The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it is not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining its own direction, have hither to harm us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.
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It was my turn up to bat, I had to make sure I hit this one deep because if I didn't then the game would've been over and my friends and I would've lost to the cocky 5th graders. I saw the ball coming, fastball on the outside, my favorite. I swing with all my might, hit the baseball over to left field I make it all the way to third and by the time I landed on the bag recess was over. My team scored the last 2 runs and we all laughed and celebrated our victory against the 5th graders. Now it was time to go back inside and learn complex multiplication skills that would have made any other 4th grader want to rip all of their hair out. I mean c'mon, 9 times 6? Impossible. Now it was the afternoon, around the time either my mom or my dad would pick me up, mostly my mom though. I see her pull up in the parking lot and all I can think about is telling her about how excited I was winning that little baseball game that meant so much at the time. She looked at me through the window and smiled. I waved and said goodbye to my friends and I made sure to promise that I would play again tomorrow. I remember my mom being very quiet and just letting me tell this outstanding story about how I beat those stupid 5th graders, and how I almost got a home run. She looked at me and said "that's great mijo (son in Spanish)". I knew something was wrong but I never seemed to care anything about it, after all, I was the all star and had a plate of mac and cheese waiting for me at home. I turned on the TV, it was 5:00 and pokemon was about to start playing. That's when I heard my father yell "Gabrian, come over here, your mother and I need to talk to you." I sat down and wondered what the deal was. My parents stared at each other for awhile and soon enough my mother let out a quiet and tired voice "Mijo, I'm gonna be going away for awhile." This didn't bother me, my mom was always gone, not as much as my dad though, but still I knew that wherever she was going she was going to bring me back a T-shirt or something else cool. "How long are you going to be gone?" I asked. "For awhile." she said. "Will you just shut your fucking mouth and tell him already?" my father asked with a demanding tone. I was shocked, why was dad talking to mom like that? My father let out a curse under his breath and said "Your mother and I are getting a divorce". My blood ran cold. I started to feel the pressure coming to my eyes and soon tears started to blur my vision leaving only a silhouette of my parents. Soon enough my mother and father started yelling at each other and my father was picking things up and throwing them. Then there was me, locking myself in the bathroom crying as I kept hearing my mother crying and my father saying all sorts of mean things to her calling her a bitch and all sorts of other curses. Things weren't the same when my mother left. People started to ignore me at school. Everyone knew now that my mother left for her girlfriend and moved away. "Your mom is a faggot." "Your mom is going to burn in hell with you for liking girls and not boys." These where always the things kids would say to me that would often get me into fights. Even if I didn't understand why my mother liked girls instead of guys, I knew that she wasn't going to burn in hell and she wasn't all of those names. My counselor pulled me out of class one day and sat me down in a comfortable chair and started asking me all of these questions. "Is everything going OK at home?" "yes." "Is there anything you want to talk about?" "no." "Just know we are always here for you Gabriel". That's not my name. My father signed me up to see a therapist, he thought that maybe I could let out all of my frustration and finally come to peace about what happened. My therapist was a nice man. I always liked talking to him, he made me feel like I wasn't alone. He started asking me questions like the counselors at school did, but this time they seemed to let out a lot of things I was thinking at the time. "If I wasn't alive none of this would have never happened. It's all my fault that mom and dad are mad at each other." I lock myself in my room and cry every night wishing I could see my mom and started wondering if she was really going to burn in hell like my father and those kids would tell me in school. I don't know what kind of 8 year old wants to die so badly and prays to God that he will come down and take my soul while I am sound asleep so I can escape all of things happening to me. 10 years pass now. I live in Vancouver now with my mother and two exceedingly fat dogs. I have a lot of friends and I do well in school (arguably). I have a job, I have my own car, and I have teachers who all consider me to be their friend and check up to see how I'm doing. One thing I've learned about love and loss is that you can't really have one without the other. When my mother left, I was completely devastated. But look at where I am now, I have an amazing life, there are so many things I've learned from losing someone close to me like even when things aren't going your way, time will eventually make everything better.
