When they told me I would be jumping off of a 40 foot cliff, I thought they were joking. But yet, there it was, the jagged cliffs before me. Death itself looming over my head, the boat falling in its shadow. I stood on the deck, looking at the cliffs as we passed them by to find a place to dock. I saw the people clambering about. It looked like chaos. And, yet, then, every now and then, a body would fling itself into the perilous free-fall, board straight, eyes shut tightly, and then, they would hit. Hit the water with a whoosh of water rising up as they came down, vanishing into the dark blue. I wondered how far it was, all the way down there. The motor turned off as we neared a collection of boats and people. It was going to be go time soon. I wasn't sure if I was mentally prepared for this. I'd never gone cliff-diving. No, I had never really been to any sort of large drop like this. Or, perhaps I had, but I never lingered by the edge. That didn't settle well with my phobia of heights.
I looked at Justin and Jamie and took in a deep breath before plunging in after them. Compared to the hot day, the water was a nice refresher. We lingered by the shore a few minutes before deciding to make our way up the slope. They took me up to the smallest one, only ten feet. I guess they wanted to get a bit of training in before I actually tackled the tallest of the three cliffs. Jamie told me to jump, and I watched her vanish over the stone side. I looked down, looked after her, watching the little bubbles as they rose around where she had fallen in. A few seconds later and she surfaced, long hair slicked back and her eyes looking up at me. Waiting.
And I don't think I thought much after I jumped the first time. There wasn't terribly a lot of airtime either. My feet hit the surface just as hers had. And before I knew it? I had surfaced, with the vague image of the water glaring up at me from so far below etched into my retinas.
We skipped the second tallest one because the other two were so eager. I climbed up the same slope after them, except we took a different route, past the ten footer, and up towards the higher reaches. It took a few minutes, but we got there, on the giant stone overhang, looking down at the water. And the other two told me I was first to go. I don't know what was going through my head- I can't remember. I could only look out at the sunny, clear blue sky, at the horizon where it met the shining waters. And I could look down the cliff, down at the waters that seemed a lifetime away. Peer pressure, though. That was what flung me over the side, hurtling down.
My feet left the stone and I know I heard my heart travel up somewhere next to my eardrums. Lub dub, lub dub... My eyes, shut at first, snapped open in the free-fall, and while my ears listened to the symphony of my frantic heartbeats and the whistling of wind in my ears, my eyes saw the horizon as it lay even to me, parallel and the same. I felt like I could reach out and grab the skies. But with each second, the water was rushing towards me, like an open maw waiting for food to fall in.
Why did you choose to do this?
It's all their fault, it's all their fault, it's all their fault...!
No, you're the one that jumped.
Screw it. This is too much time to think.
More like too much time to regret.
And there were moments, or perhaps something longer than just moments, that were flooded with regret. Regret for jumping, regret for climbing up the cliff in the first place, regret for everything that had led up to the eternal falling...
When I hit the water, it hurt. But the cold was paralyzing, drowning my senses and I sank- like I always do. And sometime after my eyes had shut due from impact and fear, they snapped open. Open in the murky world that surrounded me, gazing into darkness around me. It was cold, and I could feel the chilling tendrils crawl across my body, still recovering from the shock of the landing. My arms flailed in the waters, and I gazed down- down into what seemed like a never-ending abyss, an open mouth into a place I dared not to venture. And the darkness did not end, was not penetrated by the light. It seemed eerie, uncanny, how the depths of the lake could be so foreign. I didn't know what could be lurking beneath me. I didn't know what could be resting at the bottom. It was uncomfortable.
And so, I looked up.
Up at the world I knew, seemingly so far away with my weight dragging me deeper into the abyssal maw. I kicked a few times, reached upwards at the shimmering, waving image of a sun that was lifetimes away. I reached for the cliff I had plummeted off of, the heavenly light guiding me upwards and away from the shadows below. I kicked. Clawed. Scratched at the sky that grew larger, closer with each stroke. The light was a welcome sight, much nicer than the unknown below me. My lungs didn't scream for air like you see in movies. My mind didn't race as fast as you'd have expected. My heart, though, it still hammered from the fall. I need the light... I thought, my lungs beginning to twinge with the need to breathe. And I neared the surface, heart suddenly beginning to beat with something different, something new. Longing for air. Longing for sunlight. Something to brighten up the darkness around me.
And with a rush of air and water droplets bursting forth, I broke the surface.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
013- Fragmentations of the Subconscious
I'm going to tell you something not many people know about me.
I had a dream once, several years ago, probably towards the end of my 8th grade year. I like to say my dreams aren't very original, even though they're seriously weird sometimes. They like to have recurring items or themes- usually involving someone chasing me and wanting me to be captured (not dead, just captured- imprisoned) or having some abnormal ability. And these dreams come frequently, mind you. Several times a week at least, being similar in idea but with variation. I could be running through the school, I could be running through a woods, I could be driving through Edmond- it just depends. But there was once a time where I didn't dream about these things. I didn't dream about being some hunted, cornered animal, desperate to get away, desperate to be free.
I dreamed there was a world somewhere in the heart of darkness, where the only light that could be seen was fake and artificial, barely strong enough to light the streets of a devoid New York City-esque setting. And the buildings that hung overhead were a dark violet streamed with tiny red lights, and decorated with obsidian windows. And the people walking the streets were hunched over, inhuman shapes with a cloak laid over them, faces shrouded in mystery, and placid eyes an unnatural crimson glow with no pupils. And they walked- in swaying lines throughout the streets with no interaction. No words. No noise. Not even as they walked, not even as their covered feet hit the cobblestone pathways. And it was amazing how I could see this all so vividly, looking so real despite how ridiculous it all seemed. There were things, though, that I could not see, but I knew. I knew they existed, that things were happening on the far sides of the city. I knew there was a man searching for something. And another waited for something to come to him in a gothic church just down the road.
And there I was- me. Only, I knew it wasn't me, because even though I could control myself (something that rarely happens in my dreams, surprisingly enough) and what my thought process was, I was not entirely myself. I felt power at my fingertips. I felt unafraid of the shadows closing in around me. But that was before I realized that the man searching was looking for me. The man waiting was waiting for me. And the words that flashed through my mind, noiseless but ever present and strong, were the words, "I need to find him." But it wasn't talking about the one waiting for me. It wasn't talking about the searcher. I don't know who it was talking about.
I crept in the shadows, but it seemed as though my skin was illuminating in the unknown realm, the fell world I was trapped in. It was impossible to blend in with the wraiths that walked in their single-file lines, lockstep, mindless followers. Neutral as they were, I felt an immediate dislike for them- an aversion. And my footsteps fell softly in rhythm with theirs, though my pace quickened to avoid their lines, their crimson gazes, and I cast a wary look over my shoulder occasionally. Do not get caught - some unknown voice warned me in silence. It didn't take long to find the gothic cathedral, towering over the street in its ghastly glory, its spires catching the dim light and casting eerie shadows and posing as an uncanny silhouette against the horizon. I drew back in abhorrence for the supernatural aura that radiated in the air. It was asphyxiating, but I forced myself up the steps, though the steps sounded more like gunshots now, accompanied by a gentle, yet allegro-paced percussion of heartbeats. Thump-thump... Thump-thump... Thump-thump... Hand drawing open the massive doors, I let the pale light filter into the pitch-black interior of the building, a dark wind pushing against my back and my long brown hair whipping forth, slightly obstructing my view.
I walked in, the back wall littered and infested with what appeared to be darkness itself, where a cross should have been, where Christ's broken form should have hung. The mosaic windows were mold-infected and grimy. I stopped in the center of the room, the pews to my left and right shattered and broken, the wood decaying. And through the darkness, I saw his form, limber, delicate, and a small glow amidst the shadows. He stirred, from his sitting position in front of the podium, to a more up-right stance. His eyes were the color of a partially veiled sky- a pale blue-gray that haunted, his hair little auburn ringlets, and his skin by far the fairest I had seen. A halo of light circulated about him, matching his plain white attire. And yet, atop his head, he wore a golden, almost laced-together crown.
He was an angel. Or at least his outwardly appearance suggested it. There were no harps, no wings as in movies or paintings. And yet, I believed, at first, this was what he was... And yet, there was that indescribable chill in my heart that rooted my feet to the stone floor, and I watched, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. Or perhaps he was a devil in sheep's clothing. Certainly the fair skin and ringlets suggested otherwise, but the slightest traces of malicious intent seemed to decorate his knowing smile. No... More like knowing smirk, as he rose with grand confidence, and offered his hand to me. "I've been waiting for you."
"Where is he?" I demanded, fists clenched at my sides.
