Dreaming of Success

Results are the products of the fortunate few Dreamers,

Idealists,

and takers of action

that through determination,

motivation,

and sheer luck,

become the Successful.

Failure is the product of those who have dreams,

plan these dreams,

act on them,

and fail;

these are Failures.

Ideals are the products of those who have have dreams,

plan these dreams,

and fail to act upon them;

these are the Idealists.

Dreams are the products of those who have dreams,

fail to make plans,

and live alone in the clouds;

these are the Dreamers.

Dreams are the doorway that lead to results, but are useless without planning, action, and success.

Ideals are the stepping stone to results, but without action are a waste of time and thought.

Action is the step taken only by the motivated and the brave.

Success is the result we all see, but is gained only by those with intelligence,

with motivation,

with a thick hide,

and with luck.

It is not wrong to have dreams, dreams beget success,

it is wrong to remain a Dreamer.

To those who have dreams I implore you,

dream,

but do not live with your head in the clouds,

we are in dire need of those who’s dream it is to make a difference for the better,

so keep your feet on the ground and when you wake from your dreams,

make them reality.

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My New Theory On My Thinking

I realized just now that the new perspective with which I approach my thoughts that it is not a sign of enlightenment of the mind I had first assumed it to be. The social constructions with which I apply and approach the ideals my mind captures are not merely the restrictions I had realized them to be. They are the key to ability to think.
I’m not claiming that one living in a society must capture his mental divisions and connections in the way that society leads him to, not completely at least. I mean to say that to be without mental passageways and settled methods of thinking existing within ourselves whatsoever we would be unable to engage with even the simplest of thoughts much less conquer it.
I believed that after leaving the rigidity of high school’s unwavering thought processes that we were forced to swallow and then subconsciously impose upon our own minds that I was beginning to rid myself of any mental structure organizing my mind. I believed I was training my mind to think without any guidelines at all.
Thankfully I’ve found that assumption to be false.
We need rules and restrictions and certain base truths to be able to use our brains at all. Had I truly achieved such freedom I would’ve merely traded it for the physical restriction a straight jacket imposes upon the body. For the moment I feel that my mental structure is less disturbing. However, if I continue to throw my mind at problems so strenuous and layered as I find myself doing so often lately. I find it rather difficult to pull my mind from engaging lately however, and I believe I’m being provoked.
Journals are supposedly a great way to sort out your thoughts. I’ve known for quite sometime that I have no natural organizational skills, however this is quite pathetic. Give me a pen and paper and the repetitive drone of a teacher too excited about their subject to even remotely follow their lesson plan and it’s relatively safe to say that if you look over at me you’ll see me scribbling frantically into a notebook (as organized as the mind that utilizes it) as if I was trying to finish writing a warning as the door behind me holding back my future murderers began to give (please excuse the irresistible urge of a fiction writer deprived of the urge to write his own genre recently to give a metaphor so provoking). If not, you’ll find me staring ahead murderously as writer’s block took my words and placed them behind the wall at the front of the classroom. The only other possible activity I would be engaged in would be looking haggard and haunted (a look every true author is required to master), mentally exhausted, looking off distantly with a wistful look in my eye as I realize that my mind, too tired to hold back the stream of thoughts rushing over and around me, would never be able to clutch to a certain intriguing thought in that flooded mountain river for as long as it would take to get my notebook out to scrawl some barely legible footnote my tired mind would not be able to connect later anyways.
Hmm interesting thought better jot it down: the feeling of letting go of a beautiful thought I would enjoy explicating and investigating, the sight of it drifting away with the tremendously powerful tug of the current, reminds me of the yellow wood of that tortured soul Robert Frost’s indescribable mind. Some things that should be written are stolen for ourselves, as we writers are extremely possessive. Once in a while we decline the oppurtunity to take something that can stimulate us to scribble frantically in a notebook. Instead we jealously keep it for ourselves and enjoy what it could have become as we see it drift out of sight. Perhaps it went under for the last time and perhaps not. Despite this, I believe we are all glad that Robert took the challenge of his beautiful woods the likes of which we will find no where but within the words on that paper. I am at least!
So, by now you’ve probably either categorized me as a teacher to excited about his subject, or you’ve stopped reading. I refuse to believe that there is a soul alive that can follow this jumble of ideas with very little explanation. I know i myself wouldn’t understand it. Why is it, do you think, i seem so against EVER proofreading anything!? I prefer to let my distorted creation loose upon the world convincing myself i had a few complete sentences. Perhaps Dr. Frankenstein would appreciate my preference to the sweet ignorance of my failures rather than the humbling truth of my work.
You know when you thinking of a word and BAM that voice in your head whispers ..um I believe you’re babbling a bit? So yes I know now. Let’s makes this quick.
My point is (how cool would it be if I could convince you that all followed some incredibly complex thesis statement. Don’t count on it. I’m not that safe of a bet when it comes to organization as you may have gathered), the ideas that come to me are only recognized as more than a random series of words because of that mental contraption we insert the the original, fat, juicy pig into (hold on I’ll explain) takes that unrefined jumble and puts it ever so neatly into a can for our mind to open at our leisure. Then, when we do open it, the familiar sight of that canned ham is what we see, just as expected. Lately I’ve succeeded in messing up parts of that machine, a necessary tool for a good paper, because despite the inspiring idea we caught hold of initially, we cannot be both the unarguable voice a good narrator uses without you realizing it and the kid in a candy shop who he is told he can have anything he wants, but he can only pic one item.
That’s child abuse. Regardless.
IN CONCLUSION!, I have now undergone the disappointing realization that my thoughts were not the sole property of my conscious brain, the relief once I realized that its for the best, and once more I’m stuck despite having left high school, and this time the stakes seem a bit higher: my future direction as a writer and thinker. So, training the subconscious seems a formidable task, if it’s even possible. Oh yeah, I might’ve mentioned the real possibility of my insanity, I’ve been up three days now and I’ve been working on a paper for seven hours now and I STILL haven’t finished the instructions. Tip for any struggling writers, you will never find yourself more motivated to start writing something you come up with than when you have something that you have been TOLD to write. Sad, yet true.
That could also pertain to my youthful stubbornness. And that insanity I mentioned in passing.
My predicament now is whether I should take control of my mental process all at once after identifying the hidden machines society and I stowed away from my conscious self and then attempt to adjust it in a way that is of my choosing, or to slowly locate the set unconscious ideals, understand them, and consciously argue both sides.
Okay I guess I’m done, here they come with the straight jacket again. That was a joke by the way. I’m far more sarcastic whim tired as well, so excuse the sneering tone I THINK I used quite a bit. If you’re still reading I have to say one of two things. You’re the most dedicated, and absurdly bored person at the moment, please do anything else, right now, this was definitely a waste of your time (imagine how much I wasted!). Or could you please stop laughing, I’m generally not this mentally sporadic/confounded, and you should read just ONE other post so you’ll know I’m it lying! Oh or three you are my girlfriend. Benefit of the doubt for REAL right there, if she makes it to the end of this one she deserves someone way more..efficient! She’s finally understanding that I’m gonna talk at her or to her and it’s much easier to let me go on than to even attempt to present an idea of her own.
Trust me, that is incredible that I pushed her to that!! She named her own blog after her ramblings!!! But in reality, I truly pity her. I could not survive two days in a relationship with myself talking 97% of the time and covering ten to fifteen concepts she couldn’t care less about in perhaps five minutes. If I pause to breathe. She has made it almost two years! If you’ve reached is point you KNOW I speak truly when I say I am an extremely lucky guy.
Never take for granted someone who is willing to assume wall mode. She’s definitely a keeper. I love her. Unfortunately if I’m not insane soon she most definitely will be, or pretending to be so she has a great excuse to not answer her phone (;. I’m such a burden! Wish her luck! And thank you, really, for reading. It is extremely appreciated.