"Old men declare war but it is the youth that must fight and die" - Herbert C. Hoover One afternoon I was watching a documentary about the Vietnam war that happened in the 60's. I love to watch documentaries, especially about wars, my favorites being the civil war and the Vietnam war. Even though I like to learn about all of this conflict and think it is highly interesting, I still have a strong grasp of reality knowing that war is not something to take lightly and it affects the hearts of not only the soldiers but the families it consumes. And even though most of the US soldiers were drafted into the military, there was a big percentage of young men who were only 18. 18 I'm 17 years old, and I couldn't possibly imagine going oversees, leaving everything I left behind to fight a war that had I had no idea what it was even about. But I like to imagine myself in the shoes of a young man at the time, what horrors they witnessed and all the horrible acts they had to carry out on young men, women, and sometimes even children. I remember during one of the documentaries, a veteran who was only 19 at the time had to go on a search and destroy mission to locate and clean the war supplies the enemy stored in a village up by the hills. When he arrived, he was greeted with horrified faces from the local farmers. They soon found the hidden weapons and ammo under floorboards or piles of hay. The order was given "clean it up boys". The veteran then states how the soldiers, our soldiers, starting burning the houses and shooting the farmers. Shocked and horrified, all he could do was stand still and watch as a mother cradled her son, both burning alive and screaming in pain. Just imagine, imagine closing your eyes every night and only being able to hear the screams and feel the intense heat blow against your face keeping you from sleeping soundly ever again. The arrogance of old and powerful men corrupt the hearts of the youth and make them commit unspeakable acts against humanity, and for what? Nothing. War is horrible. War is pointless. The reason why I research war tragedies as much as I do is because I am looking for an answer that justifies why we fight. Even to this day and age, with all of the knowledge we possess and with the potential to save everyone from poverty, we still seek destruction against our brother.
Step 1: Open your eyes even though the light hurts your eyes and attempt to move your legs to stretch until you let out a scream so loud and ask why it had to be a Monday.
Step 2: Get up out of bed and put some clothes on. No one wants to see your hairy stomach or your wedgie you have in your boxer briefs or whatever type of tight underwear you're wearing. Or even if you sleep naked, unless you're Scarlett Johansson, cover up. No one wants to see it. Step 3: Go into the bathroom and turn on the light. Look at yourself in the mirror and stare. Stare at the imperfections that everyone has but feel like these flaws only belong to you. Turn your head away from the mirror to hide your shame and look at the shower. Step 4: Turn on the shower. Bring it to a close enough temperature to where you can relax for about 10-15 minutes in hot streaming water, washing away the worries that will sooner resurrect during the day. Look down at your skin, seeing the water droplets run across your arm and try not to mistake them for tears. Step 5: Turn off your warm sensation of water and steam and get into some clothes. Feel the holes in your hoodie, in your socks, and smell the shirt to see if its still clean or close enough. Realize that the clothes could be better, look better, definitely smell better. Appreciate that you have them, remember your parents struggling to clothe you and pay for millions of different things. Step 6: Eat. But then realize you don't have time to eat, you have more important things to worry about. Water will do. Step 7: Get on the bus for school. Look at all the kids faces as you pass them trying to find an open seat. Don't go to the back, you're not cool enough or loud enough. Find an empty seat in the middle and be quiet. Hope that someone doesn't sit next to you, try to be alone. Think about how your day is going to be. Think of all the people you'll see. Think about the people who won't see you, or never thought to look. Step 8: Step off the bus and start walking to the front door of your school. Remember that you don't want to be here, but you can't afford not to. Nor did you have a choice in the first place. Go and wait for school to start in your first period class. Close your eyes and let out a long sigh when you hear the bell ring. Go to class. Step 9: Go throughout your day. Try to remember the faces you saw as you were walking to your next class. Remember clearly, realize they never will. Realize as you're struggling to keep up with everything that no one wants to hear why you're struggling, they just want to see if you did it correctly. Look at the score you received on your test. 38/40. So close, that's all you'll ever be, just close enough. Remember your number for lunch to be able to eat. Remember your number for your login information. Remember your locker number, your phone number, and most importantly...your number. Remember that you're not a face or a name, you're a number. To the district, you're a number. To the government, you're a number. Realize that you are just a blur to everyone surrounding you, just background noise to fill the empty void in their head. Go home. Step 10: Lay down in bed, your homework can be finished later. Think about the things they said to you. Think about the things they thought about you that weren't true. Think about the things they did to you that you didn't deserve. Stop thinking