"He's here," he answered, voice a sickly sweet melody I wanted to drown out. "And I'll let you see him."
I've always been intuitive. I always know when there's something going on behind me... Even if I choose not to acknowledge it. I turned, though, acknowledging this- an intruder in our conversation. An armored servant of the non-angel, no doubt, staying in the shadows, reminding me that I was alone and outnumbered. I jerked my head back to the front of the church, trying to force my voice to sound more adamant, "You didn't answer my question. Where is he?" I was answered with a laugh- I always hated it when I was answered with a laugh. Because it always told me that they knew something I didn't.
He looked at me, like an adult to a child- almost in that insulting, pitying way, with his voice almost tainted with melancholy, "There is a gateway," He said, and I didn't understand what he was getting at. I listened in uncomfortable, mistrusting silence. "You will be free to go to him there... If you care enough for him." A gateway. I didn't understand why even the devil himself seemed to fear what was beyond the gate. But there wasn't much time for contemplation. I was here for one reason.
"I'll go."
"You're not scared?" His voice was like honey, though it left me with disgust. I allowed my lip to curl in displeasure as he chuckled. "You never know... What lies beyond the Gateway." That was when the capital 'G' was tokened to the name, when I understood that there was some other factor about this gate that made it unlike the lifeless objects I passed through to get here. If even demons feared this sort of paranormal, who was I to challenge it?
"It doesn't matter. I'm going after him," I was always a stubborn person. I knew it would lead to my downfall one day. And that day had to come sooner or later.
"Are you sure?"
The daunting final warning.
"I'll be back for you."
The malicious final threat.
"I'll be waiting... Eagerly," His voice was a song- mocking me. I bit back a retort and turned to leave, my back facing him. It crossed my mind that it was all a ploy to get me to lower my guard. But no move was made- not even from the silent observer ducked in the shadows of a crust-covered pillar. The doors flung open before my cold hands as I stepped out into the dim light of the dark city. Not to my surprise, I saw the lines of soul-less entities, still weaving like ants through the grass. I turned, taking a path around the far side of the cathedral, following nothing but instinct at whatever dark breeze guided my feet. And on the other side of the crumbling, cracked, gothic structure, I saw it- the four center pillars keeping up an ancient, gothic overhang. And as my feet began down the path towards what appeared to be a massive set of iron gates, I felt the fear began to stab viciously at my heart, sending doubts hurtling through my mind.
You don't even know what's on the other side.
You can't do this.
You're going to die.
And yet, I stood before the formidable set of gates- so normal, but so abnormal all at once. I reached up, traced my hand along the bars, feeling the cold, ancient metal under my fingertips, then craned my neck back to get the full image of what I was facing. If I had not passed into the heart of despair, then I knew I was bound for it- that, and who knew what else. In the aura surrounding the Gateway, I felt so much- wordless emotions that almost sent my knees to collapse and tears to formulate in my eyes. It was a land even more desolate than this- without light entirely, and perhaps more than that. Perhaps even without God and his mercy, his peace, a place where He could not even seen what was happening to one of His children.
But I couldn't think of that. I couldn't think of my fears, my hopes, my dreams, and what I was leaving behind if I should never come back. Because my right hand clasped the lock on the Gateway, and my other hand reinforced the first as I gave a sudden, ungentle tug. The lock fell away, clattering to the ground, and the creaking of doors opening accompanied a sudden gale that burst forth, drawing me closer, even as my feet did not move. It began to gape at me, its secrets still shrouded by shadows, still unknown, still so uncanny...
... And then my alarm went off.
And that was it. The end of the dream, the end of the most vivid, intense experience of my subconscious. And there were no answers- years later, even, after I thought about it, wondered if I should have controlled myself to do something else- like not open the Gateway, or perhaps opened it faster so that I could have had some sort of satisfaction. But there was nothing. No answer as to who I was looking for, no answer as to why I was there- not even a name to the face of delicate evil I had encountered in the cathedral. No reasoning for the mindless creatures that roamed the streets. Nothing. And that was the most frustrating part of the story.
I tried to think of what could have been on the other side. And no decent answer has revealed itself to me. And over four years after, I've been left unhappy with the ending- too many loose ends for my liking. The intensity of the dream was beyond anything else I'd experienced- I lived and breathed each moment of it as though it were life, were reality. It seemed so unfair that it should have ended so abruptly, where I knew there could have been the means for a decent story, a story that perhaps could've done more than entertain.
And so I wait. I wait to see what happens to my alternate universe self, the one held in limbo for many years now. I wait to see what happens on the far side of the Gateway. I wait to see who I'm looking for and why. And if I ever do come back for my vengeance- because I know I do seek vengeance against the cathedral-dweller, but I'm never told why. And perhaps that's the most meaningful part of the dream entirely. Not to say that I believe each dream has a meaning, but perhaps some do more than others.
Perhaps there was need to fear the Gateway- which is what mankind does not know.
And yet... I stormed into the heart of darkness. I stormed into the unknown that is feared- though, perhaps it is feared because it is not understood, as I could not understand the things that orbited it, the feelings that rushed through me even upon nearing the object. I could not understand, but I could understand the danger... Though the danger was quickly surpassed by the need to enter in spite of the hazards. If you wanted me to analyze it, I would tell you that it was a narrative on how mankind must throw itself into the uncertainty in order to carry on. But who can truly fathom the secrets of the subconscious?
I had a dream once, several years ago, probably towards the end of my 8th grade year. I like to say my dreams aren't very original, even though they're seriously weird sometimes. They like to have recurring items or themes- usually involving someone chasing me and wanting me to be captured (not dead, just captured- imprisoned) or having some abnormal ability. And these dreams come frequently, mind you. Several times a week at least, being similar in idea but with variation. I could be running through the school, I could be running through a woods, I could be driving through Edmond- it just depends. But there was once a time where I didn't dream about these things. I didn't dream about being some hunted, cornered animal, desperate to get away, desperate to be free.
I dreamed there was a world somewhere in the heart of darkness, where the only light that could be seen was fake and artificial, barely strong enough to light the streets of a devoid New York City-esque setting. And the buildings that hung overhead were a dark violet streamed with tiny red lights, and decorated with obsidian windows. And the people walking the streets were hunched over, inhuman shapes with a cloak laid over them, faces shrouded in mystery, and placid eyes an unnatural crimson glow with no pupils. And they walked- in swaying lines throughout the streets with no interaction. No words. No noise. Not even as they walked, not even as their covered feet hit the cobblestone pathways. And it was amazing how I could see this all so vividly, looking so real despite how ridiculous it all seemed. There were things, though, that I could not see, but I knew. I knew they existed, that things were happening on the far sides of the city. I knew there was a man searching for something. And another waited for something to come to him in a gothic church just down the road.
And there I was- me. Only, I knew it wasn't me, because even though I could control myself (something that rarely happens in my dreams, surprisingly enough) and what my thought process was, I was not entirely myself. I felt power at my fingertips. I felt unafraid of the shadows closing in around me. But that was before I realized that the man searching was looking for me. The man waiting was waiting for me. And the words that flashed through my mind, noiseless but ever present and strong, were the words, "I need to find him." But it wasn't talking about the one waiting for me. It wasn't talking about the searcher. I don't know who it was talking about.
I crept in the shadows, but it seemed as though my skin was illuminating in the unknown realm, the fell world I was trapped in. It was impossible to blend in with the wraiths that walked in their single-file lines, lockstep, mindless followers. Neutral as they were, I felt an immediate dislike for them- an aversion. And my footsteps fell softly in rhythm with theirs, though my pace quickened to avoid their lines, their crimson gazes, and I cast a wary look over my shoulder occasionally. Do not get caught - some unknown voice warned me in silence. It didn't take long to find the gothic cathedral, towering over the street in its ghastly glory, its spires catching the dim light and casting eerie shadows and posing as an uncanny silhouette against the horizon. I drew back in abhorrence for the supernatural aura that radiated in the air. It was asphyxiating, but I forced myself up the steps, though the steps sounded more like gunshots now, accompanied by a gentle, yet allegro-paced percussion of heartbeats. Thump-thump... Thump-thump... Thump-thump... Hand drawing open the massive doors, I let the pale light filter into the pitch-black interior of the building, a dark wind pushing against my back and my long brown hair whipping forth, slightly obstructing my view.
I walked in, the back wall littered and infested with what appeared to be darkness itself, where a cross should have been, where Christ's broken form should have hung. The mosaic windows were mold-infected and grimy. I stopped in the center of the room, the pews to my left and right shattered and broken, the wood decaying. And through the darkness, I saw his form, limber, delicate, and a small glow amidst the shadows. He stirred, from his sitting position in front of the podium, to a more up-right stance. His eyes were the color of a partially veiled sky- a pale blue-gray that haunted, his hair little auburn ringlets, and his skin by far the fairest I had seen. A halo of light circulated about him, matching his plain white attire. And yet, atop his head, he wore a golden, almost laced-together crown.
