Saturday, September 18, 2010

On A Coffee Break...



So, it's really late at night and I just finished all my last minute packing. I'm sorry if I haven't been able to comment on any blogs lately, but both my laptops broke down on me this week. YES! This week, my last week before moving into my college dorm room, but no worries, I got one of them fixed. I will be offline for a week with the whole moving in and trying to adjust to my new schedule, so check out some of the older blog posts that you never got a chance to read or you can just wait until I come back online. Please don't forget about me! I will also respond to all of your comments a.s.a.p. when I can! And remember: write on!

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

A Mental Snack (34)



Share your thoughts...


"Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to." ~ John Ed Pearce

What is your definition of home? It can be abstract or concrete. It can be the four walls that surround you, the hugs from your friends, that place you never visited but want to, etc. Tell us about your home. 

Monday, September 13, 2010

Burned: A Poem


Play with fire little girl,
But beware of getting burned,
She burned her photographs,
Her albums, her scrapbooks, her memories,
The ones of her childhood, friends, and birthday parties,
Considered them “trash,”
Watch them turn black,
Crumple up and simmer,
 As she smiled and the wind blew,
All of it disappeared,
Scattered,
Throughout the four corners of the world.

She wears these big, black boots,
As she walks down the cemented sidewalk,
Still with that smile on her face,
She had a lighter in her hand
That she would turn on and off
With a flick of her wrist,
On,
Off,
On,
Off.

It was night and she planned on revenge,
On the whole world,
She would make it the hell that it really is,
She took the lighter,
On,
She lit the streets on fire,
One by one,
Parading through the streets,
Trees shed their fiery leaves,
Houses and buildings became infernos,
And she laughed ‘til she fell on her knees,
Still lighter in hand,
She tried to stand,
But couldn’t get up.
Sometimes the pressure of the world was too much,
Her laughs turned to tears
But no amount of water could stop the embers in her heart,
She was broken, unable to fix,
So she began putting fire to everything she knew and loved,
Because then her pain would go away, she thought
It wasn’t there anymore to remind her of what she was,
A slut because of the streets.
She wiped her tears away with the back of her fist,
The lighter was turned off,
All that was left was her sitting in the center of her own personal hell,
Surrounded by the fires she created,
Not being able to stand,
She let the fires destroy,
She let them take everything from her hands,
Including her life,
As the flames ate her feet,
She didn’t bother to move,
She dropped her lighter,
And let the fires consume.

The only thing left was her silver lighter on the floor,
Turned off forever,
And a charred, black body of a girl we all once knew.

Goodbye, Amy. 

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Sweet Darkness: A Poem


The lights in one house go out,
One by one,
The street lamps turn off,
The fireflies glow
And so do the headlights of cars.
Soon every house does the same,
Darkness grows in the city,
Slowly, the world shuts off all its lights,
Without a fight,
The flip of a switch from every country,
It was their master plan,
So that the world may see the universe,
So that people can gaze at the stars,
See the vastness of the galaxy,
All in one night,
The beauty of being so small
The beauty of living in a universe so vast
Space was what they saw with wondering eyes
In all its prowess,
In all its might,
Shooting stars flew,
Planets shined, while stars burned bright,
They all lost their breath that night,
Watching the giant moon
Surrounded by everything,
The satellites in space,
And the pictures in books could never match this moment
This moment in history
When every source of light
Disappeared for just a few moments
And the darkness was welcomed,
“Oh, sweet darkness stay a bit longer,”
Was what they all wished together.


 If you were to wake up anywhere in the world tomorrow morning, where would it be? 

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

A Mental Snack (33)



Share your thoughts...


"When I was 5 years old, my mom always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down 'happy.' They told me I didn't understand the assignment and I told them they didn't understand life." ~ Anonymous


Name one thing that makes you happy, there doesn't even need to be reason. It can be about yourself, your home, your environment. 

Monday, September 6, 2010

The Kidnapper's Tale: A Poem


He takes the notebook from his pocket,
Puts his back against a sturdy tree,
Turns a few pages,
And watches people with observant eyes,
Pen in hand,
He writes what he sees.

In the shade, wearing a hoodie and some jeans,
Blonde hair escapes his hood,
He quickly stuffs his hair back,
No one notice that he watches them all,
What they do in the park,
Like taking notes of lab rats,
Don’t you agree?
His pen scribbles blue ink
On the parchment of lined-paper.

The people run and laugh and enjoy,
He writes about the girls and the boys,
The women and the men,
The aged and the young,
But not for too long,
Until he has the information he needs,
Then he decides to leave.

Walk across the grass
And onto the concrete floor,
He goes to see the ice cream man
About the plan.
He whispers into the ice cream vendor’s ears,
To make someone disappear.
“The one with the red coat, the boy,” he says,
The vendor merely nods his head.

The blonde man walks off with his notebook tucked back into his jeans,
No one ever saw the conversation,
No one ever saw the blonde haired man,
No one ever saw the red-coat boy again
Unless the boy’s parents paid the ransom full
Or he was dead.

The parents paid,
Their boy was saved,
But the process would happen again
To other little boys and girls
That the blonde haired man would watch.
Sometimes they would be saved,
And sometimes not.
But he didn’t mind,
Since he was making money from every other ransom,
And he didn’t do just one a day either,
Seven boys or girls kidnapped in a single afternoon,
And give the parents a call,
Hear their sobs and cries over the telephone static,
But he didn’t care.

He didn’t care because he used to be one of these same girls and boys,
This blonde man had a heart of stone because of what had happened to him before,
His past is dark, his past is secret,
No one knows, no one asks,
All the others know that it happened,
That’s why he was here,
Writing the notebooks and notebooks of names,
Addresses,
Descriptions,
Drawing faces,
Sketches,
Telephone numbers,
Thoughts of possible ransoms,
In that tiny little notebook,
But no one ever noticed,
How much he was watching their families,
They just thought he was at the park,
Or on the subway,
Or in the school,
Or in the mall,
Writing something that they wouldn’t, that they didn’t, care about.