The Shadow of Love

When you know, you know. That’s what they always say. Bill knew, maybe not from the moment he met her, maybe not for quite a while, but Bill knew. Lynn, she was the girl of his dreams, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The one he wanted to wake up next to. The one he wanted to lay down with at three o’clock for a nap, after fifteen years, with autumn’s melancholy sunlight falling across her pale skin. It was her. Her or nothing. Her or no one. He needed her. He wanted her. He got her. After spending the summer nursing a quickly budding romance, the two were hopelessly in love. Bill was a lovesick wreck, lost in the beautiful, blue grey eyes of his tangible dream. After only four short months of romance, the nineteen-year-old college student approached not only his dream girl at this point, but the one he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, to be the love of his life, and asked her to marry him. Without hesitation she agreed. Everything was perfect, everything was right. They moved in together. They fell more in love every day, and could barely keep their eyes, or hands, off each other. Finally, Bill got his three o’clock nap, it was an afternoon in the early fall, and the light was shining into their bedroom window, falling softly on the small electric piano he used from time to time. On it was the sheet music for “Believe” by the Beatles. The tune was as melancholy as the afternoon light when he played it on his piano, and whenever he played it his heart squirmed and fluttered as he thought of Lynn. She woke up first, as she often did. Instead of waking him, she watched him sleep, as she always did, quietly smiling at the peaceful look he had on his face. Finally, she gently shook him to try and wake him.

 

“Hey baby, wake up,” she said smiling.

“Urghmmm. Whaat?”

She giggled, “I have to go mail the invitations. Do you want to come?

“Ugghhhh. Okayyy,” he groaned, rolling over slightly, eyes still closed.

“No. No you go back to sleep, you’re tired. I’ll take care of it honey.”

“Lynn. I’m no fool, close as I may get when returning to consciousness. Obviously, I’m wanted. Otherwise, I can think of around zero reasons why I would have to be woken up for this.”

His retort was intended light heartedly, but the look that rolled over her face, disappearing nearly before even showing up, had been one he would never forget. Slightly offended, as if unsure how she should take his thoughtless remark. Stung, that he hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to spend time with her. Hurt, that maybe sometimes, she wouldn’t always come first. Then shoved the feeling away as quickly as she’d hidden the face, and replaced both with her beautiful smile. He returned it in the form of a cute, just waking up smile, and he fooled her, and even, for a while at least, himself, into believing he’d never seen the look at all.

“You’d better go back to bed fast, before I find something to do with you!” she scolded, while simultaneously, she smiled at him and quickly winked, looking down at him.

“Mmm! No!” he rolled away playfully. But then he stayed there. The look clouded her face again. But she pushed it away once more. He was tired. It’d be okay. She’d be back soon, he’d be up, and this would be quickly forgotten. She left the bed and walked to the doorway, stopped, came back to the bed, and kissed him deeply.

“See you soon,” she said.

