Dear blog,

I am the most transparent person I have ever met.

Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know.

EDIT: Correct. I was feeling emo. Very emo. I’d also like to note that I am the leader of the followers.

Imagine this, if you can.

If a man has been taught that, say, fighting to the death with total strangers is considered glorious, who is to say it isn’t? Let’s call his culture, "x".

If a man has been taught that fighting is for people who can’t use their heads to solve problems, who is to say he’s wrong? This shall be "y".

Culture x wages war against culture y. A man from culture x is captured as a prisoner, but they do not beat him, and gradually, he learns to love them and their unwillingness to cause pain on others. He gives up fighting forever. Back at base in culture x, he is deemed a blood traitor and is eventually assassinated for giving up his glory, honour and dignity.

Which culture is right? Is there really an answer to that? Where are the limits? If it becomes acceptable in culture "z" to rip someone’s teeth out because you want to, is that wrong? Well the good people of culture z don’t think it is. x and y might, but to z, that’s life for you. Where are the lines? How do we know what is really considered "right" in terms of moral and culture?

I don’t know.

Du Dras abr Freohr

Ever seen Sin City? Perhaps you should.

What good is physical prowess if someone can convince you not to use it? Mind over matter, my friend. What good is a gun if firing it will condemn you? What good is doing anything heroic if the world will think you a villain, regardless? Are you in the wrong?

Whoever controls the present controls the past etc. etc.

The extremeties of physical endurance border insanity. You will never be as tough as someone who can willingly sit down and have the crap beaten out of him. Or her, for that matter.

In a dog eat dog world, you have to learn to become a cannibal to survive. [EDIT: By this I mean, you’re going to have to learn to eat dog. ie. everyone else. Metaphorically, not literally Ellie.] The alternative is dying. Let’s face it. You don’t want to die. If you did, you probably would have killed yourself by now. That means to survive, you’re going to have to eat everyone else who’s weaker than you.

What is justice if corruption has more power?

What if the system is out to get you? You’re hated, shunned, and shot at by everyone in the world. You band together with everyone else who is hated, shunned and shot at. That’s all you can do if you want to survive. And let’s say you decide to fight the system. How do you do it? You can’t just walk in and kill everyone. You wouldn’t pull it off, there are too many, too powerful. So what do you do? I honest to God don’t know. You live in fear, you hope they don’t find you, and you try not to love anyone, because loved ones get hurt by people who want to hurt you.

When it all comes down to it, there are three types of people.
1. Those who hate and fight the system.
2. Those who control the system.
3. Those who pretend that they are not controlled by the system.
4. Those who support and follow the system. Thanks Georgie.

1984 is the most relevant book to our current society that I have ever read. I hope I remember this post and think back to the world that exists in the slums, when you’re not safe from anyone. No one can protect you except the system you’re against (which won’t, because they want to crush you) and the rejected (who you shouldn’t, because people will get hurt). If you don’t care about hurting people, then sure, band with the rejects and let them take bullets for you.

My thoughts are fragmented, as might be indicated by the numerous paragraphs. Paragraphs are supposed to contain one key idea. How many ideas are sprouting off from the simple question, "Have you watched Sin City?"


"So I was down in Mount Lawley, right? Having my haircut, as I do every two months, and this girls comes up to me, right? She’s not bad looking, got a really cute voice…" The class cracks up. Mr Allanson- great stories. He’s, like, 32.
"Sir, aren’t you married?" Paul Raymondo. Ass-raper.
"Paul," said Mr Allanson, frowning at him. "Don’t ruin it for me. So anyway…"

He was warning us of the effects of a high deathrate and low birthrate. The girl in the shop was 23, and had a seven-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter. That’s a pretty precarious circumstance.


"It’s my city mate!"
Here we go. Another Aborigine that’s been offended. I looked around for the source of the voice, and my eyes passed over the man several times before I recognised he was the speaker. He certainly looked Aboriginal, but his voice was European. Then again, I’m dismal at recognising accents and almost as bad at realising people aren’t from the country. I just never notice. People are people, humans are humans, we’re all one species with mildly different characteristics. And yet, it is these differences that drive us so thoroughly apart. The man stood and held his arms open, to say, "Come on, bring it!"
‘Alot of them seem to be saying that,’ I noted grimly. He stood up, off the stairs on which he was sitting (and partially blocking) and began to walk after the man who had offended him. The lights turned green, and cars started moving. Nonplussed, he stepped out onto the road and slowed down his walk, glaring at the cars as he passed.
"I hope he gets hit," I heard someone say behind me.

I saw him, once everyone had crossed the road, heading for the lift and yelling. I don’t know why, but I laughed. I laughed at this injustice, and everything that had prevented that man from being treated like an Australian, even though the chances were, his heritage was far more deep rooted than the Europeans’.

Will this continue forever? Why didn’t I nod at him, sympathetically, or even say "Don’t mind him"? What stopped me from talking to him? I confess. I was scared he would reject me. Yell at me, swear at me, maybe even push me. So I let him walk across the road and hoped he wouldn’t get hit.

They’re all human to me.

His Lordship – insomniac

Another unkind ramble about my brother.

