My fingers raced across the keyboard, but not nearly as quickly as my thoughts raced through the empty space in my head. Each second, motivation flowed across the empty corners of my brain, creating bursts of color in the blackness, flowers of light in every dark crevice. It felt(more) amazing. Spectacular. I felt alive. Breathing. Suddenly my conscious was behind my eyes, and I was physically there, taking everything in around me, no longer a backseat passenger to my life. As I quickly hammered out the rest of my English paper, 2:30AM, I reached the last line. The closer, the clincher to my great masterpiece.
What should I write?
My typing slowed to a halt. The colors and life started to drift out of my conscious. Time started to speed back up, and I drifted back into my thoughts. That last goddamned line. It killed me every time.
I finally typed something out:
"Jack quietly closed the door, leaning against it as the hinges slowly stopped creaking. 'What a crazy day' He thought softly, before returning into the foyer, and returning to normality."
It wasn't genius. Not even close. It didn't feel beautiful, or profound, but it was enough. Just barely enough.
Life went back to being in black and white, until the next short spurt of motivation. When would it be? Who knows. What would it be from? Beats me. Regardless, all we can do is pray our next insight comes sooner than the last. (less)
I often feel this sort of spite. The feeling that you have done more than someone could have ever asked, or more specifically, felt more than they ever could have needed, yet in the end they throw away your efforts. They didn't need them, they never needed them, or(more) you for that matter. It stings, it burns, you hate it, you toss away their words with fury and scream in your head that you never needed them anyways and they were lucky to have you and your sought after sentiments and support.
Spite hurts you more than them.
Your words don't spark the same sting in them as in you.
So what gives? Why do it? Sometimes it feels nice to feel something, and sometimes it feels spectacular to relish in a sense of entitlement. But all it does is feed your ego.
A more constructive inner voice would tell you to get over yourself, that if they threw away your opinions and actions, then they obviously weren't worth anything. "You should try harder next time" the voice says. Another voice says that you misunderstood the situation, and you were never right to care in the first place.
The first voice in your head promotes confidence and undermines humility. The second voice promotes humility and undermines confidence. Which is better? This is a question I have recently thought about. Humility can sting you. It storms through your conscious and wreaks havoc on your ego. It can ultimately make you a better person. But often, at the extent of your sanity, and your happiness. Confidence fits the cliche phrase "Ignorance is bliss" quite well. If you always think you are right, you are never wrong. It's pretty fun to think you're the best, isn't it? (less)
Everything is relative and open to interpretation. Due to that, life can be a sort of gray zone, and it's easy to get lost. What is your fault, what is someone else's? What could you have done differently, what was just fated to happen? What was a right choice(more) and what was a wrong one? "They" say that hindsight is 20-20 but sometimes I feel even my hindsight is legally blind. Sometimes I feel that I'm bad at life, because at the moment when everything falls into the gray zone, it all becomes convoluted. There's so much chaos that right and wrong don't exist anymore. There is no more analysis, no more thinking back on things, no fix. Everything just seems fucked. And at that point, when all the gray mixes together to become an even harsher shade of gray, it's hard to imagine that other colors exist. (less)
There is one place that has always been near to my heart. A cliff, that overlooks a single valley, narrow but deep. The lookout lies one mile past the crest of the ridge behind my house. I went there after almost every day of middle school. After school I(more) would drop my school supplies off, and pack my bag with an apple. I would sprint out the house, door slamming behind me, grin wide on my face, wind blowing my hair back. The ridge was hard to climb; steep with loose rocks. I slipped many times, but eventually I mastered it, and became sure footed. Upon reaching the top of the ridge I would sprint down the other side, and within minutes reach my favorite place. Every day the view would take my breath away.
I would sit down on the edge, feet dangling, gnawing on my apple, and just look. Just look out upon the vastness of the world. On the opposite side of the valley stood another cliff similar to mine. The only difference was a house to the left, barely visible through the trees. Some days I would see a girl sitting on the cliff, looking out like I did. It was far; at least 5 miles across the valley, so I was never quite sure what she looked like. I could tell her hair was blonde, but that was about it. I always wondered what was on the other side. I wondered if her house was like mine.