His eyes stayed closed, and his voice began to soften as sleep began to take him, but a smile played on his lips.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He finally forced himself to wake up, frowning when he saw it was five o’clock. He wondered why Lynn hadn’t come back yet, and got the sick feeling all new lovers get when faced with the absence of their significant other for more than a few minutes. He wanted to see her. To touch her. Why was she taking so long? He called her phone. Off. Of course. He sat down at the piano, and played around a little on the keys, playing nothing in particular. After a moment of silence, he played “Believe”. It was then he began to get worried. Halfway through playing the song again, the phone rang. It was the hospital. The first thing that came to mind when he walked into the room was that it was a good thing, the last thing she had said to him before she left was “I love you”. At that dark thought, tears instantly streamed, down his cheeks, onto the cold hospital floor. His head rolled to hang back over his neck, and his hands quickly met it, covering his face until he could face the sight like the man he needed to be. Right now. He sat next to her, leaning as close as possible, holding her hand as firmly as he dared and as gently as possible, for she seemed as delicate as a fallen leaf. It was now. Now or nothing. Now or never. She needed this. Neither wanted this. Neither got their wish. Tubes stuck out of her mouth, keeping her from speaking. All she could do was stare at him, desperately, longingly, sorrowfully, regretfully, and other emotions so confusing and unreadable they passed him by same as earlier, as she continued to stare, just as she’d done earlier. He could do less, thinking only to whisper the meaningless words of any imbecile talking to someone, who they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was going to end up anything but alright. Tears. Tubes. Tests. Thoughts, followed closely by whispers, secret things, things not from his own mind, but things he would always be grateful for, since he’d had the words to say to her in the end. And then, the line. He stared at the heart rate monitor, stunned, despite the predictability of the situation, then twirled back faster than he’d believed he could move. He’d gotten half of the world ‘love’ out when he realized what was missing. Her eyes were grey now, and his heart was gone. He sat and stared at her for a while, frowning, thinking that there must be some simple solution, she had a cold, the heart monitor had gone bad, the end of the world was causing strange electrical currents to set off alarms, anything that would be easier to understand than the concept of her being gone. Finally, they came and turned the monitor off, and when they did, he looked up expectantly, waiting for them to explain the current apocalypse, however they simply turned off the monitor, and said they were sorry, then walking out to watch some unlucky bastard lose his life, and then hold her in his arms. Sorry for what? All he remembered was the green line, running straight across his eyes. Straight through his heart. What was it she had said? I love you? Why hadn’t she said it again? And again? I love you, too? Had that been her or him? Did it matter? Did he? Did anything? She had. She was gone.

 

He finished playing “Believe” for the twenty-third time that day, and sat staring out the window as he always did after completing the piece. Well, he never really stared out, just at the line on the window that ran across his vision reminding him of a certain green line that ran through his heart. This was all he ever did anymore. He played this song. Once a day he would eat. He would go to the bathroom. He would sleep. Family members would bring him groceries every so often, though lately they’d been buying his food more in bulk, cutting down on reasons to stop by. They always brought him, her favorites; it was all he would touch. Friends used to bring food as well. He didn’t have any of those anymore. It wasn’t his fault. She was gone. Did anything matter anymore? No one could make him move. For now that he’d lost his love, love was all that made him move. He was done. It was over for him. He stared at the hole in the tree branches where the three o’clock sun poured through the hole in the trees, and then through the window. The light illuminated the area by the door of the room. Lynn stood there.

“That was pretty, baby. Was it for me?”

“It’s always for you.”

“Awh. I miss you. Come here. I want to kiss you.”

“You’re not real,” he stated, matter-of-factly, though the hurt he inflicted upon himself by saying those words blossomed in his eyes, eyes he would refuse to meet her with, like blood from a picked scab, “I know that by now.”

“What do you mean darling? I’m standing right here. Turn around for me honey. I want to see your face.”

“No. Plea-” He slowly turned on the seat, as if maneuvered by some giant, invisible hand, to face her, jaw clenched, eyes shaking, as if they were about to release the tears he had been fighting against for the past four years. It was her. She was wearing the cute dress she’d always worn, white on top, with the flowers on the bottom, flowers that had only become more defined over time, while the flower’s on that same dress, hanging in the closet beside her. Straight, brown hair on top, and black flats on the bottom. Yeah that was his girl all right. Same Lynn, everyday.

“Come on. Come here.”

“Lynn..”

“Please baby? I want you to do something for me. Just one thing then you can play some more. Okay?”

He stared at her, biting the inside of his lips now covered in scars, eye’s filling, nearly spilling. He looked up, and sighed, before lowering his eyes back to her, barely under control, and answering: “You know I’ll do anything you want. I’ve made the mistake of not doing so one too many times.”

She tilted her head, innocent blue eyes meeting his as if curious, yet she didn’t ask anything of him.

He went to her. He held her. He heard her whisper. He smelled her. It smelled just like her. Almost. WHY ALMOST? Why was it ALWAYS almost? Always! He could never quite remember her scent. It drove him insane, or more so in any case. It drove him to the brink. To the brink of what? Everything. To-

She put his hand on the gun where it lay on his desk. Where he always left it. Unless, it was one of those rare occasions in which someone came by.

“You said you would do one thing for me baby. You said you would do anything. I miss you.”

The look came over her face, that unforgettable look. That same terrifying, awful, unbearable, and excruciating look, from four years ago. The look he’d never even glimpsed before that day, but he’d had to look at every day since.

“A clouds coming darling. You know I can’t stay in the shade.”

“Of course you can’t. You’re the light of my life.”

“Or just the light of your day, maybe?”

“No! You know that isn’t true!”

Her lips, frowned in a pout, and she crossed her arms. “Then, how is it you only want to see me at three? The same exact time, everyday never a second sooner or later and gone as soon as a cloud comes or the light moves. You don’t see me at all on cloudy days, or on days that a cloud happens to block the sun even for a split second at four o’clock. Can’t you understand where I’m coming from baby? Don’t you see it from my point of view?”

“Lynn! You know that’s not by my own choice! I want to spend the rest of my life with you! You know that. We both want that! Please, don’t accuse me of that, you know I want that more than anything!”

“I know baby.” She smiled, her perfect rows of amazingly straight, white teeth shown brighter than the forlorn sunlight that surrounded her. At the mention of the rest of their lives, Lynn had held up the her left hand, displaying a small diamond that held more value to him, than any other stone in the world, but only when it was on her finger, it was worthless to him in the red velvet box on his nightstand, it’s home for the past for years, instead of around the finger it was intended for. The green line through his heart grew teeth to match. “So?’

He backed away. Shaking his head. Mouth shut firm, eye squinting to hold on to the tears just a little longer.