He was an angel. Or at least his outwardly appearance suggested it. There were no harps, no wings as in movies or paintings. And yet, I believed, at first, this was what he was... And yet, there was that indescribable chill in my heart that rooted my feet to the stone floor, and I watched, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. Or perhaps he was a devil in sheep's clothing. Certainly the fair skin and ringlets suggested otherwise, but the slightest traces of malicious intent seemed to decorate his knowing smile. No... More like knowing smirk, as he rose with grand confidence, and offered his hand to me. "I've been waiting for you."
"Where is he?" I demanded, fists clenched at my sides.
"He's here," he answered, voice a sickly sweet melody I wanted to drown out. "And I'll let you see him."
I've always been intuitive. I always know when there's something going on behind me... Even if I choose not to acknowledge it. I turned, though, acknowledging this- an intruder in our conversation. An armored servant of the non-angel, no doubt, staying in the shadows, reminding me that I was alone and outnumbered. I jerked my head back to the front of the church, trying to force my voice to sound more adamant, "You didn't answer my question. Where is he?" I was answered with a laugh- I always hated it when I was answered with a laugh. Because it always told me that they knew something I didn't.
He looked at me, like an adult to a child- almost in that insulting, pitying way, with his voice almost tainted with melancholy, "There is a gateway," He said, and I didn't understand what he was getting at. I listened in uncomfortable, mistrusting silence. "You will be free to go to him there... If you care enough for him." A gateway. I didn't understand why even the devil himself seemed to fear what was beyond the gate. But there wasn't much time for contemplation. I was here for one reason.
"I'll go."
"You're not scared?" His voice was like honey, though it left me with disgust. I allowed my lip to curl in displeasure as he chuckled. "You never know... What lies beyond the Gateway." That was when the capital 'G' was tokened to the name, when I understood that there was some other factor about this gate that made it unlike the lifeless objects I passed through to get here. If even demons feared this sort of paranormal, who was I to challenge it?
"It doesn't matter. I'm going after him," I was always a stubborn person. I knew it would lead to my downfall one day. And that day had to come sooner or later.
"Are you sure?"
The daunting final warning.
"I'll be back for you."
The malicious final threat.
"I'll be waiting... Eagerly," His voice was a song- mocking me. I bit back a retort and turned to leave, my back facing him. It crossed my mind that it was all a ploy to get me to lower my guard. But no move was made- not even from the silent observer ducked in the shadows of a crust-covered pillar. The doors flung open before my cold hands as I stepped out into the dim light of the dark city. Not to my surprise, I saw the lines of soul-less entities, still weaving like ants through the grass. I turned, taking a path around the far side of the cathedral, following nothing but instinct at whatever dark breeze guided my feet. And on the other side of the crumbling, cracked, gothic structure, I saw it- the four center pillars keeping up an ancient, gothic overhang. And as my feet began down the path towards what appeared to be a massive set of iron gates, I felt the fear began to stab viciously at my heart, sending doubts hurtling through my mind.
You don't even know what's on the other side.
You can't do this.
You're going to die.
And yet, I stood before the formidable set of gates- so normal, but so abnormal all at once. I reached up, traced my hand along the bars, feeling the cold, ancient metal under my fingertips, then craned my neck back to get the full image of what I was facing. If I had not passed into the heart of despair, then I knew I was bound for it- that, and who knew what else. In the aura surrounding the Gateway, I felt so much- wordless emotions that almost sent my knees to collapse and tears to formulate in my eyes. It was a land even more desolate than this- without light entirely, and perhaps more than that. Perhaps even without God and his mercy, his peace, a place where He could not even seen what was happening to one of His children.
But I couldn't think of that. I couldn't think of my fears, my hopes, my dreams, and what I was leaving behind if I should never come back. Because my right hand clasped the lock on the Gateway, and my other hand reinforced the first as I gave a sudden, ungentle tug. The lock fell away, clattering to the ground, and the creaking of doors opening accompanied a sudden gale that burst forth, drawing me closer, even as my feet did not move. It began to gape at me, its secrets still shrouded by shadows, still unknown, still so uncanny...
... And then my alarm went off.
And that was it. The end of the dream, the end of the most vivid, intense experience of my subconscious. And there were no answers- years later, even, after I thought about it, wondered if I should have controlled myself to do something else- like not open the Gateway, or perhaps opened it faster so that I could have had some sort of satisfaction. But there was nothing. No answer as to who I was looking for, no answer as to why I was there- not even a name to the face of delicate evil I had encountered in the cathedral. No reasoning for the mindless creatures that roamed the streets. Nothing. And that was the most frustrating part of the story.
I tried to think of what could have been on the other side. And no decent answer has revealed itself to me. And over four years after, I've been left unhappy with the ending- too many loose ends for my liking. The intensity of the dream was beyond anything else I'd experienced- I lived and breathed each moment of it as though it were life, were reality. It seemed so unfair that it should have ended so abruptly, where I knew there could have been the means for a decent story, a story that perhaps could've done more than entertain.
And so I wait. I wait to see what happens to my alternate universe self, the one held in limbo for many years now. I wait to see what happens on the far side of the Gateway. I wait to see who I'm looking for and why. And if I ever do come back for my vengeance- because I know I do seek vengeance against the cathedral-dweller, but I'm never told why. And perhaps that's the most meaningful part of the dream entirely. Not to say that I believe each dream has a meaning, but perhaps some do more than others.
Perhaps there was need to fear the Gateway- which is what mankind does not know.
And yet... I stormed into the heart of darkness. I stormed into the unknown that is feared- though, perhaps it is feared because it is not understood, as I could not understand the things that orbited it, the feelings that rushed through me even upon nearing the object. I could not understand, but I could understand the danger... Though the danger was quickly surpassed by the need to enter in spite of the hazards. If you wanted me to analyze it, I would tell you that it was a narrative on how mankind must throw itself into the uncertainty in order to carry on. But who can truly fathom the secrets of the subconscious?
012- The Hero-Villain Complex
"Some may call it a curse,
A life like mine.
But others- a blessing.
It's certainly a lonely life,
But a fulfilling one at best.
It's my cross to bear,
And I bear it gladly.
Someone has to take a stand against evil-
Why should it not be me?"
- Why Not Me by Within Temptation
If you had asked me four years ago if I was the hero or the villain, I would have answered, deliberately, that I was the hero. If you want my honest opinion, I would tell you that we're always biased towards ourselves. It's why excuses exist, we can't admit that we're ever wrong, ever corrupt, ever slipping in our lives. Mankind is stubborn, self-righteous. We always think we're the hero. We identify ourselves as the protagonist, like in literature. We want to think we're going to win and we want to think that our victory is justifiable.
In a way, we confuse protagonist with hero, because they seem alike in many aspects. Heroes are the people you see in movies, the ones that are fake, the ones that are predictable, the ones that I started not identifying with. Because how could I possibly be like that, I wondered, when I knew that the selfless archetype was not my archetype, and I would not lie to myself and say that I did not feel the burning desire of ambition in my heart.
I never understood some things about heroes, though, especially the hypocrisy. Heroes are motivated by "divine retribution", are they not, and is that not just a fancier way of saying "revenge"? And do heroes not do things out of love? Villains are similar, though, their love might be for the darker aspects of life. It's all a matter of stereotypes, in the long run...
I became a villain when I began to question what all I had believed about myself and the world. So I guess you could say I became a villain a little over a year ago, when revenge just began sounding oh-so-satisfying, when I was tired of the hero losing at everything she tried... When people pushed the little innocent, look-for-good-in-others hero over the edge. Because each wound got salt poured into it, and after awhile, salty wounds get irritable. And before long, it began to fester and burn, eating away at the skin like maggots to a carcass- every sin, every error, everything I should've said but never did. All the silences that ever haunted me, tearing into my soul like ravenous beast, and that was when I began to show little specks of corruption. It wasn't the actions, the decisions I made that led up to this change- it was the mindset, the treasonous thoughts. Murder doesn't make a villain. Thievery doesn't make a villain. It's all in their mind.