One Saturday when I was 15 I packed a heavy bag and hiked to the other side. The girl was sitting on a log, reading. She looked up and smiled. Her eyes were a soft brown. She said to me, "I was wondering if I'd ever meet you."
Sunlight streaming through my window slowly lifted me back to consciousness. I felt my dream slip away, and as I opened my eyes, felt it be replaced by a beautiful view in front of me. The sun barely crested over the horizon, casting amber and gold rays over a(more) beautiful pale ocean. The open window let a cool ocean breeze kiss my face. I yawned. Hugged my pillow. yawned again, and stretched my arms high in the air. Content, I rolled out of bed and put on a shirt. Walking downstairs, I was greeted by a fresh pot of coffee on the marble counter, and a crumpled brown paper bag on the brown table. Chocolate Croissants, fresh from the bakery. I grabbed one of the delicious golden brown pastries, and a steaming pot of coffee, and walked out towards the porch. I opened the door, and stepped outside.
The coffee fell from my hand as I plunged through the open air. Falling. Choking on the once delicious croissant. The house was nowhere to be found, the only thing below me was a deep blue sea. Dark. Unforgiving. I screamed with terror. The sun was no longer out, it was night. I fell, and fell. The cold ocean rushed up to meet me and-
I gasped and sat up in bed, cracking my skull into the ceiling. "GODDAMNIT" I yelled. I rolled out of bed and crashed 6 feet down onto the floor, waking my roommate up below me. No ocean breeze, no sunlight, and certainly no shimmering sea. "Today" I thought, "is going to blow." (less)
The average age of the House of Representatives in the United States is, according to Google, 57. The average age of the Senate hobbles just a bit higher at 61. To most people, this seems like a pretty useless statistic. "Yes, our nation is run by a bunch of(more) old people! What else is new?" Average Andy might say. Normal Ned would agree, and chip in a quip about how "that's how it's always been". Both would agree, "So what?"
"So What?!" Intellectual Irene would respond. "So what is that these people don't give a fuck about what the world will be like in 20 years! They'll either be dead or filthy rich enough from the bribes they're taking to live happily ever after until they're six feet under!"
See, Intellectual Irene has a great point. If I, a poor adolescent, was offered money to lie that climate change wasn't real I would tell the bribester to go to hell. If big oil offered me a big buck to vote for legalizing that big oil rig outside Alaska I would politely tell them to shove that oil rig up their
Well you get the point. The people that are taking bribes in government are selling away our future planet, the planet that our kids will inherit, and our grandkids. They're fucking it up for everyone and we should be furious. The big so what is that they don't have to live on whatever scorched Earth they pass down to us. When they die and get put in their diamond-studded casket that was paid for with oil money, their inheritance to us will be one big, lousy, disgusting planet. Instead of selling someone else's future, we should invest in it. (less)
Carl stared blankly at the chalk board laying before him, his body exhausted but his mind restless. It had been three days since he had last slept. In his line of work, this could be considered a blessing. For his personal life, it was definitely a curse. His breath(more) smelled like coffee, his eyes ached, and although his body was begging for a bed, his mind was racing. Carl fit the stereotype for being a mathematician on almost all levels. A crazy swirl of curly hair rested on his head, just above a pair of thick spectacles. His faded red sweatshirt was a bit dirty, and his jeans just a bit large, fraying at the bottom. However, despite his disheveled apperance, his thoughts were crystal clear. Carl's eyes searched the board for meaning. Suddenly, he found his error. All this time, he had been treating the coefficients of the test subjects sleep pattern, delta x and delta theta, as just numbers. He needed to use the polar derivative formula to find their true values. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose as he wildly erased and re-drew his formula. The chalkboard screeched, Carl's messy hair flailed with his enthusiasm, and suddenly; he stopped working. Carl stepped back, admiring the equation he had generated, and looking at the final number. Eight hours and thirty six minutes. Quite different from his originally estimation of four hours and twenty nine minutes. "No wonder..." Carl's train of thought trailed off. He collapsed in the chair behind him, everything suddenly making sense. "I can't believe I've done it" Carl gasped. He picked up the phone next to him, and dialed. "Hello?" The voice on the other end answered." "Yes, mom! I've finally figured out why I've been so tired all the time!" (less)
To an ant, whose life is but a brief burst of charismatic existence, us humans seem infinite. Our lifespan stretches far beyond their conception of time. I wonder if they think about what it would like to be human. How does it feel to live longer than a year?(more) What is it like to move so slowly? If ants wonder about anything at all, I imagine they question us long-living giants.