Her pouting face came back, overriding her malicious, and loving smile. “Why not?? I MISS YOU. Don’t you miss me?”

He nodded. “Always,” he croaked.

“Then what’s stopping you? Why not?”

“Because, its not for you. For a second there, I fooled me. I always do. Every day. Well, every sunny day. But I caught on. Like I always do. Its not you. Its never really, you. You left. I saw it. I saw you out.”

“Why is it not me? How?”

“Because. Lynn wanted the best for me. She always did. She wanted me to be the best I could be for myself first, and then for her. All the time. Every time. No matter what. She would never have wanted that for me,” he explained, nodding at the gun. She wouldn’t have let it happen. Just like I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“But Bill, why do you see me? What if I do want it? What if this is me? How do you know it’s not really me?”

“Because, my head keeps this image locked up tight, never letting it fade even a bit, and over the years your every feature has only grown stronger. You’re not moving on, away from me. Even if Lynn wanted to see me as desperately as you claim, she’s not the one that wants it now. Lynn would’ve taken a bullet for me before, and she would definitely not lead me to put one in myself now. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe you are my girl, and you’ve seen now I’m better off blowing my brains out, I can not believe it, no matter what. If the girl I know, and the one I loved, is not the same girl that exists now, then what’s the point of ending this anyways. My point is, I know you’re just a memory; a part of myself, grasping on to the memories of her that I won’t ever learn to let go of. That’s why the gun’s there. That’s why the gun’s always there. Because every time you tell me to pull that trigger, I can be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’re not the girl that left me here. There is no longer a doubt in my mind which of us, Lynn or I, wants a bullet in my brain. Trust me. Lynn would never ask something like that of me.”

I turned away from where her image stood, losing definition as the sun moved slowly away. He closed his eyes to avoid seeing the sun disappear from the hole in the trees.  “I’m sorry, better luck next time. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe you’ll trick me then! I hope you do. Please trick me. Please, let’s make it tomorrow! I don’t want to live without you anymore. Tomorrow sounds good, let’s do that? I don’t want to I don’t want… I don’t…”

She was gone. He could feel it. Even with his back turned and his eyes closed, vainly holding back the unstoppable tears. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she; the terrifying shadow of his doubts was gone. For one more day, his doubts of how things might’ve turned out that day, had he drove with her to send the invitations. The sun was gone behind the clouds, and his shadow had gone back behind her walls.

“I love you.”

As usual, there was no response. That must mean, it had been her that had said it first after all, he thought, finally convincing himself, as he had everyday for the past four years.

He opened his eyes and began to play, staring straight ahead as the tears began to come in silent streams, splashing on keys colder that a hospital floor. He would try again tomorrow though, perhaps tomorrow she would say she loved him in the end, or maybe tomorrow she would convince him to go with her. That’s what would happen. Tomorrow was the day, as it had been for the past four years.

He stopped playing, keeping his hand’s just above the surface of the keys, his eyes staring off into the distance, seeing nothing, yet seeing again, as he hadn’t done in years. A hammer hit him in the chest, and he collapsed on his keyboard, sobbing. He stayed like this for hours, until finally, he managed to control himself. Slowly, he picked himself up and with clarity of mind that seemed unusual, he glanced around the room he’d stayed in for four years, and hadn’t seen since then either. He looked at the gun and his eyes began to tremble. Tomorrow, he would rid himself of its tempting presence. No more considering, the easy way out, and no more shadows, hanging on his doubts. No more denial, no more “Because”, because it was time do be the man that Lynn deserved, and to live life to make her proud. He looked out of the window again, and decided to stop cutting the branches between the sun shone through at three, and he decided to against, being in his room anymore at three. Two decisions, that ten minutes ago would have seemed unbearable, now seemed like the only real thing to do, though the pain he felt at even considering facing the pain he’d buried for so long. While he’d pushed down the pain, he’d still felt it, because not only had he pushed down the pain, but he’d covered himself. He’d given her everything he was, and when he lost that, he had to subdue his very heart and soul to even begin to put away the pain. He stood up and stared out the window, for a few seconds more. No, he wouldn’t live his life for three in the afternoon anymore, and he wouldn’t check the forecast desperately hoping for sun, and dreading the presence of a single cloud. His life would never be the same, and while every sunny day, at three p.m. he would think forlornly of the girl he’d loved and lost. In the spring afternoons, which he was never able to call claim her as his own, he would think fondly back upon the days his heart could love, and could feel his love returned. But while he could fantasize about daydreaming of her with a wistful smile sometime in his future, for now his empty chest still ached. For now, he’d be praying for rain.

The Answers

I looked down at the thick, leather bound tome and smiled at the fruits of my labor. After sprinkling sand on the final page of the work, I looked up to my Father, who sat smiling at me and waiting. I had spent the past year transcribing his words verbatim, and I was finally finished with my contribution.

I gently closed the lid of the thick book to look once more upon the golden name that adorned the cover. “The Answers” the shining letters proclaimed, and I knew it to be the truth.

“Now you are finished, my son,” the rich voice of my father announced. “All that is left for you as an apprentice is to make a few deliveries. After that you must choose your path. I have work for you here, if you desire, making candles for me, my son.”

I looked to the ceiling as I pondered my Father’s offer. Perhaps choosing that as my path would please me. I was not sure of what other paths existed though.

“I am not sure yet Father,” I replied. “May I choose later?”

My Father frowned at my response. “Yes, my son. For now, there are crates with candles and copies of “The Answers” in the corner by the door. Take those to the appropriate rooms, marked by the numbers on their lids.” He turned back to the half finished candle he had laid aside one year ago, and continued his work.