And yet, I refuse to think that they are the only dangerous ones, because anyone has the potential to be dangerous in any given situation. Villains are only the ones that accept their flaws, maybe even work with them out of ambition. And when I realized what the heroes were shutting out of their hearts, perhaps I began to hate them as any stereotypical villain would. I hated the ignorance, and yes, even the arrogance, because it stained the air and tainted the earth- disgusting me. And yet, I found such ideals everywhere I turned my head, and I wanted to merely pat the victim of ignorance on the head and tell them that their brain was merely on back-order and would be delivered soon. Because, that was when I realized that knowledge, caution, corruption- yes, that was dangerous. But so was the blaring offensive arrogance that decayed the world's ideals- the one-sided, unopened minds that were so easy to label, turn their noses up in the air, and declare their own purity. But one can even question the accuracy of the purity of arrogance and ignorance. Perhaps the latter could be forgiven, but the former not so easily.
When I became a villain, that was when my mind opened up further than before. I didn't see things as bad- I saw them as an alternate option. Something available, but not necessarily appropriate by most standards. Don't get me wrong- I understood that some things were poisonous to the heart and mind, and were contemptible. Does it mean that I never considered them? No. In fact, I considered many things, appealing towards my darker side, the one that had been oppressed for many years.
But I suppose I had to have a wake-up call eventually, and that wake up call came in the span of a few months, watching the world as it worked and turned around me. Even in the heroes, I saw corruption and the ideals of a villain. I saw people falling from grace to my left and right, and yet they still held their heads high when they ought to have joined their brethren in the shadows of night. I saw blood flow from intangible wounds that they carved into their victims. Hearts broken, faith shattered- and yet the offenders called themselves heroes. And I laughed. Bitterly. Because true villains would never call themselves a hero. They were cut from some other material, a cloth I couldn't identify, but immediately hated. Immediately wanted to destroy.
Some habits die hard, I understand. And perhaps it was the old habit of a hero wanting to save the weak that led me to begin what quest I thought God laid at my feet. Corruption poisoned lives, I understood, and, perhaps from that thought, I understood that similar poison had led me to my darkened mindset as of late. Yes- at that moment, I understood. I understood that I'd been thrown into the perspective of villainy not by self-righteous heroes or merely coincidence, but by something fell and darker than even what things I had contemplated. And I understood, then, that more lives would be poisoned as mine had if life were to continue this way, with no interference. Nothing to destroy the disease. I had to find the vaccine to this problem, I knew. No. No, I had to be the vaccine.
Because there was a handful of evil out there clawing gashes into hearts, hanging faith in the gallows of someone's mind, parading fears before fearful eyes, and walking away from it all. Unscathed. Unmarred.
And someone had to take a stand against it all.
And why should it not have been me?
A life like mine.
But others- a blessing.
It's certainly a lonely life,
But a fulfilling one at best.
It's my cross to bear,
And I bear it gladly.
Someone has to take a stand against evil-
Why should it not be me?"
- Why Not Me by Within Temptation
If you had asked me four years ago if I was the hero or the villain, I would have answered, deliberately, that I was the hero. If you want my honest opinion, I would tell you that we're always biased towards ourselves. It's why excuses exist, we can't admit that we're ever wrong, ever corrupt, ever slipping in our lives. Mankind is stubborn, self-righteous. We always think we're the hero. We identify ourselves as the protagonist, like in literature. We want to think we're going to win and we want to think that our victory is justifiable.
In a way, we confuse protagonist with hero, because they seem alike in many aspects. Heroes are the people you see in movies, the ones that are fake, the ones that are predictable, the ones that I started not identifying with. Because how could I possibly be like that, I wondered, when I knew that the selfless archetype was not my archetype, and I would not lie to myself and say that I did not feel the burning desire of ambition in my heart.
I never understood some things about heroes, though, especially the hypocrisy. Heroes are motivated by "divine retribution", are they not, and is that not just a fancier way of saying "revenge"? And do heroes not do things out of love? Villains are similar, though, their love might be for the darker aspects of life. It's all a matter of stereotypes, in the long run...
I became a villain when I began to question what all I had believed about myself and the world. So I guess you could say I became a villain a little over a year ago, when revenge just began sounding oh-so-satisfying, when I was tired of the hero losing at everything she tried... When people pushed the little innocent, look-for-good-in-others hero over the edge. Because each wound got salt poured into it, and after awhile, salty wounds get irritable. And before long, it began to fester and burn, eating away at the skin like maggots to a carcass- every sin, every error, everything I should've said but never did. All the silences that ever haunted me, tearing into my soul like ravenous beast, and that was when I began to show little specks of corruption. It wasn't the actions, the decisions I made that led up to this change- it was the mindset, the treasonous thoughts. Murder doesn't make a villain. Thievery doesn't make a villain. It's all in their mind.
And yet, I refuse to think that they are the only dangerous ones, because anyone has the potential to be dangerous in any given situation. Villains are only the ones that accept their flaws, maybe even work with them out of ambition. And when I realized what the heroes were shutting out of their hearts, perhaps I began to hate them as any stereotypical villain would. I hated the ignorance, and yes, even the arrogance, because it stained the air and tainted the earth- disgusting me. And yet, I found such ideals everywhere I turned my head, and I wanted to merely pat the victim of ignorance on the head and tell them that their brain was merely on back-order and would be delivered soon. Because, that was when I realized that knowledge, caution, corruption- yes, that was dangerous. But so was the blaring offensive arrogance that decayed the world's ideals- the one-sided, unopened minds that were so easy to label, turn their noses up in the air, and declare their own purity. But one can even question the accuracy of the purity of arrogance and ignorance. Perhaps the latter could be forgiven, but the former not so easily.
When I became a villain, that was when my mind opened up further than before. I didn't see things as bad- I saw them as an alternate option. Something available, but not necessarily appropriate by most standards. Don't get me wrong- I understood that some things were poisonous to the heart and mind, and were contemptible. Does it mean that I never considered them? No. In fact, I considered many things, appealing towards my darker side, the one that had been oppressed for many years.
But I suppose I had to have a wake-up call eventually, and that wake up call came in the span of a few months, watching the world as it worked and turned around me. Even in the heroes, I saw corruption and the ideals of a villain. I saw people falling from grace to my left and right, and yet they still held their heads high when they ought to have joined their brethren in the shadows of night. I saw blood flow from intangible wounds that they carved into their victims. Hearts broken, faith shattered- and yet the offenders called themselves heroes. And I laughed. Bitterly. Because true villains would never call themselves a hero. They were cut from some other material, a cloth I couldn't identify, but immediately hated. Immediately wanted to destroy.
Some habits die hard, I understand. And perhaps it was the old habit of a hero wanting to save the weak that led me to begin what quest I thought God laid at my feet. Corruption poisoned lives, I understood, and, perhaps from that thought, I understood that similar poison had led me to my darkened mindset as of late. Yes- at that moment, I understood. I understood that I'd been thrown into the perspective of villainy not by self-righteous heroes or merely coincidence, but by something fell and darker than even what things I had contemplated. And I understood, then, that more lives would be poisoned as mine had if life were to continue this way, with no interference. Nothing to destroy the disease. I had to find the vaccine to this problem, I knew. No. No, I had to be the vaccine.
Because there was a handful of evil out there clawing gashes into hearts, hanging faith in the gallows of someone's mind, parading fears before fearful eyes, and walking away from it all. Unscathed. Unmarred.
And someone had to take a stand against it all.
And why should it not have been me?
011- Hate
You could say I hate a lot of things, but I think most people do. I hate peas and cheese. I hate homework. I hate spiders. I hate waking up early for school. I hate being sick. But I figure most people hate things like that. You typically don't hear someone declare that they love homework or being sick. But those are trivial, common types of hatred. There are deeper kinds.
Like how the colonists hated British rule, though, I bet you didn't read this for a history lesson. People tell me that it wasn't hate that led to the Revolution. I don't think it was a spontaneous decision or a slight disagreement that led to the war. If someone's going to start a bloodbath, I'd guess that, well, maybe I would hope that there's something more than boredom fueling it. So, if you're telling me hate is bad... Does that mean you disagree with the Revolutionary War? Should we still be under the British flag because it's simply not okay to hate? I refuse to believe that the Bostonians had their tea party out of fun and I refuse to believe that Jefferson wrote the Declaration out of boredom. And I would like to think that Washington had something better to do on Christmas than cross the Delaware if this was all created from fleeting, purposeless thoughts.
Why do we search for cures and panaceas if we love our diseases? Why do we get vaccinations? To avoid death or disfigurement? Why do we do that? It's not out of love.
Where did the cures come from? Because there had to have been someone somewhere who hated the disease enough to start the journey to find the cure. And they hated it so much that they did find it. They did change fate for someone's life and they altered the world. And some of us call them heroes... But they hated.
In a world without dark, would we know what light is? Would it not just be, because there isn't one or the other, and nothing to compare the two, because there's just the one, and that's all we've ever known. So there would be no words to define them. No word to name them. Would you know what hot is if there was no cold? It would be consistency.