Move up a step.
Being a human is great, but we don't seem to live for very long. Not just the occasional accident, where a youth's adventure through time is cut short, but rather just in general. A life expectancy of only 80 years? That's not very long at all. Time swoops through your existence, and before you know it you're at the end, with no means of getting back to the beginning. Before you know it all the time is gone. Maybe you're satisfied, and are ready to go. But maybe you want more, maybe your desire is to be as immortal as the stars.
Sometimes I like to imagine that each star has a personality, a reason as to why it glows so bright. Science can explain the glow of course, but that takes away all the mystery, all the wonder. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to life as long as a star. To us, they seem immortal. They exist past our life time, and past our children's lifetime, and past their children's lifetime, on and on, in a seemingly infinite fashion. Isn't that what being immortal would feel like? Limitless? Timeless?
But in truth, nothing is immortal. The word in itself is an oxymoron. Things come and things go, and that's just how things are; impermanent. (less)
The bright orange flames licked at the firewood greedily, sending cascades of sparks flying into the air. The fire sparkled and twinkled in the dark night sky, warming the fingers and toes of Jack and Jill as they sat on dead trees in a small clearing.
The day's adventure(more)s had left them both feeling jaded, and an awkward silence moved in around the campfire like an unwanted guest.
"Well, luckily we both have company."
The ice was broken. Jill giggled, her eyes twinkling as if inspired by the fire that sat between them.
"I mean they say two's a crowd..." Jill responded, a slight grin still lingering on her face.
"If by two you mean me and you, we could make it three if we included that tree."
The awkward silence returned, but only for a brief moment. A mischievous smile slowly broke out on Jack's face, and Jill quickly followed suit.
"Maybe we could make it four, have a party and include that squirrel?"
"Add that deer to make it five, oh that would make the night quite live" Jack responded.
Suddenly the day's hardships seemed far away, the troubles ahead not so bad. Maybe it was the warmth and ostensible safety, or maybe it was the absurdity of the whole situation, but within seconds Jack and Jill were sitting around the fire, howling with laughter. Jack's bowl of stew dropped on the leafy forest floor. For the first time in weeks they felt carefree. Maybe they would make it out of Washington after all. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a new home.
Eventually they both settled down. Jack picked up his bowl and wiped the laughter-tears from underneath his eyes, still snickering quietly to himself. He raised his head and met Jill's gaze.
"We can do this."
Finally, the only noise ringing in Jack's ears was the static sound of silence. The yelling which had been going on for hours stopped abruptly without a trace. If one was to step in that house at that precise moment, they would not have known anything was wrong. But(more) Jack knew. He buried his face deep in his pillow and tried to forget. But he still knew. Unless you were there for the shouting and cursing,the arguing,disagreeing, and the relentless screaming you would not have known anything was astray.
But Jack was there.
Michael S. Price was once a happy man, or so they say. When he married Michelle K. Leonard, there had been cheering and smiling at the wedding. But after a long string of gambling addictions, alcoholism, cheating, and lies, their marriage cracked in half; the only remainder, their only son. Jack Price.
Eventually Jack climbed out of the safety of his room, and into the kitchen. His mother was nowhere to be found; his father sat in the La-z boy recliner in the corner, bottle in hand, drinking mournfully. His attention was focused solely on the bottle; not even an eyebrow was lifted at the entrance of his son.