The first crate I picked up was marked 217. I left my Father’s room and walked down the hall outside the door. Every twenty feet was a door, illuminated by a candle of my Father’s making, and labeled with a number. The numbers were the sole difference between each door. The doors started at 1, which was on my immediate left and mirrored by 2 on my right, and continued endlessly down the hall.

I began walking down the hall until 217 was on my left. I approached the door, which opened for me as I neared it.

“Hello,” the man greeted me. He was dressed in simple brown robes, as I was, and wore no decorum. “You can place that over there.” He motioned to a spot against the wall on one side of the room and returned to his desk. I set the crate down to sit alone against the wall in the spot he had indicated. I then looked up and around, at the dozens of identically clad men scribbling away at desks throughout the room, their work lit by my Father’s candles.

“What are you doing?” I asked the man who’d opened the door for me.

He looked up at me and frowned in confusion. “We’re discovering the answers of course.”

I frowned back at the man. “But you already have “The Answers”,” I replied, pointing to the crate I’d just set against the wall. “My Father provides them for you.”

“Well yes,” the man replied, “and then we take what he gives us and edits them so that they are perfect.” He lifted the victim of his own scribbling’s, and I saw that it was indeed, a copy of “The Answers”.

“Why?”

He looked at me with utter bewilderment. “Well, to fix it. Obviously!”

“But is it not already correct?” I asked.

“Well, overall it’s got the correct idea, however there are quite a few discrepancies and errors. We spend our time fixing these, to discover the answers.”

“But, how do you know what the answers truly are? Or what the problems with the texts from my Father are?”

“Our own souls discern what the truth of it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must return to my work.”

At that the man turned back to his work. When I lost his attention I left the room and went back to my Father’s.

“Hello son,” he greeted me as I came for the next crate, “have you made your choice yet?”

“Not yet Father. May I think on it a while longer?”

“You may,” He replied in a sorrowful voice.

The next crate indicated that room 426 was its intended recipient. The man who received me wore robes of the same fabric, but they were black in color. The case belonged beside stacks of “The Answers”, discarded after serving their purpose.

Here, the books were rewritten as they were read, due to so much of the text being labeled false. After they were translated, the spare copies of “The Answers” were cast aside, and the new editions of the text were collected separately.

I returned to my Father’s room where he asked me again: “Have you chosen yet, son?”

“No. May I have more time?”

“Yes.”

Next, I visited room 633, where copies of “The Answers” were not even consulted. Instead, the workers in fine, while plain, robes were writing texts explaining their own decision of what the answers were. Room 978 held workers who neither read nor wrote any form of answers. Instead the men there, who wore plain tunics and breeches, spent their time discussing what the answers were with their peers, never deciding upon a definite series of answers. The men in this room were not limited to one set working space, and so carried their own personal candle, illuminating their discussions with the light my Father provided them.

In room 1231, there was no discussion of the answers. The copies of “The Answers” my Father gave to them were put to the torch with the flame preserved on the wicks of their candles. The men stood speechless in their fancy clothes, designed of silk fabrics, as the watched the words of my Father go up in flames. They were uninterested in discerning the answers by reading or speaking. The destruction of my Father’s answers seemed to be the answers they sought.

I returned to my Father’s room after this discovery to get the last of the crates. Upon my return my Father turned to me, his eyes solemnly gazing into mine, seeming to plead with me.

“Have you made your choice now my son?

“No.”

“Are you any closer to making your decision?”

“No.”

His eyes gazed into mine for a long while, portraying the pain and suffering he felt.

“Very well. Take the last of the crates my son, and your duties will be completed. Then you must make your choice.”

I took the last of the crates down the hall to the room marked 1674. No one here greeted me, or took any notice of me in the slightest. I set the box down against the wall amidst a pile of its siblings, relieved only of the candles. The candles in this room did not illuminate the path of any specific man of the ornately dressed group, rather they were placed throughout the room, giving off light to see by, but not to find.

The men that occupied this room seemed to have no purpose, the simply walked this way or that, not appearing to have any destination or reason for their chosen paths. They always ended up in the vicinity of one of the candles before turning and walking another away, apparently not finding what they had hoped for.

Finally, I asked one of the expressionless men what it was they were doing. How they were discovering the answers.

“We found them,” the man responded to my inquiry in a neutral tone.

“What is it you’ve found?” I asked eagerly.

“The answer is that there are no answers,” he responded simply, and made off in a different direction.

I took my time returning to my Father’s room this time. I pondered my choices as I dragged my feet, deciding on what path I would choose to take. Eventually, I arrived back at my Father’s door, and slowly made my way inside. There I waited until he had finished making the candle he’d set aside a year ago. He looked up at me.

“So,” he asked slowly, “have you made your decision?”

“I have.”

“What is it you wish to do?”

“I wish to seek my own answers,” I replied.

“Are you sure you do not wish to stay here with me?” he asked, as his eyes brimmed with tears.

“I am sure.”

He sighed. “Very well then.”

He took up the candle he’d just finished and led me out of the door. We walked down the hall for hours, passing door after door until finally we reached 8304. He pushed open the door and held his hand out to guide me inside.

I entered the room to find it completely bare, no more than four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. There were neither decorations, nor any others to help me discover the answers I had so longed to find for myself just moments ago. I turned back to my Father standing just outside the door with the candle in his hand, eyes swimming with tears of pain and betrayal.

“Would you come in for a little while?” I asked, suddenly missing the time I’d spent with him.

“I cannot. You’ve left no place for me in this room.”

I suddenly realized the room was devoid of any light source.

“Would you leave the candle for me, Father?”

“I cannot. You’ve chosen to live without my light.”

“Well, perhaps you could leave a copy of “The Answers”. Maybe I will find the truth in that after all.”

“I cannot. You’ve discarded the truth. You abandoned the answers to ask the questions. Goodbye.”

He closed the door and was gone. Now I spend forever in a pitch back room, blindly searching for the answers to my questions in a room that is completely empty.