about yourself now. Think about the things you said to them. Think about the things you've thought about them. Think about the things they didn't deserve. Remember your name, remember their faces. They aren't numbers, they're people. Realize you are going to die one day, but then think about how fun life is. Remember that everyone is going to leave sooner or later, but then appreciate their time when they are here with you. Remember that you're going to be alright. Prepare for the future and make it yours. Prepare for the uphill climb you're going to be hiking for a big chunk of your life. Prepare to be lost on your way up. Prepare to be clueless when lost. Find your way back up. Reach the top, turn around and see what you overcame. Now look ahead, your possibilities now are endless just as if you were looking at the land beyond on a mountain peak. Realize you are small, but have traveled great distances. Find your balance. Remain at the top. Go to sleep. Wake up. Remember everything. You know that feeling you get when you put something into the grocery cart while shopping with your mom, like a bag of Doritos or a pack of ice cream bars? But then she tells you to put it away? Yeah, that's what your teenage years feel like...times 10. For our age right now we have a unforgivably deep hatred towards authority and being controlled. These are the years you start wanting to hang out with friends late at night, driving around in an old beat up car your grandpa probably found on the side of the road, experimenting (maybe too much), and starting to think for yourself. For the most part you can do those things already if you're a good kid with some lenient parent, or maybe you're just really sneaky and don't get caught but one thing that stay the same is the strong determination in teenagers to start becoming themselves. I don't have that much family here in Washington. I live with just my mother and no direct siblings from both biological parents of mine. My mom has seen me start to take school more seriously and go out on my own to find work. Since I'm starting to become a young man my mom has thus began treating me like my own person. My mother always told me that if I keep my grades up in school then I can practically do whatever I want. Do I do whatever I want to do? Obviously not. But that's only because of one thing that cripples me and everyone else....money. Money is such a pain in the ass but its the best thing in the world at the same time. But like they say, money can't buy happiness, so there is literally nothing stopping me or you from going out and doing whatever we want to do.
Just to imagine what it was like to be a young teenage boy at the legendary concert "Woodstock" in 1969 fills my blood with envy. Since the first days I could listen to music and remember songs, one artist always appealed to me the most...Jimi Hendrix. Not only was it his playing style that got me hooked, it was his humble beginnings and his love of guitar that made me such an admirer of his work. One day in the summer I was sitting in the passenger seat of a Subaru Outback while my mom was driving me up to my grandpa's house in the back woods of Salem, Oregon. My grandpa has a passion for music and he once told me a story about how he almost went to Woodstock while he was in his 30's. Of course, he had to take care of my mother because she was only a child at the time, so he passed and stayed home...probably watching The Land of the Lost on an old television set. On our way up to his cabin I decided that I wanted to be in charge of the music, because let me tell you, 3 hours of P!nk would make most teenage boys want to overdose on NyQuil. "Hear my train a comin" was my first choice, I guess it was because of how he managed to make his guitar "sing" during his performance on his album "Winterland". My mother looked over and said to me "Jimi has always been one of your favorites." I tried to think back to my earliest memory of when I heard him, but I came up short. "I remember how you used to thrash around pretend to play the guitar every time I picked you up from day care." I laughed at the thought of a fat kid squirming in his booster seat trying to jam to some hardcore Hendrix. Oh, and there was also the story of me almost smashing my little Taylor guitar my dad bought for me, its what Jimi would have wanted. Jimi Hendrix's ability to put me in a trance with his phenomenal guitar skills and place me out of reality is probably why I love him so much. To be able to go back in time and see him in person would be awesome. But to play like him? That's been a dream of mine since coming home from daycare. Ever since I was little I've always had a deep admiration for pizza. I guess you can say pizza has been apart of a growing garden of love nurtured by my appetite. My love of pizza has been escalating as I've become more of an adult. When I come home from a long day of school and a late eavning shift at Papa Murphy's, I always wish I just had one slice of any of the delicious pizzas I've made on the job. I've always been aware of different choices of pizza like cheese, pepperoni, Chicago, etc. But ever since I started to work with the food I love so much I've learned so much about her and everytime I take her from her crib in the refrigerator I say to myself "that's my baby girl". As if I was a parent, watching these pizzas be built by my hands and taught so many lessons before they finally be taken into the customers hands, the only thing I can hope for is that I did a good enough job so that she can be loved by someone with the he same love as I. |
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October 2016
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