalties lie? And if, in the spur of the moment, truth of reciprocation ensued, would we make the leap? But if not, would we be crushed, or come to a new realization? Is it in time that we would seek the truth, or in the assets of our own mind?

The question has boiled to a point of no return. Or, maybe it’s past that. The better question is, will I ever get past it?

It all ends up just like a tootsie pop: the world may never know.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

It's amazing what you can find when you really see inside yourself. And maybe that's such a cliche it's almost redundant, or maybe it's a concept so over dramatic and abstract that you can scarcely find a way to wrap your head around it. But regardless of your feeling on the matter, somehow it always seems to prove true. The things we say and do seem to reflect what we're thinking and feeling, and often they so closely resemble such that even we ourselves are fooled into believing that said reflection holds true.

But sometimes it takes something more than our own eyes staring back at us to really see our own reflection. Suddenly we realize that what we'd thought we'd needed and what we'd so often said we'd wanted was in fact in total conflict with what our true self desired. It was as if we had been wearing someone else's glasses and our vision had been impaired by the wrong prescription in the lenses, and yet the comedy of such a comparison lies in that it wasn't another's spectacles that kept us from seeing the truth, but our own eyes.

Perhaps the beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but the understanding is in the eye of the beheld. You see, we may know what we are thinking, but who are we to know what we are really feeling?

Time

So tell me again who decided to put a "b" on the end of comb and thumb, because as far as I can see they really have absolutely no point in being there. We should either erase them or pronounce them, but for some reason people are reluctant to change their ways and continue to say "thum" and write thumb. (In other words, people apparently prefer to make things take longer than need be.) Ridiculous.

And how on earth do we come upon pronouncing an e and an i together as "a"? Why in heaven's name do we not simply save ourselves time and just write an a? Alright, now wait a minute I'm seeing now how that could be a problem, but still: what's the point in writing "weigh" instead of "way"? Hold on, I guess that's another word entirely now isn't it? Ah, but the word neighbor could certainly be written differently: why not just write nay instead of neigh and save ourselves time? It seems far more logical doesn't it?

Ah, and now I'm beginning to see how we could adjust the word weigh: why not just add an "e" on to the end of way, since the general rule is supposed to be (note: supposed to be, that subject could be another spiel entirely) that adding an "e" on the end of a word serves to allow the vowel to be pronounced in the form of the letter itself. It still may not make perfect sense, but at least it would save a little time, and for that matter, be far less confusing. After all, what little kid, when learning to read, is going to think, "Oh, I get it: I should completely ignore that "gh" on the end of that word, and instead of saying 'weeig-h' in accordance with the way my teacher has taught me to read, (okay, so no little kid would say 'in accordance' anyway, but that is entirely beside the point) I should just say 'way,' for absolutely no reason at all omitting(what kid uses that word either, besides my little brother and me as a child but we're both kind of special cases) (like you truly cared to know that) continuing:for absolutely no reason at all ignoring the gh and turning the e and the i together into an "a" sound. It makes perfect sense(for those of you not from upstate New York, that's called sarcasm) so I think I'll do it."

And if you read this whole thing out loud, you have no doubt come to realize how entirely irksome( and pointlessly time-consuming) it is to spell these words out loud. Believe me, I have a seven-year-old brother and sister, who upon a rather frequent basis inquire as to the spelling of a word and are entirely annoyed at my spelling, as they feel that it is not the way the word ought to be spelled(considering its pronunication) and thus I am entirely annoyed at having to repeat the perturbingly lengthy spelling of the word.

But then again, what is someone like me- who has enough time on my hands to write out these long pointless spiels- doing worrying about how much extra time it takes to write things out. And what is someone like you- who has enought time to read these long pointless spiels- doing reading and worrying about how much extra time it takes to write things in the english language. Go read a book.

Spiel

Hmm. . . I don't really feel like spieling right now. I thought I did, but whatever. The funny thing about spiels is that very often we make them and don't even know it. You know, like when you set out to say something simple and then realize that the subject you chose to speak of is not really at all simple. Consequently you start rambling on an on, and before you know it your audience is bored out of their minds of your loquacity, meanwhile you don't even realize how irksomely verbose you're being, and so you continue to drag out your spiel until you've drained out every last drop of information you can think of at that moment on that subject.

And wouldn't you know it, I spieled anyway. Darn, I was so determined not to do that.