Facebook Observations

Earlier, as I was scrolling down Facebook, doing what I always do, trying to remember what it was I intended to do once I logged in since nothing stuck out to me as particularly interactive, I drew a few conclusions about Facebook Users that I do on a regular basis and I feel like sharing. These conclusions are things that everyone does. When you see something on the home page and you think through exactly what that situation, using clues and observational intelligence like you’re Patrick Jane from the Mentalist, Sean Spencer from Psych, House from House, Matlock from Matlock, etc. Honestly I haven’t watched Matlock since I was about five years old at my grandparents house, does Matlock make observations like that about people?

Anyways, my first observation was of that girl who seems to have absolutely no social life, but you clicked her profile picture because you’re curious (my girl friend has a blog I can’t say because you think she’s hot), and as you scroll down the list you subconsciously scrunch your face up and feel embarrassed for that girl at what you’re seeing. The reason you’ve come to the conclusion that she has no social life (no friends seems to mean to blog so I’m going for the not overly blunt attempt) is obvious. Every single profile picture has a few of the exact same details. Those are: her phone/camera, a mirror, generally the hand on the hip, and her; and only her. If not in a mirror then on her webcam, and every so often they’ll all be equestrian related, which is a nice mix up, but just as uncomfortable. I want so badly to tell these girls the impression they give when they have 50-100 profile pictures of themselves in a mirror! Please, just don’t go through the trouble of uploading those pictures if you don’t have five pictures of yourself involved in a social activity for every one. It’s painful.

Next, girls that are overly dramatic in person are off the deep end on the book. It’s insane to me how, more than likely, a girl who most likely has made some big conversation out of how much Facebook drama is so immature, will post a status that might as well read “(Ex-best friend as of seven hours ago) is a HUGE (insult of choice)”. But you might note that it never does. She would never be outright and blunt, but suddenly her status’ wont be about how she’s so excited for the season finale of Jersey Shore (I’m proud to state that it took me at least twenty seconds to remember that name), instead, suddenly she’s deep and philosophical, almost as much as a middle schooler finding out how cool it is to be different. There’s a million different ways to say it, but generally it’s something like this: “Some people just don’t know when to mind their own business…” or “It hurts to find out what a real friend is, or isn’t…”. Oh, and you know their finger is sitting above the @ symbol wanting to tag that “not real friend”, but they don’t do it. About 10 minutes later (just to clarify: on FB it would say about half an hour ago on the post and the response would then be marked about 20 minutes ago) “Wow real mature..” and then it starts. It’s so unfathomable how both of these girls keep saying they’re so done with all of it, yet the comments keep coming! Even when twenty other people get in and say, “Heyyyy, come on don’t do this on here” it keeps going! I’m flabbergasted by these seemingly contradictory signals. Can someone explain? Oh, and when I said girls that are overly dramatic, that because nine out of ten dramatic guys don’t have friends, that doesn’t work for males for some reason, so they either never get on Facebook or no one comments on what they post. There are those few dramatic guys, who somehow make it to up to the highly esteemed status of “COOL” who slur there words, let there neck fall to the side when they talk because they’re so apathetic about everything they can’t even hold their head up, wear only wife beaters on their upper body (sometimes they wear it under another shirt, but you know that’s not gonna stay on), and talk about being “chill” a lot. Those status’ are quite a bit more amusing, because there is never a single comment or like on their dramatically evident insult towards that girl who cut them to the heart he acts like he doesn’t have. No one touches those, but everyone talks about them, for a long time. Reading a status from that guy is something that takes three to four tries, just so you really know you’re seeing it right. Everyone needs to step up and be brave. If you have a problem with someone, do NOT make it Facebook knowledge! Handle it correctly. Blog about it. Come on!

My next insight was that you can almost always identify the people who overcompensated for their low self esteem in high school, by looking at the people who’s pictures once they went to college include an unprecedented number of beer cans, red solo cups, beer pong tables, or them and their best friend holding up their alcoholic beverage excitedly. Some are even proud enough to make their status about their crazy party. But that’s nothing compared to the statuses about the party LAST night. Sometimes you really do think its smart to post some status that was really left unsaid, but “ugh ym hed…’ll never drnk agin..unti tonght! haha!!!!”. Even though the words are misspelled, I’m going to go ahead and say they’re probably not ‘still drunk’! Maybe I’m wrong! But the people that go to party’s because they’re fun and not because ‘it’s cool’ have no reason to put it on Facebook, because one everyone already knows, two their parents already know and got a Facebook to monitor that very same activity, and three (optional) their girlfriend’s don’t need to know, because if they have embarrassing photo’s they don’t comment “OMG DID I SERIOUSLY DO THAT?! You’re sooo meannnn for posting this!! hahaha”, they untag themselves immediately and text the poster with unimaginable speed and profanity. By the way, texting that person and untagging themself is the only multitasking they can accomplish aside from drinking and driving, because “they’re the best drunk driver”, which means that they’re better than a lot of sober drivers correct? No? Oh, well..

Less frequently you might notice that when speaking to someone in person, they may occasionally mention their favorite sports teams if the topic is brought up, but on Facebook, sports suddenly consumes their entire lives. In between game days, you’ll see occasional statuses inspired by Sports Center about a certain player, and how that’s messed up, and on game days you’ll get find out that they plan to watch the game around noon, thirty minutes before you’ll see that they’re about to spend their night watching the game, ten minutes into it you’ll hear about how a certain players doing, at halftime you’ll find out if their team is winning or not because if they are they don’t talk about their team they talk about the opponents, and then finally you see their opinion of the game at the end, either by ‘we’ll beat the next team’ or ‘we crushed them!’. You’re a fan, and one who, virtually, is enraptured with the team, you’re not on the team no matter how many t-shirts or jerseys you buy. Sorry, you’re not going to make the roster. Please, please stop talking about these idols of yours as if you’re in the locker room with them, or you’re in the manager’s box. Basically: No, the Steelers are not yours. Shut your mouth.