A speaker at Winterfest told me that he converted an entire faculty of a hotel to Christianity in the course of one night. One of his arguments was that if there was no bad in the world, we could never know what the good was. And so, hate is in this world, the same as bad, the same as cold, the same as dark. And without hate, we would never know love, because there would be no spectrum, just the one, just the consistency. There would be no intimacy, no affection. It would be the colorless world that you hear about in books like The Giver.
I'm not saying it's perfectly fine to hate, because I know that hate can be a dangerous animal. It can cause people to shoot to kill, to tear down their enemies ruthlessly- that's not the kind of hate that I speak of. That's the kind that should be condemned, not the kind that yearns for reform- to cure the disease, to forge a country away from corrupted sovereigns, something that can help measure love in someone's life. Just as with anything else you could possibly find in the world, too much of hate is never good. But I never understood why people said not to hate, because hate can be the thing that saves lives. It can be the thing that stops corruption. It can be the thing that cures cancer.
Like how the colonists hated British rule, though, I bet you didn't read this for a history lesson. People tell me that it wasn't hate that led to the Revolution. I don't think it was a spontaneous decision or a slight disagreement that led to the war. If someone's going to start a bloodbath, I'd guess that, well, maybe I would hope that there's something more than boredom fueling it. So, if you're telling me hate is bad... Does that mean you disagree with the Revolutionary War? Should we still be under the British flag because it's simply not okay to hate? I refuse to believe that the Bostonians had their tea party out of fun and I refuse to believe that Jefferson wrote the Declaration out of boredom. And I would like to think that Washington had something better to do on Christmas than cross the Delaware if this was all created from fleeting, purposeless thoughts.
Why do we search for cures and panaceas if we love our diseases? Why do we get vaccinations? To avoid death or disfigurement? Why do we do that? It's not out of love.
Where did the cures come from? Because there had to have been someone somewhere who hated the disease enough to start the journey to find the cure. And they hated it so much that they did find it. They did change fate for someone's life and they altered the world. And some of us call them heroes... But they hated.
In a world without dark, would we know what light is? Would it not just be, because there isn't one or the other, and nothing to compare the two, because there's just the one, and that's all we've ever known. So there would be no words to define them. No word to name them. Would you know what hot is if there was no cold? It would be consistency.
A speaker at Winterfest told me that he converted an entire faculty of a hotel to Christianity in the course of one night. One of his arguments was that if there was no bad in the world, we could never know what the good was. And so, hate is in this world, the same as bad, the same as cold, the same as dark. And without hate, we would never know love, because there would be no spectrum, just the one, just the consistency. There would be no intimacy, no affection. It would be the colorless world that you hear about in books like The Giver.
I'm not saying it's perfectly fine to hate, because I know that hate can be a dangerous animal. It can cause people to shoot to kill, to tear down their enemies ruthlessly- that's not the kind of hate that I speak of. That's the kind that should be condemned, not the kind that yearns for reform- to cure the disease, to forge a country away from corrupted sovereigns, something that can help measure love in someone's life. Just as with anything else you could possibly find in the world, too much of hate is never good. But I never understood why people said not to hate, because hate can be the thing that saves lives. It can be the thing that stops corruption. It can be the thing that cures cancer.
010- Delirious
I knew something was wrong when my music started waving at me.
Sometimes, I get stomachaches. It usually occurs after I've eaten too much something. But I realized, this time, it wasn't because I'd eaten too much of something. It was because my stomach was just angry with the world. I'll admit that my eating habits had been... Well, it would be a joke to say I had eating habits in the first place. My body hates eating sometimes, and that week had been no exception. To be frank, I hadn't been hungry for an entire week, and nothing had really bothered me about it. I was busy all the time. I was a stressed student. There was too much on my mind, and food was just another one of those things I forgot about.
So when my stomach started hurting, it didn't occur to me that I was hungry. It occurred to me that I was, once again, sick with one of those awful stomachaches that didn't go away until I napped for approximately three hours. Usually, I can manage them until the end of the school day, but this particular one was very bothersome. Over and over, I felt something inside twist and stab at me. Pain spread through my torso and I felt as though my entire body was racked in agony. But I didn't let it show- as usual. It was best if the others didn't know I felt like I was about to die. I didn't want for them to worry.
There was a gap of time that I don't exactly remember. But there was a very bright light in the white, reeling halls. I noticed they seemed brighter than usual, but my main focus was on my balance, which seemed off. I looked, saw people moving past me as blurred images. I blinked. Nothing changed. No focusing of the eyes, just the same foggy pictures. I wondered why this was so. But, somewhere in my confusion, a solid concept was clearer over everything. Something was wrong inside. Something that I knew I could not fix on my own. I needed help. Badly.
Familiar face. That was what I searched for, and I'm not exactly sure how I ran into Eric. But I found him, and that panicked part of me was desperate to make sure he didn't leave me like this. I felt my knees quaking as I stood, chills running through my limbs and my vision was disoriented. He was in and out of focus...
"Hey." I tried to sound casual, "I don't feel so good." I think I chuckled.
"I'm sure you're fine."
He didn't seem to care.
"No." I was adamant. "I think there's something wrong with me."
There's a gap of time lost here. A time where, somehow, we ended up on the other side of the hall. I just wanted to lie down- that's was all I could think about. All I could focus on. The pain was spreading across my body, the weakness echoing. It took a lot to breathe. A lot to think. I'm dying... Panic flooded everything, sweeping in and collapsing the solid pieces of my mind. I'm dying, aren't I? I knew I hadn't eaten in awhile. I knew I had skipped out on breakfast this morning.
"Did you take something?"
Did I take something? I couldn't remember... Wait. Yes. Yes, I had. My father had given me these little pink circle pills. I didn't know how many I had taken. I didn't even know how many I was supposed to have taken. All I could hear in the panicked walls of my mind were breathing. Heartbeats. And faint voices from the present.
I don't even know how Ifill got there. She just appeared out of the starry, bright world around me. I think I said something to her. I don't recall.
There was another gap in time, and I ended up in another room. I was in a chair. The orchestra room...?
There are vague faces. Mrs. Mills. Camlyn. People staring at me. I didn't like all the attention. It was embarrassing.
"Have you eaten?"
"No..."
And that's when I remembered that I hadn't eaten breakfast. Hadn't eaten dinner. Skipped lunch and breakfast the previous days. Perhaps I had dinner the day before that, but it was all very hazy now.
Eric was digging through his bag now. He was looking for something. He pulled out a granola bar, and began opening the wrapper up. I stared at him blankly. That's ridiculous. Like a little granola bar is going to help this... I thought dryly, but he handed it to me anyways. I took it, clasping it as though it was life itself, and began eating.
Somehow, during all of this, I'm told I dialed my dad's number, but I handed the phone to Eric. I'm not entirely sure how the conversation went down. All I know is that I was told my father was coming to get me. They all stood around me like I was something important, sort of doing that odd 'leaning over' stance. It reminded me of the movies, or video games- where the protagonist would awaken to find people leaning over him. I guess that always happens right before they club you over the head and drag you off to the mad scientist's lab. I'm rambling now. I couldn't think straight.
All we could do was wait. I finished off the granola bars, the world wavering around me. Waving hello, I guess, just like my music had. All we could do was wait, wait... And, sometimes, I think I would forget. And the bits of the pain and confusion, I wanted to forget. Some time later, I ended up back at my house, in my room, still partially delirious. The last thing I can remember was collapsing on my bed, absolutely exhausted.
Sometimes, I get stomachaches. It usually occurs after I've eaten too much something. But I realized, this time, it wasn't because I'd eaten too much of something. It was because my stomach was just angry with the world. I'll admit that my eating habits had been... Well, it would be a joke to say I had eating habits in the first place. My body hates eating sometimes, and that week had been no exception. To be frank, I hadn't been hungry for an entire week, and nothing had really bothered me about it. I was busy all the time. I was a stressed student. There was too much on my mind, and food was just another one of those things I forgot about.
So when my stomach started hurting, it didn't occur to me that I was hungry. It occurred to me that I was, once again, sick with one of those awful stomachaches that didn't go away until I napped for approximately three hours. Usually, I can manage them until the end of the school day, but this particular one was very bothersome. Over and over, I felt something inside twist and stab at me. Pain spread through my torso and I felt as though my entire body was racked in agony. But I didn't let it show- as usual. It was best if the others didn't know I felt like I was about to die. I didn't want for them to worry.
