"Because shotguns are for babies! Buy a cannon!"
"Aye aye sir!"
My time is short. They are watching me.
I discovered earlier today that some of the year 12’s used a program they found on google to zoom into our house via a satellite. They’ve seen everything. The sniping equipment on the roof, the launghpad (both for our jet and helicoptor) in the back yard, and possibly my extensive artillery hidden under the clothesline. I must tell the team to pack up immediately and find new residence; this place is no longer a safe hideout. It’s only a matter of time until my enemies come for me.
Pfft, who am I kidding. *sigh* Well as far as I know, they are spying on me, so it’s no longer safe to go outside in the buff in the early hours of the morning to… have time to myself in the moonlight. Not that I do, but just saying… AAAAAAAH THEY’RE ATTACKING! I must go.
PS: They say that if a baby is given everything they need to survive, but are not loved, they will perish. Doesn’t that mean all children are loved to start with?
As I sit here and write I know that my words bear little meaning. Moods only last so long before they are changed by another, some sequences of events that result in a different pattern of brainwaves and reactions to them. It’s trivial. I don’t know why I feel the need to express myself because, but I thought I would, because I don’t quite feel like playing Tactics Core- the only virtual game I have accessible. Of course, there’s the matter of playing any of the more… real? Is that the word? What’s so fake about the internet?
People create alias’. They pretend they’re other people- I do it all the time, signing with Link or Xin over John. I don’t like my name very much, but Ivy does. I don’t see why, exactly, but I guess it’s because who I am. John Marshall of Perth.
Nevermind, such matters will not be the death of me in the long run. They’re just moodswings, but the reasons behind them should be mended at least. Oh Lordy Lordy Lordy. What ever shall your beloved clan say if, somehow, they got a video of you singing to yourself, or doing something otherwise demeaning? You’d be a laughing stock. Even if you don’t know it Eugene, I do love you somehow- it’s how I’ve been able to put up with everything, but it works in reverse too. I’m annoying in my own intelligible way (as I’m sure Jess will back up, but Pete would argue the meaning of ‘intelligible’) and I’m grateful for your tolerance in return.
To cut it short, let’s just say that hormones are, at present, evil. They do have their benefits- growth for example, but alas, I’m short. What’s worse is my labcoat is tiny on poor Ivy, I really do need to do something about that.
Anyway, tomorrow school begins. I’ve been having nightmares of late, but it’s only 6:08PM, I have plenty of time left in the night- three hours should be all right. What am I going to do in that time? Pack, possibly do my science, write that story I promised myself, maybe a bit of background of Arabian princes (ever played Prince of Persia? Wicked game) or something of the sort. I did manage to spend some of today being productive. I’ve wasted the rest of my holidays though, save yesterday.
Though Ivy may not approve, the only real outing I had was to see Lee at her nan’s house. I really do care for her, ever so dearly, but alas, I have no real way of telling if she’s even reading, or if she could ever know how much. I’m also worried that I may have offended Ivy, but unless she tells me so, I’ll never know. *sigh* Love. Don’t even start me. Ah stuff it, I’ll start myself. What does it mean to love? Why is love different between people? Do homosexuals really know what it means to have a soul mate? What is a soul mate? Why do we love sisters different to girlfriends, and mothers? I suppose it’s because of suitability. How your mother cares for you as her child is different to how your wife would care for you as her husband- the different roles in a nuclear family, and in society etcetera etcetera. I guess I’m digessing. Whilst it’s tempting to erase everything I’ve written, I’ll just go under the assumption that you can be bothered reading it, and otherwise scroll down.
I doubt Pete will read this for some time, for it’s apparent that he’s blocked and deleted me. I’ll do my best to find out, if there’s any chance he talks to me again, for otherwise I’m oblivious to how I can make amends. I really am an insensitive, absent-minded dimwad, aren’t I? Well hey. That’s me. A lot of people don’t like it, but it’s me.
If I were an artist, would I ‘repair’ a painting?
It loses its authenticity, but perhaps it’s better. Bring out the best of the original and let the mistakes be covered over with new coats, you know. I’m not much of a painter, but I do admire my early efforts. Heh heh, it looked nothing like a river. My brushwork really needs painting up.
As something of a post script, I also need to learn Mandarin, and how to cook. As much as I hate to admit it, they will become later skills that picking up relatively early in my life will give me some sort of an advantage of. Nevermind. It’s 6:17 now, I’d better hurry a long. Mm… *sigh*
I’ve remembered one last thing I need to write about. I’m going to try and get on the India pilgrimage. 5, 6 weeks away from home, and possibly away from Ivy. It’s going to be terrible, but we’ll be stopping in Singapore on the way back- hopefully we’ll get to mingle with the public rather than being stowed away in the private section of the airport. It’s a dream of mine. I put myself 70 years forward in time, when I’m lying in a hospital bed, the visiting hours are over and I have no interest in whatever form of television the world’s come up with. I would lie there, breathing through a respirator, looking back on my life, and I would say to myself,
“What would I have done if I had the chance?”
I really want to go to India, or some third world country. People tell me to love others, not to hurt people’s feelings, to be sensitive and to make sure people are always feeling happy. It’s generally what society wants. But while we’re concerned about the inner troubles of our own world, (what clothes to wear to a party, being grounded so we can’t see our friends, having to pay a hefty phone bill for talking to your partner for hours on end), we forget something I have always remembered. Before every meal I eat, I thank God for the food I have, and not to forget those who don’t have such a luxury. I thank him for always providing some form of a living, and a happy one at that, but my mind often returns to the malnourishment and starvation in other countries. The sickness, the death. I think of while my Mum stresses over her money, my brother’s complaining about what career he should have, and my Dad bitching about the people at work, do any of them remember that there are millions, if not billions of people who would give everything they could to switch places?
I want to go where my help is really needed. I don’t want to become a doctor and cure people with colds and fractured bones. I want to fly overseas and help people who are dying and can’t afford medicine. I want to do something, God, to help them. The India Pilgrimage is a journey there, both spiritually and physically (or so I’m told) where every day we’ll be helping people. We won’t need any sort of expertise. Just doing what we can; playing with unwanted children, cleaning up the forms of hospitals they have there, things like that. If I don’t go on this, I know that I will have to go there myself later in life, or else I will forever regret the opportunity I let go to waste.
What else do I want from my life? Just to make a difference, and hopefully remembered long enough for people to know what that difference stands for. Maybe then I will find some sort of meaning in life, through death, but until then, I’m going to talk to Brother Rob and see what I can do. It’s nice to dream, and people have always told us to go for our dreams, no matter what it takes. God help me, but one day, just one day, I may be able to do what I should for once. Ivy…
Music is so influential, no? Eugene’s playing a song he wrote inspired by a poem about a man reflecting suicide- “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost. It’s really not helping me. *sigh* Well, guess I’m off to make do with the two and a half hours of consciousness I have. Meep.