These are just a few of the many Facebook routines that I see on a daily basis. I know that their are more, and if you think of any, please comment so I can hear your take on these irritating habits as well! Just remember! If something on Facebook bothers you, don’t dare post that on Facebook! Blog it like a “boss” to stick with the language everyone suddenly uses when they’re online!

A Link to My Rather Pitiful Collection

As I said before, my goal is to eventually become an author. I suppose I’d better rephrase that statement. Eventually, I hope to become a published, or successful author. Technically I suppose I’m an author already seeing as I have written a few short works as it is.

My problem remains though; I have yet to complete even a short novel. Anyways, I’m posting this so I can add a link to my Wattpad account to it, and if anyone is interested please take a look! I’d love to hear feedback on my writing, and even if you don’t feel obliged to comment please feel free to look over what I have!

http://www.wattpad.com/user/jfrost

People’s Republic of China Compared to 1984

In my senior year of high school I took AP Literature, and in that class we read “1984” by George Orwell. Everyone in the class regarded the book with the same interest they’d shown any of the other novels, including my teacher. In fact, as the class was made up of mostly females, “Pride and Prejudice” was a more stimulating topic than anything from “1984”.
I, on the other hand, was immediately fascinated. As I read the book (one of the only works I did in fact read in that class despite my voracious reading habits) I felt as if I was reading and unveiling knowledge from the inside of my own head that had lain dormant and unexplored up to that point. As I consumed the novel, word by word, sentence by sentence, and page by page, I became increasingly fascinated by the logical and blatant ideas that were vaguely portrayed in the world around us.
I was enraptured, and for months after completing the book, nearly every in depth conversation I held managed to turn back towards the warnings printed in the text. The blatant secrets Orwell was unmasking could be seen developing in the United States itself, and just like the novel suggests, we were blind to our own plight.
Reading that book unlocked a suspicious feeling that lurked at the back of my mind, constantly interpreting the work of the government and society into the Orwellian analogy’s that represented them. This restlessness was kindled inside of me as I read that book, and soon after, an essay we dissected in great depth in my English 101 class during my first semester in college, named “Panopticism”, those flames were fueled.
However, while I read this book and struggled, somewhat vainly, to interpret my premonitions into logical points I could present to my classmates while reading “1984”, my more “radical” interpretations of modern day parallels were taken with less weight than I’d hoped. Double think was already prominent, and the free citizens of America, given the rights to think our own thoughts for a while longer, were wary when assigning current government factions with their twins from the book.
One response I was fed on multiple occasions, which I would like to focus on right now, was that George Orwell was not really describing Communist governments as they really were. What he was doing was dramatizing the power the government held over the people; giving Communism an extremely frightening identity to warn us of what could come if we were not careful.
After mulling this over in my own mind for a while I began to see the logic in that statement. Orwell was describing a horrific scene of complete and utter hopelessness. The people were not just ignorant, they were totally accepting of Big Brother, and in fact, they loved him. Orwell’s intent was, after all, to warn people of what could happen. Of course he would attempt to do so through hyperbole. The ideas were exaggerated, simply to make a point.
Now, I once more see through that as double think, and a way to allay the fears of anyone capable of, or brave enough to open their eyes to see Big Brother standing over us all, not blindfolding us, simply directing our every action, thought, and feeling like a conductor in charge of an orchestra equipped with intentionally inadequate instruments, performing passionately for a nonexistent crowd.
Just a few minutes ago I finished reading the first chapter of a book, written by a man who had grown up under the rule of the People’s Public of China, for one of my English classes. The chapter was called “Chairman Lao’s Good Little Boy” and it was written by Liang Heng and Judith Shapiro. Liang Heng grew up under the rule of Chairman Mao, and this chapter describes his upbringing.
Upon reading half of this chapter, my mind was changed once more. Orwell’s account of a Communist government was undoubtedly accurate, and frighteningly so. After reading eight pages of this text I am convinced that not a word of “1984” was hyperbole.
The marriage of his mother and father was for political reasons, and they were estranged before the divorce his father insists upon, because of their jobs alone, working for the government, and trying to become a part of the Party. They had three children, all named after historical moments that celebrated the government. Just as in “1984” marriage was merely to produce children for the Party.
The children were sent to schools to learn about Mao, and to learn to love him. The chapter speaks of youth programs and songs all dedicated to devote the children to Mao. In 1984 the children were taught the propaganda from the day they were born, and raised by the government, not by their parents. In the chapter, Liang tells us that the fourth word he learned was Mao, and it was taught to him by his father while looking at a picture of Mao hanging in their house.
Multiple parallels between “1984” and the story Liang gives us present themselves. The government jobs that consumed their lives, the labor correction camps just like the labor camps in “1984”, the government’s insistence that the people give ideas to the government on what they should change and then beginning the Anti-Rightist Movement to exterminate the supposed Capitalist thinking the people had shown by providing the demanded suggestions is a clear example of double speak. The Party came before family in both works, the figurehead was a hero and a father figure in both works, Capitalism was evil in both works, and so on.
The connections are undeniable. Orwell was not an exaggerating fear monger pushing radical right wing movements; far from it. The best title I can give him is the author of a documentary explaining in as simple a way as possible the truth of what lies ahead if we continue to allow our freedom to slip away.
Orwell was a historian who saw the repetitive totalitarian way returning, and he predicted it nearly to a letter. Do not be taken in my what is ‘irrational’ or merely ‘conspiracy theories’. One day, you’ll wake up, just as Winston Smith did, and find yourself alone, wondering if your telescreen is being monitored. Crazy is decided by the opinion of the majority, but truth is not so versatile.