Are you ever paranoid and feel like you're being watched? Where and when? Has there ever been a time when your paranoia has actually saved you from something or someone? 


Saturday, September 4, 2010

The Answer to Life



“Why am I alive?”

I’ve asked this question so many times and couldn’t find an answer. I’ve asked teachers, friends, parents, and I don’t blame them for not answering the question. I don’t blame them for not knowing the answer.

Why are we alive?

 I believe we are here for a reason. We are here to save a person, a person much like ourselves from destruction, from pain, from suffering. We will be the ones to put a smile on their faces and be their crutch. Tell them it is okay and give them a big hug. Wipe their tears away with our thumbs. We are there for them.
            
I finally realized this not too long ago. I realized that I’m here for all those people in my life and that I’m not just a waste of air. I’ve been told that I’m useless, fat, and not worthy of friendship before and I’ve had a rough childhood because of it.  I didn’t trust anyone or anything, only myself. I soon became isolated from society, friends, school, because I didn’t think they were really there for me. I thought friends were manipulative and my family didn’t care for me. These were probably the darkest times in my life, but I eventually found the light when someone smiled my direction and told me that I had made them laugh.
            
I’m no comedian, so don’t get me wrong. When I got a genuine laugh out of someone, when I stepped out of that turtle shell of mine, I realized what it meant to be alive and the reason why.
            
I am here to help people. I don’t know who or what sent me here. God? Buddha? Aliens from space? A random sperm with a random egg? However, I do know that I was sent to be alive and not hate the world. I was sent to see the goodness in it and put smiles on people’s faces. To tutor my next door neighbors and not only help them with homework but also help them find a true friend. To hug a person when they are down, peck my girl friends on the cheek to cheer them up, and to influence people someway or somehow to follow their dreams.

That’s why I am here.

Do you have a different answer for being alive? Have you influenced someone for the better? Has anyone influenced you for the better? Tell us your story.


RAFFI (Not Rafi): 

Well, probably my biggest influence was my grandma and when she died a lot of things changed in my life. I no longer had a mother-like figure that I could rely on at home, because my mom would work until five in the afternoon. When I got home, I wouldn’t see that person who would care for me or spoil me, but I became more self reliant because of it. Now, I can cook, do laundry, and generally do housework. I don’t want to forget how she influenced me. It’s better to have something like that and then lose it, than to have nothing at all.
           


"Why am I alive?"

There really is no definite answer to that question. But as you have done, Vatche, we can only surmise and speculate what our purpose may be in this world. 

My answer runs along the same lines as your answer, except, I'd like to answer the question a little differently. "Why do I bother living?"

Why am I alive? Not quite sure. But the real question is: Why do I stay alive?

I keep alive for my family and friends. For the people I love. And perhaps I keep myself alive for all those people I haven't met yet, but will be able to make a necessary impact on their lives. Perhaps my purpose is to help others fulfill their purpose. Or perhaps my purpose is to have others help me fulfill my purpose.

Last school year, a good friend of mine lost his grandmother. He was incredibly sad... He looked miserable as he walked up to me at the lunch tables. I could see the hurt in his eyes. The hurt in his eyes reflected the hurt I felt when my friends died. 

As I stared at him in that moment, I realized that he was tired of telling his story and hearing people weakly offer an, "I'm sorry".

I knew that "I'm sorry" just didn't cut it. These people tried to sympathize with him sure, but "I'm sorry" just sounded hollow.

No. I knew right then that I would have him sit down next to me and that I would serve as a testimony to him. Because he was sick of the sympathy. What he needed was empathy. Someone who could actually relate to him instead of utter those weak, "I'm sorry's".

So, he elaborated on the story of his grandmother to me. I didn't need to ask him to tell me—he just opened up. Like close friends do. Nothing needs to be said. It's almost like this telepathic connection we share.

After he finished, a bit breathless and teary eyed from having described the last time he saw his grandmother alive, I nodded at him. And then, I told him my stories.

I told him how two of my friends died quite recently. It had only been approximately a year for one of my friends, and my other one had died mere months ago. I relayed to him my great sorrow, my grief, and my furious, bitter anger. I told him everything. I related with him. I gently explained that what he was feeling was normal. It was natural. He was only human. These are the emotions we usually feel when someone we love has passed away.

I didn't tell him that "it was going to be okay" like everyone else did. I didn't tell him "they're in a better place now" like everyone else did. I refused to offer him the generic responses to a death only because he deserved a real answer. He deserved more than the simple pity others gave him.

I told him, "Right now, I know you're not okay. And truthfully, you probably won't be okay. Not for a while. It's going to hurt today. It's going to hurt the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. It's going to hurt months after it has happened. Maybe even years. But I can promise you that it will hurt less everyday, to the point where you won't be crying every time you mention her. Gradually, you will be okay again. You will smile again. You will be happy again. Sadness and anger only last for a season. They come and go, as does happiness. Apparently, happiness has left you, but it will be back. And after happiness leaves and sadness and anger fill it, it will be back again. And again. And again."

By showing him that he was not alone—that there was someone out there who actually shared his pain— I saw him cheer up a little. We understood each other. And we would make it through this. Together.

In summation, I don't know why I am alive. But I do know that I resume living my life for moments like these, where I can be of help to someone and conversely, they can be of help to me. Humanity... it's a beautiful thing.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

A Mental Snack (32)



Share your thoughts...


"The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think: Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough." ~ William Saroyan


Why do you think we are alive in this world?