There was a gap of time that I don't exactly remember. But there was a very bright light in the white, reeling halls. I noticed they seemed brighter than usual, but my main focus was on my balance, which seemed off. I looked, saw people moving past me as blurred images. I blinked. Nothing changed. No focusing of the eyes, just the same foggy pictures. I wondered why this was so. But, somewhere in my confusion, a solid concept was clearer over everything. Something was wrong inside. Something that I knew I could not fix on my own. I needed help. Badly.
Familiar face. That was what I searched for, and I'm not exactly sure how I ran into Eric. But I found him, and that panicked part of me was desperate to make sure he didn't leave me like this. I felt my knees quaking as I stood, chills running through my limbs and my vision was disoriented. He was in and out of focus...
"Hey." I tried to sound casual, "I don't feel so good." I think I chuckled.
"I'm sure you're fine."
He didn't seem to care.
"No." I was adamant. "I think there's something wrong with me."
There's a gap of time lost here. A time where, somehow, we ended up on the other side of the hall. I just wanted to lie down- that's was all I could think about. All I could focus on. The pain was spreading across my body, the weakness echoing. It took a lot to breathe. A lot to think. I'm dying... Panic flooded everything, sweeping in and collapsing the solid pieces of my mind. I'm dying, aren't I? I knew I hadn't eaten in awhile. I knew I had skipped out on breakfast this morning.
"Did you take something?"
Did I take something? I couldn't remember... Wait. Yes. Yes, I had. My father had given me these little pink circle pills. I didn't know how many I had taken. I didn't even know how many I was supposed to have taken. All I could hear in the panicked walls of my mind were breathing. Heartbeats. And faint voices from the present.
I don't even know how Ifill got there. She just appeared out of the starry, bright world around me. I think I said something to her. I don't recall.
There was another gap in time, and I ended up in another room. I was in a chair. The orchestra room...?
There are vague faces. Mrs. Mills. Camlyn. People staring at me. I didn't like all the attention. It was embarrassing.
"Have you eaten?"
"No..."
And that's when I remembered that I hadn't eaten breakfast. Hadn't eaten dinner. Skipped lunch and breakfast the previous days. Perhaps I had dinner the day before that, but it was all very hazy now.
Eric was digging through his bag now. He was looking for something. He pulled out a granola bar, and began opening the wrapper up. I stared at him blankly. That's ridiculous. Like a little granola bar is going to help this... I thought dryly, but he handed it to me anyways. I took it, clasping it as though it was life itself, and began eating.
Somehow, during all of this, I'm told I dialed my dad's number, but I handed the phone to Eric. I'm not entirely sure how the conversation went down. All I know is that I was told my father was coming to get me. They all stood around me like I was something important, sort of doing that odd 'leaning over' stance. It reminded me of the movies, or video games- where the protagonist would awaken to find people leaning over him. I guess that always happens right before they club you over the head and drag you off to the mad scientist's lab. I'm rambling now. I couldn't think straight.
All we could do was wait. I finished off the granola bars, the world wavering around me. Waving hello, I guess, just like my music had. All we could do was wait, wait... And, sometimes, I think I would forget. And the bits of the pain and confusion, I wanted to forget. Some time later, I ended up back at my house, in my room, still partially delirious. The last thing I can remember was collapsing on my bed, absolutely exhausted.
009- All of My Memories
When you listen to a song, there's a story that goes along with it. The story you see is not the story the person next to you sees, because it's your story. We have this inherent need to feel as though something relates to us, we seek out familiarity. I used to do this all the time- I used to feel the connection to just about any song I heard on the radio. Now, I'm older, wiser, and, no, I don't always feel connected to music, especially if it doesn't seem remotely related to my life at all (ie- Low by Florida). But there are some songs that bring up images and memories.
I associate various stages of my life to music- specific artists and songs especially. When I lived in my first house, I see everything in the layout perfectly (I mean, after all, I pretty much spent eight years there, why wouldn't I remember it perfectly?). And if I had to tell you what music I thought of when I thought of my first house, I would easily tell you that the first artist that came to mind was 'N Sync, followed shortly by the Backstreet Boys. I was obsessed, even when I was little and all of the lyrics went over my head. And when we moved out of that house, my taste in music seemed to change more drastically. My family got into Christian music, specifically Third Day, Mercy Me, and Steven Curtis Chapman.
And when I came to Oklahoma at age 9? It stayed the same up until I hit sixth grade, then it was all about Thousand Foot Krutch, TobyMac, and Skillet. "Phenomenon" by Thousand Foot Krutch was easily my favorite song of all time at that point, but even that started to get overshadows by various other artists. I got into Linkin Park at this stage, branched off of all Christian bands, and sort of delved into artists like Breaking Benjamin and Nickleback. Seventh grade, it was Linkin Park's "Lying From You". Eight grade, it was Nickleback's "Hero". And upon entering high school, my music taste changed from rock to upbeat artists like Cascada or D.H.T. or Daft Punk. If you wanted the specific song that was very popular my freshman year, it would've been Cascada's "Everytime We Touch"- which was always, no matter what, sung on the bus going from the school to any given football game.
Music had always been a major factor in how I shaped my life. If I could have my way, there would be background music for pretty much anything I do in my life. Personally, I found that music seems to cause a greater impact on certain situations. And, I've found that my iPod likes to be particularly ironic when it's on shuffle mode.
There are songs that I can't listen to without it reminding me of something else. And, maybe even that 'something else' has made me hate the song itself. But I guess that the song is only guilty by association.
When I listen to "Party All the Time" by the Black Eyed Peas, I think of this past summer, 2010. It reminds me of shorts, running around in tank tops until our backs were sun burnt and bubbled. It reminds me of when I dyed my hair blue, when we spent the days driving all around Edmond in Ifill's car. When we lived at Orange Leaf and Buffalo Wild Wings, and we had bonfires seemingly every other week. It reminds me of the evening air, the sound of cars driving on paved roads, the sight of the sun dipping below the horizon, and my dad sending me frantic text messages around 9 to see if I was coming home.
"Without You" by 3 Doors Down reminds me of band camp my junior year- all the dirty jokes and meeting so many new people. I think it was because that year, I was home alone during that entire week and I kept listening to that song. It wasn't that I didn't mind being home alone. It got quiet, but I would always listen to music to keep the silence at bay. 3 Doors Down kept popping up on shuffle that year, and "Without You" kept getting stuck in my head.
Aerosmith in general reminds me of my mother, because she would always have their greatest hits playing in her van whenever she would pick me up from school. She would always sing along, and I swear we had that CD playing in that car on loop for two years before we took it out. Specifically, I recall sitting at the bank for thirty minutes one time in my mom's gold van, listening to songs like "The Other Side" and "Livin' on The Edge" and "Deuces Are Wild".
"Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" by Journey played at a Sonic after one of my breakups with a boyfriend, and that song just never felt the same to me. I can't listen to it anymore. I don't even like seeing it on my iPod.
"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen reminds me of many things, specifically my freshman year band banquet, where Jonny Cox, Woodson Garman, Andy Gibson, and Matt Polito all stood in front of the DJ at the dance and sang at the top of their lungs, arms interlocked, and swaying back and forth. And after that, I had to help carry on the tradition. Now, more clearly, I see images of doing this with Ifill, Jon, Amanda, Jeff, and Kylee in front of Orange Leaf in the parking lot. I still see the odd looks we received that summer day. I still smell the fresh air and I can still see the evening, dark blue sky.
"Smooth" by Santana and Rob Thomas will forever remind me of the cruise to Alaska, because that was the first song I heard on the ship from their band. And that continued to play that song throughout the remainder of the trip. I can hear the guitar and still see the placid, freezing ocean, the mother seals with their pups, and the icebergs that littered the great, vast blue. And I can still taste the 'All You Can Eat' free ice cream.
"Hide And Seek" by Imogean Heap will remind me of my junior year of marching season because that was the only song the people leading stretch would ever really play. And, at first, I'll admit, I was not entirely keen on this song, but it was great for meditating and thinking. And, for my sophomore year, the song they played was "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey. Particularly during OBA, we stretched in the grass, far from the rest of the bands, and we listened to the song. People passing by stared at us, but we didn't care. I personally thought we looked incredibly badass, but that was just me.
Breaking Benjamin's "Into the Nothing", reminds me of the trip to L.A. with the band. Specifically, it reminds, even torments me as I recall being forced against my will into a haunted house. They had lied when they told me it was a roller coaster. There was just no closing your eyes and waiting it out for this one. It was a danger zone. But another story for another time.
When I recall previous schemes and shenanigans, the music that plays in my mind's labyrinth (because it is very much a labyrinth), is Pink's "Trouble". And, surprisingly enough, you would find that those lyrics are incredibly accurate to portions of my lifestyle.