Roommate Venting

Well, I got on to write about something that occurred to me today that I deemed blog-worth, and one that I still intend to address. However, as I was beginning my entry, the subject was pushed from my mind by a more pressing, and irritating matter.
My roommate.
I am now two days in to my second semester as a freshman in college. Now don’t get me wrong, me and my roommate get along most of the time. In fact, I would consider the two of us to be friends, despite the fact that we rarely ever see each other outside our dorm room.
However, once in a while I find myself driven nearly to the brink by the seemingly careless manner in which he invades my privacy by inviting over friends of his. I am experiencing such a breach of my privacy at the moment, which is what prompted this entry. But what irks me the most is that this is not the first time he’s crossed such a line, and shockingly, he’s doing so in exactly the same manner.
Throughout the first semester that we lived together he brought three friends over to the room with increasing regularity as time wore on. Initially they came to the room, asked if I minded their presence, and then sat around for a little while and talked. Slowly but surely the presence of the three friends became more and more common in the room. After a while they began to play my Xbox every time they came over.
But please, don’t take me for an intolerant and selfish person! I had no problem with them playing my Xbox, in part due to the fact that when that trend began they would always asked my permission before engaging in this activity. It came to the point where I would come in to my room, and 9/10 times I would find them either playing my Xbox or using it to watch a movie. 3/10 times I would come back to find food that I had purchased being eaten, or already eaten. 8/10 times, I would find my roommates rather unsanitary friend reclining on my bed, resting his bare feet on or around my pillow. As in the place I lay my face at night. Just try witnessing that and not becoming an insomniac.
As well as owning the Xbox, the television that it is hooked up to happens to be the 32″ flat screen I purchased for myself for $350 just before coming to school. Again, owning the devices does not mean I was bothered by their usage of them, was aggravated me was their disregard for my feelings in the matter. They no longer asked if I minded, and frequently joked about how they did not care whether I was bothered by their being in my room or not.
It came to a head one night when I was up late writing a paper for a class the next day. The four of them proceeded to enter the room, make themselves comfortable (making use of my bed of course), put a movie in my Xbox, and turn on my t.v. to enjoy it.
Even if they had not been so blatantly rude in doing this, the real kicker was that it happened to be 12:30 am when they decided to begin the film.
After they had all left, I told my roommate as politely as I could, that I was rather put out by the way they seemed to lack any consideration for how I felt. I explained my problems and asked him politely to not continue to do things like that, and to not have them in the room constantly. We talked it out and after that we didn’t have a problem like that for the rest of the year.
But it’s a new semester, and a new year.
Sunday night I met two new friends of his. Monday night they spent perhaps half an hour sitting around the room. Tonight they were joined by another new friend and the four of them decided to watch Pineapple Express on my t.v. I was of course not consulted. Again his friends quickly became comfortable with me and decided to make jokes out of the fact that they were going to spend the night hanging out in my room watching a movie. In the end, they did.
Also, both of us has a box fan because our dorms lack air conditioning and were rather hot when we first moved in. Lately they’ve been sitting on the floor near the window of our room. They’ve both been unplugged since it’s no longer summer, obviously, and we attend a school in the mountains, which tend to get cold in the winter months. Twice the group left the room, leaving me behind, and both times the fans had been turned on and were left running when they left. Both times I set the knobs on the fans back to the off position. When the group returned for the final time to watch the movie I was informed by one of the friends that she was going to need some air. After informing me of this she proceeded to open the window and turn on both of the fans.
They then turned on the movie while continuing to converse loudly even after starting it. Even more exciting, half of the statements or questions were directed at myself as I sat at my computer typing. Even after I put on my headphones it took them a little while to come to grips with the realization that I was not interested in talking to them.
Now I’ve learned, ’tis better to be a dick and deny them access to my things than to be polite and grant what will be taken advantage of. Despite this lesson I’ve learned repeatedly, I know I won’t be mean. I’ll give in the next time I’m asked if it’s okay if they come hang out. I might be able to hold up better if I wasn’t asked after they made themselves at home every time..Anyways, thank you for listening to my moaning and groaning. I know it must be nearly as painful to read it as it was for me to experience it..

Why I’m Writing

My name is Jacob, and I am an Eagle Scout. Please don’t immediately close the tab, that was my reward to myself for seven years spent scouting, for during this seven years, shockingly, everyone I spoke to about scouts assumed that I didn’t know how great that would look on a resume someday. So, since I have not yet experienced this incredible benefit, I decided to establish my credentials to you, my reader, to convince you of my expertise on life, or whatever it is my dad hoped I would gain.
Moving on, I’m beginning this blog as a relatively new college student (I’ve been in college for three months now at Western Carolina University. I’ve always meant to start a journal, but never did, and I feel journaling where others can read it seems like the motivation I need to express my thoughts once and a while. To me, writing that is written without the intention of ever being seen is pointless, unless the author is writing for his own sanity. Since sanity is something I’ve more or less given up on finding in an illogical world, writing a blog seems to be a great solution to this predicament.
The main reason I’m writing this however(aside from another distraction from my work), is simply to practice my writing. Eventually, I want to be an author of fantasy-fiction novels. A popular example would be Harry Potter I suppose, but less wands and spells and broomsticks oriented. Hey, maybe I’ll even pick up a few fans while I’m writing on here! If not, that’s fine, I think depression’s a good source of inspiration is it not? I’m just kidding! Oh, and please catch that now, I generally write with a sarcastic tone, so if I sound like a PMSing, teenaged girl just assume that I’m not serious. If I am serious and I sound like that I’d just as soon prefer you go ahead and assume that I am being sarcastic.
Anyways, that’s me in a very vague, and relatively large nutshell. If you havent noticed I need to work on my summarization as well as sticking to my topic as well. Hopefully this will be good practice for me. If not, well at least I’m not doing homework. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy it!