He was exceptionally starved for attention today, and so
danced around the house making peculiar noises for a while, until he settled
for watching Serenity (good movie). Consequentially, I was asked to watch with
him. Normally after he’s expended said two hours of my time, he goes off to
play RuneScape or something else to distract himself from the life he hates.
Instead, he hung around and wanted me to play Uno with him. After winning five
times in a row, he reversed the last few moves that led up to my imminent victory and grabbed a handful of cards
until he found a draw-four, and we played on. I won again, and once more, but
of course in the end it was futile. He beat me, after I had won seven games, and declared himself the winner of “I win”- the game
we were playing, where it’s against the rules for me to succeed. If I win, it’s
cheating, and I lose anyway.

So yeah after that I pretty much kicked him out of my room,
because it was 11 and I needed sleep. He didn’t want me to sleep and told me
scary stories so I might keep awake in fear. Why couldn’t he just leave me
alone to rest? School in the morning, after all. I locked my door, and he
clawed at it from the outside to make noises to keep me awake. I flicked on the
light, unsheathed my katana and forced him into his room. He clawed at his own
door, so I rammed it and it jarred his foot. He threw shoes at me, incensed,
but they were harmless and poorly aimed. He then swore I would not sleep until
his foot had stopped hurting, and though I lay on my bed, katana in hand, he
did not give up. It was only after he threatened to pour water under my door
(bad for the floorboards, makes them expand and things get messy) that I
unlocked my door. He forced me out, wielding a metal ruler, and forbade me from
sleeping or remaining in my room. After feeding me chocolate to keep me
energetic, he left me, and here I am.
EDIT: Unfortunately, I was mistaken, and the chocolate kept me awake for half an hour, although my mind ached for rest.

Brother, where art thou love? I can forgive him, but the
chances are this is going to happen again in the future. He’s unpredictable and
very much starved for attention, although he never does this in public and he
claims not to have ADD. Alas, nothing more on the issue. Mum’s come home and is
ordering me sleep. That should be reason enough to overrule him. Night,

Ninjas or Pirates?

Jack and I have been doing a poll of this recently, and these are the current results.

Ninjas: 70
Pirates: 45

Who’s winning now, eh Georgie?

EDIT: Guess what. I’m surveying the school with Jack. Even if half the school does it, we’ll get like 500 votes, most of which will be ninjas. The year 8’s alone voted 124 times for ninjas and 54 times for pirates.

A man named Agony

The shovel’s edge broke scattered twigs at it was forced
into the earth. With a leaden arm, the man threw the dirt over his shoulder and
gritted his teeth to stop himself from trembling. He forced the spade into the
ground once more and heaved the soil over his shoulder. Thunder rolled on the
far horizon, a flash of lightning burned through the night. All at once the
heavens began to cry, and the rain fell from the skies as stinging bullets of
ice. The man’s own tears dripped down his aged face, disappearing into the grey
bristles that marked them. Again and again, the shovel attacked the earth, each
time digging a little deeper into the ground. Although his arms burned and
begged him to stop, he could not let his task remain unfinished, and so bore
the pain as he continued to shovel like an automaton. Throwing his tool aside,
he climbed from the dank earth, smelling both fresh and decayed. Two graves lay
waiting, lonely and deep, friends to one another.

The man returned to his car, the beams of light piercing
through the night that shrouded him, and from the backseat, he lifted a bag in
both arms. He returned to the place he had readied and with utmost reverence, laid
the body upon the ground. He unzipped the top of it, and a woman, fair of
complexion and gentle of countenance lay there, resting. The rain washed the
blood from her lips, and with infinite care, he bent down to kiss her. He
stroked her hair, his great sobs finally retching from his body and cutting
through the night. At last, he could bear it no longer, and zipped the bag up,
turning his head away. He threw her into the grave he had dug and began to pile
the dirt over her. Fatigue made his work slow, but he would not let his body
rest until he had lain to rest her body.

He returned to the car for a second time, and this time the bag he returned
with was only half his size. He opened it, and his son slept before him, his
lips apart slightly as if to breathe. The man closed them gently and ran his
fingers through the blonde hair of his only child. His miracle child that had
brought so much hope and love and promise into his life. The night wind bit
through the man’s soaked clothes, and with shaking fingers, he closed the bag
and climbed with it into the second grave. No words could capture what his soul
longed to cry, and so he sat there as the heavens bore down relentlessly,
wishing it were he who were to be entombed. A timeless age passed until the man
rose to his feet and pulled himself from the sepulcher, taking up his shovel.
He gasped in what oxygen he could to fuel his body as he threw dirt into the grave.
When at last, his toils were done, he took a faded photograph from his pocket.
A woman with raven hair smiled shyly at the photographer, and in her arms held
a sleeping infant, golden wisps just visible. He did not know how long he
stared at the photo, unmoving and impassive. When at last he closed his eyes,
he knelt to the floor and searched blindly for a twig. Finding one, he pierced
the image and nailed it to the ground between the graves.
"Mother and son, united forever," read the caption.

Slowly, the man turned his eyes upwards where the stars cried for his crying
"Agony!" he longed to scream to the empty skies, but no sounds would
escape his lips except his broken sobs. He crumbled to the ground and curled
up, sobbing for his loved ones, lost. With their lives they took his future,
and so his toils complete, he lay down beside them and waited for his death.