And there are things like "Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven and "Hey Jude" by the Beatles that I try and try to forget, but no matter what happens, I keep remembering. And it's an entire shaker of salt in a gaping wound.
And when I hear "Memories" by Within Temptation, I'm taken back two years, to the girl with long, dark brown hair that was standing in front of the mirror in a white, button-up shirt under a dark jacket and black pants. Lightly painting on crimson lipstick, feeling nothing and seeing nothing in her own, solid green eyes as she prepared herself for her mother's funeral. And even now, I feel my throat is itchy, scratchy, maybe even with a lump somewhere.
So many stories, so little time. Little bits of a puzzle, still only half-completed, and the image still unknown. But it always gets clearer when I listen to music. And who knows what will happen years from now. Or what song I'll use to define my final year of high school.
I associate various stages of my life to music- specific artists and songs especially. When I lived in my first house, I see everything in the layout perfectly (I mean, after all, I pretty much spent eight years there, why wouldn't I remember it perfectly?). And if I had to tell you what music I thought of when I thought of my first house, I would easily tell you that the first artist that came to mind was 'N Sync, followed shortly by the Backstreet Boys. I was obsessed, even when I was little and all of the lyrics went over my head. And when we moved out of that house, my taste in music seemed to change more drastically. My family got into Christian music, specifically Third Day, Mercy Me, and Steven Curtis Chapman.
And when I came to Oklahoma at age 9? It stayed the same up until I hit sixth grade, then it was all about Thousand Foot Krutch, TobyMac, and Skillet. "Phenomenon" by Thousand Foot Krutch was easily my favorite song of all time at that point, but even that started to get overshadows by various other artists. I got into Linkin Park at this stage, branched off of all Christian bands, and sort of delved into artists like Breaking Benjamin and Nickleback. Seventh grade, it was Linkin Park's "Lying From You". Eight grade, it was Nickleback's "Hero". And upon entering high school, my music taste changed from rock to upbeat artists like Cascada or D.H.T. or Daft Punk. If you wanted the specific song that was very popular my freshman year, it would've been Cascada's "Everytime We Touch"- which was always, no matter what, sung on the bus going from the school to any given football game.
Music had always been a major factor in how I shaped my life. If I could have my way, there would be background music for pretty much anything I do in my life. Personally, I found that music seems to cause a greater impact on certain situations. And, I've found that my iPod likes to be particularly ironic when it's on shuffle mode.
There are songs that I can't listen to without it reminding me of something else. And, maybe even that 'something else' has made me hate the song itself. But I guess that the song is only guilty by association.
When I listen to "Party All the Time" by the Black Eyed Peas, I think of this past summer, 2010. It reminds me of shorts, running around in tank tops until our backs were sun burnt and bubbled. It reminds me of when I dyed my hair blue, when we spent the days driving all around Edmond in Ifill's car. When we lived at Orange Leaf and Buffalo Wild Wings, and we had bonfires seemingly every other week. It reminds me of the evening air, the sound of cars driving on paved roads, the sight of the sun dipping below the horizon, and my dad sending me frantic text messages around 9 to see if I was coming home.
"Without You" by 3 Doors Down reminds me of band camp my junior year- all the dirty jokes and meeting so many new people. I think it was because that year, I was home alone during that entire week and I kept listening to that song. It wasn't that I didn't mind being home alone. It got quiet, but I would always listen to music to keep the silence at bay. 3 Doors Down kept popping up on shuffle that year, and "Without You" kept getting stuck in my head.
Aerosmith in general reminds me of my mother, because she would always have their greatest hits playing in her van whenever she would pick me up from school. She would always sing along, and I swear we had that CD playing in that car on loop for two years before we took it out. Specifically, I recall sitting at the bank for thirty minutes one time in my mom's gold van, listening to songs like "The Other Side" and "Livin' on The Edge" and "Deuces Are Wild".
"Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" by Journey played at a Sonic after one of my breakups with a boyfriend, and that song just never felt the same to me. I can't listen to it anymore. I don't even like seeing it on my iPod.
"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen reminds me of many things, specifically my freshman year band banquet, where Jonny Cox, Woodson Garman, Andy Gibson, and Matt Polito all stood in front of the DJ at the dance and sang at the top of their lungs, arms interlocked, and swaying back and forth. And after that, I had to help carry on the tradition. Now, more clearly, I see images of doing this with Ifill, Jon, Amanda, Jeff, and Kylee in front of Orange Leaf in the parking lot. I still see the odd looks we received that summer day. I still smell the fresh air and I can still see the evening, dark blue sky.
"Smooth" by Santana and Rob Thomas will forever remind me of the cruise to Alaska, because that was the first song I heard on the ship from their band. And that continued to play that song throughout the remainder of the trip. I can hear the guitar and still see the placid, freezing ocean, the mother seals with their pups, and the icebergs that littered the great, vast blue. And I can still taste the 'All You Can Eat' free ice cream.
"Hide And Seek" by Imogean Heap will remind me of my junior year of marching season because that was the only song the people leading stretch would ever really play. And, at first, I'll admit, I was not entirely keen on this song, but it was great for meditating and thinking. And, for my sophomore year, the song they played was "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey. Particularly during OBA, we stretched in the grass, far from the rest of the bands, and we listened to the song. People passing by stared at us, but we didn't care. I personally thought we looked incredibly badass, but that was just me.
Breaking Benjamin's "Into the Nothing", reminds me of the trip to L.A. with the band. Specifically, it reminds, even torments me as I recall being forced against my will into a haunted house. They had lied when they told me it was a roller coaster. There was just no closing your eyes and waiting it out for this one. It was a danger zone. But another story for another time.
When I recall previous schemes and shenanigans, the music that plays in my mind's labyrinth (because it is very much a labyrinth), is Pink's "Trouble". And, surprisingly enough, you would find that those lyrics are incredibly accurate to portions of my lifestyle.
And there are things like "Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven and "Hey Jude" by the Beatles that I try and try to forget, but no matter what happens, I keep remembering. And it's an entire shaker of salt in a gaping wound.
And when I hear "Memories" by Within Temptation, I'm taken back two years, to the girl with long, dark brown hair that was standing in front of the mirror in a white, button-up shirt under a dark jacket and black pants. Lightly painting on crimson lipstick, feeling nothing and seeing nothing in her own, solid green eyes as she prepared herself for her mother's funeral. And even now, I feel my throat is itchy, scratchy, maybe even with a lump somewhere.
So many stories, so little time. Little bits of a puzzle, still only half-completed, and the image still unknown. But it always gets clearer when I listen to music. And who knows what will happen years from now. Or what song I'll use to define my final year of high school.
008- Judges
I've realized a lot of humans are a lot of talk and not nearly enough walk. From the start, we're always told to treat people nicely, or to try to see things from their perspective. I've found it hard to see things from another's perspective, and I'm certain I'm not the only one. There are things engraved into our minds that never can leave, never can be understood, never can be worked around. Today, there was a dawning at approximately 4:30 p.m. today, and, for me, the world was shaded a thousand more colors than it had been. Everything was glass. Just for that split second.
My fear of spiders is irrational, and I know it is. Perhaps that's the first step of getting over that fear, but, to me, it didn't really matter if it was rational or not. I've always tried to justify why I fear them, but there's nothing. They look funny? No. I'm sure if I was scared of any other thing, I'd say that it looked funny, too. They can bite you? I live with five dogs. They could easily bite me, too. They're nasty! Yes, well, so are a lot of things in life. An hour into being locked out of my house, March 18th, 2011, I sat on Eric's couch, and the main topic of debate was the remote control spider he had- a very realistic looking one, mind you. He told me that it didn't matter because it wasn't real, yet the thing terrified the snot out of me when I saw it from a distance. I guess it makes sense that it isn't harmful- it's plastic. Colby once told me that it was cute- I didn't understand that remotely. It seems so silly to be scared of a spider, much less a fake one. Maybe it's what it symbolizes that frightens me? I digress... The conversation led to the point where I realized that the concept of not fearing a spider was just foreign to me. I didn't understand how he could look at it and not feel like running. I didn't understand how he could stand to pick it up, hold it, touch it, much less try to show it to someone else. It didn't click, couldn't click.
Today, I looked through my old music. When I was in middle school, I'd been big on getting soundtracks from movies. Not going to lie, I loved Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. I thought it was an excellent movie, and, well, anything with Matt Damon is worth watching, even if it is just his voice. I've had the soundtrack for some time now. I hadn't listened to it in years, though, and I just started to listen to the many songs- both instrumentals and songs featuring Bryan Adams. It felt like a breath of fresh air from the songs you hear on the radio nowadays- the ones about sex, drugs, hitting your girlfriend, and killing people. And there's just something about listening to a song after time has passed and your life has moved on when you realize what the song really is about. I've done this so many times. Over and over again. But something about this one hit me harder than the others did.
