Over the past few days, I’ve been pushed closer and closer to the edge. I just wanted to write this post so you have some idea of what I’m going through. I considered keeping this to myself and dealing with it like that, but hell, I’m too close to snapping, and I just want someone to realise that I’m losing it.
Seriously, don’t tease me for a day or two. I might hurt you. I punched Brendan Morphett for filling in for Paul with the whole "I wanna make love to you John Marshall" gag. I momentarily crippled Stephen’s fingers. Yesterday in Economics, I was temporarily delusioned and spent the entire lesson laughing hysterically at any excuse. I make quite an ass of myself in public, you know. So yes, first sign, I lost lucidity during class, and made two violent attempts. I sat up suddenly, towards the end of the lesson, declaring,
"I’ve got it! Violence is a psychological orgasm!"
Just feels so damn good, and you want to hold on to it for as long as possible. It looks like I’m not so masochistic after all. I fear for my control, and I believe this is something like what [Ahldrunnia (sp?)] is going through.
I’m not gay, God damn you, because I write poetry. Sure, the romantic poets were mostly homosexual, smoked all kinds of weird stuff, and were as promiscuous as you could get. But just because I imitate the style of romantic literature doesn’t make me gay! Just because I’m strange doesn’t mean I’m queer. I heard Aaron in Year 12 ask someone if I was gay; he was the Cairos member in charge of my Peer Ministry. That was a fricking slash, to the heart or wrist, whichever is more liable. Caring and being sensitive doesn’t mean you’re a transvestite.
Damn your determination to hate everything that’s different. Damn you all!
[please forgive this rant. I needed to be angry for a little while. I’ll try and calm down before school, but just in case, remember not to tease me today.]
What reason is there to live?
Now picture, if you can, all that waits for us is hell.
Do you still want to die?
How’s that for emo? Asses.
God has made existence magnificent,
He has made it through nonexistence.
He has concealed the sea
And exposed the foam,
Concealed the wind and displayed the dust.
The whirling dust flies like a dancer,
The wind is invisible, known only by trust,
The foam moves all about you,
But without the sea no whirling takes place.
Thought is hidden, speech is manifest.
I don’t know what time it is. Period 3 on a Tuesday. I’m failing maths. Like, literally failing maths. No long is this an idle threat- it is malignant, and worthy of serious contemptation. 80’s and up are A’s. Under 65’s are C’s. I’m a D. Brad Shaw’s down here with me, tying for worst in class, at 46%. This is my all time lowest point in maths. I may have to sacrifice those $15 a week and take up tuition. [My mother pays me an additional $15 on top of my pocket money if I don’t take tuition, because it’s cheaper for her.] My income just dropped 25% at the cost of doing well in maths. I genuinely don’t know if it was worth it.
My Reading List has been changed to my Reading, Writing and Watching list. I would imagine if I were to work consecutively for three months I would get it done. That’s with scant sleep. If you were to add the video games I have to play, as well, (Prince of Persia, Windwaker, Ocarina of Time, Crystal Shards, soon to be Twilight Princess [OMFG!!!] and all those merciful classics I wish I had played, like Lost Kingdoms…) We’re talking about a year, maybe three. And all this while I re-start Gunbound. I think I’ll just delete my account to save me the agony of wasting my life on it.
EDIT: Oh, I forgot to mention, there are about 25 fanfics I want to read from an author known as Canihaveasoda. A chapter takes about 20 minutes, so collectively we’re looking at a fornight’s reading, if I do nothing else. All this while I have school and half a social life to maintain.
DOUBLE EDIT: Also have to watch "Shakespeare in Love"
They say that when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. It doesn’t. All you have time for is to remember the one thing that means the most to you, before it’s all snatched away by the relentless, murdering scythe of death.
I felt that now, as I tapped into the power I never knew existed and parted the water, like Moses. The power of one of natures greatest forces threw itself at me with Thor’s Hammer. I gasped for breath as my left hand behind me raised the jet from the snow. Inside, I could feel Scott’s anguish, but I knew what I was doing. It was the only way.
With a spur of psychic waves, I launched the jet into the sky, and within me, I could feel the power burning. My eyes grew hot as the feeling rushed through my veins, and fire rushed across my body. I had no fear that it would harm me, for it left only a tingling on my skin, and as the flame grew, I felt my power explode exponentially. Lowering myself into a crouch, I burst from the ground, wings of fire erupting from my back, and I spread my arms to the sky.
“Phoenix!” I cried, though I know not why. The hydro tempest hissed beneath me, clearing the land of trees and anything that stood in its way, and I rose above it uncertainly. I was on fire… I was unstoppable. These were the only two things in the world that I was certain of.