Jack opened up the cupboard, looking for the Rice Krispies. The cupboard door fell shut with a clatter. Another drawer creaked shut, this time producing a ringing noise as a spoon landed soundly in a bowl. Snap. Crackle. Pop. More ringing from the spoon. Jack turned around with his snack to see his father looking at him while taking a swig from his bottle. Immediately Jack lowered his gaze, staring at the tiny white crisps in his ceramic cereal bowl. The crackling from his cereal stopped. Dead silence.
Eventually Jack could run no further. His legs took a mind of their own, and stopped in the middle of the forest.
The cool fall air brushed up against his face, soothing the searing hot pain within and drying the tears.
Leaves the color of autumn fell t(more)o the ground in front of him, painting the clearing bright shades of orange and dark shades of brown. If his world collapsed in the forest and no one was around to hear, would anyone hear him? Would they hear his pleas as he screamed them out until his vocal chords felt like ripping out of his throat for a fresh breath of air? Jack's mind was racing faster than Craig Breedlove when he set the landspeed record back in '65.
Jack felt like he had been running for hours, even though in reality his short sprint away from the cabin hadn't been more than 15 minutes.
15 minutes since he had last seen Jill.
Oh Jill. They had come so far. It had been 9 months since they had left the hell hole the rest of the world called Forks, Washington. 9 months they had spent on their own, nearly uninterrupted by society.
Jack's mind flashed back to the screams of Jill, as she told him to run. And, like a coward, he ran. Into the forest. Away from the Cabin they had briefly called home. The tears came down faster.
Jack whispered out into the air "I'm sorry."
And, in his mind, he heard the faint, echoed response. "You promised." He pulled his chin up, and turned his body around. Taking a deep breath, he broke into a quick pace towards the cabin.
Back to save Jill from the man in the cabin. There would be no broken promises today. (less)
It was a normal sunday night. Mom was in the kitchen making pot roast, while dad was chopping up veggies for a salad. They always worked together for dinner on sundays, so we could start dinner sooner and finish in time to watch Sunday Night Football. Upstairs in my(more) room, I was doing my algebra homework, when my dad called from downstairs. “HANK! DINNER!” I pushed my chair back and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Pot roast was my favorite. My family and I sat down happily, and my mom started serving food. The four of us put our hands out and closed our eyes for grace.
“Dear lord. Thank you for all this delicious food, and these amazing people. Thank you for getting us through this past year.”
“Amen.” we all said.
And at this, the table dipped sideways and the house shook with a ferocity that would have frightened even the people in Pompei. The side of the wall ripped off, showing the open street, and my mother screamed. I looked over towards the street in time to see a boulder fly into a car and a spout of flames erupt in the distance. The civil defense siren rang off in the distance.
I sat there, not able to move.My dad reacts first. QUICK! INTO THE BASEMENT! He grabs my mom and my sister and sprints for it. I watch them run down the length of our house into the other room. And then I watch a boulder slam into the side of our house and into my family. I fall on my knees and tears spring to my eyes. We didn’t even get to eat our last meal. (less)
The shuttle landed 72 hours ago. The reason I say hours rather than days, is that it’s been dusk here the whole entire time. Day’s are more like the length of months here. Approximately 2 light years away from what I call home. It’s the year 2246, and eventually(more) the contamination of the environment caught up to us. It was no longer safe to live, scientists deemed, so the rich, privileged families got the first trip out, to a new world. A new life. A new chance.
The autumn air had a different feel here than it did back at home, in New York City. Back in Central Park, the trees were a crisp orange and brown, a beautiful arrangement of colors. The cool weather was perfect for sweaters and walks in the park. Here, however, it’s different. I don’t even know if they call it autumn here, all I know is that the weather is cool and the plants are the same color as they are in the end of October. There aren’t any trees here, though. Instead, there are giant grasses and flowers, forests of plants full of vibrant life. It looks exactly like Earth, and at the same time, completely different. The smallest animals here are the size of deer. The largest, the size of a small house. We built up a temporary camp, a safe haven for the humans, in the middle of a grove of large orange trees. My name is Charles, and this is my life on the planet Emprus. (less)