You Can't Take Me. I don't know why it stood out, but I've always loved this song. The imagery of fighting is definitely prominent in most of my favorite song selections- "This is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars, "Monster" by Skillet, "Unbreakable" by Fireflight, etc. "You Can't Take Me" definitely doesn't carry the blaring gore and death of modern day "fighting" songs, and perhaps that is what makes it more profound than the ones blasting on 102.7.
"Gotta fight another fight
Gotta run another night
Get it out
Check it out
I'm on my way and I don't feel right
I got to get me back
I can't be beat and that's a fact
It's okay, I'll find a way,
You ain't gonna take me down, no way."
I guess it sounds dumb, comparing myself to a song about a mustang. But there was a click, then. A dawn. An understanding, and a thought.
"Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it,
Don't push me, I'll fight it
Never gonna give in,
Never gonna give it up, no
If you can't catch a wave,
Then you're never gonna ride it
You can't come uninvited,
Never gonna give in,
Never gonna give it up, no.
You can't take me, I'm free."
I was caught on the first line. I was so caught on the first line that the rest of the song was a blur. Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it... And, now, sitting here with the aroma of Sex on the Beach drifting in my room, at past midnight in the wee hours of Saturday, in a cushioned chair, I have stitched the concepts together.
There's phrases we say nowadays. "Don't judge"- that's the main one I want to discuss. I find it amusing that people say not to judge them, probably more so because that invites for others to judge and that, odds are, the person who said it is very judgmental (why else would they be worried about being judged?). But, maybe there's an inkling of truth in their words, maybe society shouldn't judge. I could go on a rant about how sometimes judging is good, but, for this note's sake, we'll say that we shouldn't judge the actions of some people.
Face it, there's that one thing in life that you have done that you're worried about people knowing, people judging. And, perhaps, their judgment terrifies you and that's why you keep your secrets. I'm not one to judge- I have secrets, too, we all have secrets. But here's the idea- how could other people judge you? They don't live your life. They don't see the things you see, they haven't experienced what you have experienced. Their judgment is very askew, in other words, because they may or may not understand the situation. And perhaps, it's impossible for people to understand, fully, what others think and how others perceive things, because there's still that chance that they believe something you cannot believe, cannot even bring yourself to believe- just as how I could not believe that spiders were not scary, and were, in fact, cute.
I hate it when people ask me why I did something. "Why did you say that?" or "Why did you do that, Emily?" And then, I try to explain, and it's like the words are hitting a stone wall. And, it's funny when they get mad. Funny when they get upset. Funny when it just doesn't click. Because I tried to explain. And they can never wrap their minds around it, just as I can't wrap my mind around not wanting to scream and run at the sight of a spider. Maybe it's because mankind is too hard-headed to accept some alternative viewpoints on life (isn't that why we have so many wars?), or maybe it's that we cannot physically, mentally, or emotionally think in a way different from how God created us.
I'd suggest a fix, but I cannot see one other than trying to understand, just as we've all been trying to understand. I guess it doesn't solve much- not world peace or certainly not my phobia. The world would do well to remind itself that the experiences of individuals affect the way they perceive things. The world would do well to not judge a thing until they know what's inside it- as impossible as it is, as improbable as it ever will be that the world would ever heed the advice from an 18-year-old Texan, maybe someone would benefit from it. Maybe there would be less drama in the world. Less conflict. Less hatred. The least we can do is try to understand. Try to see things from another person's eyes.
My fear of spiders is irrational, and I know it is. Perhaps that's the first step of getting over that fear, but, to me, it didn't really matter if it was rational or not. I've always tried to justify why I fear them, but there's nothing. They look funny? No. I'm sure if I was scared of any other thing, I'd say that it looked funny, too. They can bite you? I live with five dogs. They could easily bite me, too. They're nasty! Yes, well, so are a lot of things in life. An hour into being locked out of my house, March 18th, 2011, I sat on Eric's couch, and the main topic of debate was the remote control spider he had- a very realistic looking one, mind you. He told me that it didn't matter because it wasn't real, yet the thing terrified the snot out of me when I saw it from a distance. I guess it makes sense that it isn't harmful- it's plastic. Colby once told me that it was cute- I didn't understand that remotely. It seems so silly to be scared of a spider, much less a fake one. Maybe it's what it symbolizes that frightens me? I digress... The conversation led to the point where I realized that the concept of not fearing a spider was just foreign to me. I didn't understand how he could look at it and not feel like running. I didn't understand how he could stand to pick it up, hold it, touch it, much less try to show it to someone else. It didn't click, couldn't click.
Today, I looked through my old music. When I was in middle school, I'd been big on getting soundtracks from movies. Not going to lie, I loved Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. I thought it was an excellent movie, and, well, anything with Matt Damon is worth watching, even if it is just his voice. I've had the soundtrack for some time now. I hadn't listened to it in years, though, and I just started to listen to the many songs- both instrumentals and songs featuring Bryan Adams. It felt like a breath of fresh air from the songs you hear on the radio nowadays- the ones about sex, drugs, hitting your girlfriend, and killing people. And there's just something about listening to a song after time has passed and your life has moved on when you realize what the song really is about. I've done this so many times. Over and over again. But something about this one hit me harder than the others did.
You Can't Take Me. I don't know why it stood out, but I've always loved this song. The imagery of fighting is definitely prominent in most of my favorite song selections- "This is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars, "Monster" by Skillet, "Unbreakable" by Fireflight, etc. "You Can't Take Me" definitely doesn't carry the blaring gore and death of modern day "fighting" songs, and perhaps that is what makes it more profound than the ones blasting on 102.7.
"Gotta fight another fight
Gotta run another night
Get it out
Check it out
I'm on my way and I don't feel right
I got to get me back
I can't be beat and that's a fact
It's okay, I'll find a way,
You ain't gonna take me down, no way."
I guess it sounds dumb, comparing myself to a song about a mustang. But there was a click, then. A dawn. An understanding, and a thought.
"Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it,
Don't push me, I'll fight it
Never gonna give in,
Never gonna give it up, no
If you can't catch a wave,
Then you're never gonna ride it
You can't come uninvited,
Never gonna give in,
Never gonna give it up, no.
You can't take me, I'm free."
I was caught on the first line. I was so caught on the first line that the rest of the song was a blur. Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it... And, now, sitting here with the aroma of Sex on the Beach drifting in my room, at past midnight in the wee hours of Saturday, in a cushioned chair, I have stitched the concepts together.
There's phrases we say nowadays. "Don't judge"- that's the main one I want to discuss. I find it amusing that people say not to judge them, probably more so because that invites for others to judge and that, odds are, the person who said it is very judgmental (why else would they be worried about being judged?). But, maybe there's an inkling of truth in their words, maybe society shouldn't judge. I could go on a rant about how sometimes judging is good, but, for this note's sake, we'll say that we shouldn't judge the actions of some people.
Face it, there's that one thing in life that you have done that you're worried about people knowing, people judging. And, perhaps, their judgment terrifies you and that's why you keep your secrets. I'm not one to judge- I have secrets, too, we all have secrets. But here's the idea- how could other people judge you? They don't live your life. They don't see the things you see, they haven't experienced what you have experienced. Their judgment is very askew, in other words, because they may or may not understand the situation. And perhaps, it's impossible for people to understand, fully, what others think and how others perceive things, because there's still that chance that they believe something you cannot believe, cannot even bring yourself to believe- just as how I could not believe that spiders were not scary, and were, in fact, cute.
I hate it when people ask me why I did something. "Why did you say that?" or "Why did you do that, Emily?" And then, I try to explain, and it's like the words are hitting a stone wall. And, it's funny when they get mad. Funny when they get upset. Funny when it just doesn't click. Because I tried to explain. And they can never wrap their minds around it, just as I can't wrap my mind around not wanting to scream and run at the sight of a spider. Maybe it's because mankind is too hard-headed to accept some alternative viewpoints on life (isn't that why we have so many wars?), or maybe it's that we cannot physically, mentally, or emotionally think in a way different from how God created us.
I'd suggest a fix, but I cannot see one other than trying to understand, just as we've all been trying to understand. I guess it doesn't solve much- not world peace or certainly not my phobia. The world would do well to remind itself that the experiences of individuals affect the way they perceive things. The world would do well to not judge a thing until they know what's inside it- as impossible as it is, as improbable as it ever will be that the world would ever heed the advice from an 18-year-old Texan, maybe someone would benefit from it. Maybe there would be less drama in the world. Less conflict. Less hatred. The least we can do is try to understand. Try to see things from another person's eyes.
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