The jet hadn’t yet noticed me, and so I dropped from beneath them and shot across the surface of the water. I couldn’t go back to them; not yet. I needed time by myself. Time to see what my new powers had given me. I tensed, and the fire shot out around me into the shape of a soaring bird.
“Phoenix,” I whispered this time. “I am your goddess.”
This is a rather terrible story that I wrote just now. I’ve been meaning to, for a long time, write a story based on a chess game- two armies, two kings. The names Hamlet and Fortinbras are just names which I threw in for fun, and it was with some difficulty I managed to write this. I’m better at telling than re-telling, but I played a game of chess with myself and put it into words- a re-telling.
Inspired by the movie Moonlight, where a single knight surged against an evil army and slay dozens to reach the king. During the movie, there was a scene where the evil king inspected a chess board, where a single white knight challenged a sea of black.
I consider this project a failure, for I gave up on making it sound like a real battle halfway through, but perhaps you have the patience to think otherwise. Personally though, I couldn’t care much less. I wanted to write it, I wrote it, it’s ghastly, but it was written. I can finally cross something off my To-Do list.
Upon reflection, it was that bad. It isn’t worth publishing, but hell, at least I wrote it.
Unbeknownst to me, an Aboriginal boy had taken my book a long time ago. He was about 8, I think, and when Father Mac saw him carrying it, he asked him if it was his. It was not, and with a grin, the priest said (I can imagine),
“I think you’d better put that back where you found it.”
Father’s masses are largely for the Aboriginal community. He loves and accepts all without prejudice, or any sort of judgement, and I admire him greatly. What I don’t understand is why the boy took it. I had asked the kids at the mass (ordered to by my dad) if they could sing in the choir. None of them could read, so I nodded and thanked them anyway. Dad said the reason why he took it was because it was in his nature to- that’s how he was brought up. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Eugene neither agreed nor disagreed, and when I tried to defend the boy, Dad raised his voice and gave the “I’ve lived forty years longer than you” speech, about all the experience from his days. While I don’t doubt all he’s seen and endured, I don’t believe it fair to close your heart to stereotypes.
But then Eugene joined in by mentioning all the abuse and whatnot that runs in Aboriginal families. He says education would solve just about everything. I have to take his word on it for that one. My father is racist because he has suffered much racism, and it has turned him callous. My mother is racist because she was brought up believing that Chinese culture is the greatest in the world, and that it shouldn’t be mixed with anything else. My brother, I am unsure of, but he seems rational in his love. Me? I want to love everyone, and ignore how people look like, but I’m being warned on all sides that they’re bad folk. I’m not sure if I’m being impractical for ignoring the obvious.
Example. Red Cross Soup Patrol- riding around in a soup van and giving cups of soup and loaves of bread to the homeless. One lady came up, and she looked a mess. I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I pitied her greatly and wished I could change her life for the better. My partner for the night said she was probably wishing she could get her hands on more drugs. I know he was probably right, but I hadn’t considered it until he told me. I had ignored the obvious.
Father Mac is a legendary figure because he is not racist at all. He becomes mates with everyone who exists, and they come to love and respect him because he loves and respects them. That, my friends, is what Christianity is all about. But I just can’t do it. I’m too scared that if I were to start chatting with an Aborigine, we’d have nothing to say, or he’d swear at me. That’s racist, for even considering it as a possibility. Let me remind you of the time two different groups of Aborigines tried to steal from my bag, while I was wearing it, on the way home from school. A bunch of abo (not racist, just shorting the word) kids threw rocks at my Mum’s car for no apparent reason- they were about 5, 7 and 9.
It is a sad society we live in, to have done this to the people who lived here first. We were ‘cultured’ enough to make guns, so we were the ones who came, who saw, and who conquered. And after that, the racism hasn’t finished since, because of our bitterness to the Aboriginal ancestors, who in turn were bitter to us. This bitterness has passed through generations of children who live on two different sides of the social barrier. What will it take to break that barrier down?
I apologise for the long read. I’ve just had a lot on my mind to think about. Love is always worth giving, isn’t it? But what if that love is not returned, and I end up losing my wallet or something because of it?
Question for the day:
What would you give to save the life of a total stranger? Say, if time was frozen, and this person needed your help to survive, how much would you give to save them?
PS: In response to Georgie’s comment, the only people who would read a two-page story (Microsoft Word) is someone who enjoys it, or is told to. If you see a diary entry that long, pretty much the only reason you would read it is because you want to see what’s being said. Because you don’t mind how long something is, as long as you enjoy it. That is the only way I have managed to survive reading the Captain’s entries, which are considerably longer (2-4 times) than my own.