The Firebird

I love this song so much... and I wished I could see it in concert, but I don't know anyone who is playing it. Then I went on youtube so I could listen to it... and found an orchestra playing it!!!

IT IS SO BEAUTIFUL!!!

<(^^<) Go Firebird! Dance!

Infernal Dance

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4S64H4HXTw

Finale

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-zUn_yICSM

I am so jealous those people can play instruments well enough to have that much fun playing the Firebird. Arrrrggg!!! Even the old guys are having fun!!! Sometimes I wish I could play like that, but then I remember that I don't read music ^^;; I'll just enjoy them enjoying and also enjoy the sound waves _/``\_/`\_ <(^^<)

<.< >.>

The Deed is Done.

Arrr Hrrr Trrr Crrr

I spent 7 hours talking to him, and that wasn't enough.

If only a toll booth could create and inbetween time or a mystic box appear around us so that time wouldn't move or that the fairies would create a bubble of time around that space just so I could spend more time with him.
Maybe then... it would be easier.

But that one word, the slang word for affection...

I must not use it.
I must not use it.
I must not use it.

Because if I do it again... and it doesn't work... I don't know if I will again. The scars of my past are deep and tender. Before now... before I knew who I was.

But it is very much worth the wait.

And I will wait for the right time to console him, to comfort him, to let him know that there is absolutly one person in the world who _ him for everything that he is and will be. There is one person who will do whatever it takes. And that person will know him.

And to know you... is to...

Float!

I had a very giddy car ride home tonight while listening to "Bed of Roses" by Mindless Self Indulgence and "self Control" by Infernal.

I haven't felt this way since high school. <(O.O)>... but this time is so much different. It is so... I don't know... adult?

I am stopping myself from writting because the fairies in my eyes will make it turn to mooshy gooshy goodness. <(^^)> I'll just sit here and float.

What happens when...

What happens when you start off,
And thought you found love,
an intense feeling of affection,
an emotion or an emotional state,
only to find it was a dream,
that what you wanted most was to see them live,
you love them because you care for their well-being.

What happens when you move on,
And thought you found love again,
an intense feeling of affection,
an emotion or an emotional state,
only to find it was for show,
because you just really wanted them to love you,
taking without giving it back so you can be loved too.

What happens when you find yourself,
Loving the eyes of another,
an intense feeling of affection,
an emotion or an emotional state?

All I know is that it is amazing.

Hero

The time had come. The white knight took up his sword and mounted his steed. Onward they flew like a wave across the plain. Flowers flew upon the white knight's helm and turned in awe at his magnificence. The darkening sky thundered in protest as he approached the castle. The broad gate broke in the white knight's presence. He dismounted and drew his kite shield. The dragon was waiting. Flames split the shield and the white knight flew through the air with his sword. The dragon's heart was pierced. The white knight leaped the spiral staircase in mere seconds, his chest stained with the dragon's blood. He reached the tallest tower and found an empty bed and an open window. Bloody footsteps lead to a door on the left...

Today

slow down...

Yesterday

I'm out of it... to much... everything!

I'll go back to school today to do my HW and get a post out of me...

...

the slience before the storm is the last breath before the next calm.

the abandoned theatre part 22

My note reads:

"It takes two to tango."

The woman fades away. I fade away. And then we are outside the theatre. Before I notice anything else, the ferris wheel catches my eyes. I watch the chairs move up and down in a circle without stopping. It is so beautiful. So primative, but unnatural at the same time.

The woman walks foward and reads a small sign beside the ride. I don't pay much attention to the sign. There is a small booth besides the platform beneath the giant wheel. I walk past the woman and step up to the booth. There is no one inside. A small box is placed to one side which is marked: "Valuables Here".

The woman catches up to me and says nothing. The ride stops slowly as if expecting something to happen. She pulls a small, shimmering object from her pocket. It looks strangely familiar. She places the object into the box marked "Valuables Here" and steps onto the platform. She looks at me expectingly. It seems impossible to imagine, but it was almost as if the woman and the ride together were pulling me to them.

We sit into a chair. As soon as the safety bar was down the ride began again.

Breath In!

I... will breath in. Move on. And walk. One step at a time. I will confront my greatest enemies. I will shake off this cold shoulder. I will adapt to my surroundings. I won't move ahead of myself, but I will catch up with what I miss most. I will get what I want or die trying. I will be selfish and make the first move... but how do you do that? You get what you want or die trying ofcourse!

The Last Date and The Truth

When you look into my eyes,
What do you see?
Is there hope
Is there dreams?
What can you see?

My head goes left to where you'll be,
But what's that mean?
Can you see it?
Is it there?
Or could it mean...

There he goes again on the ferris wheels,
Up and down we spin,
Nothing is said,
Yet the lights say,
Down and up we'll spin.

The face paint peels onto the stand,
The moon reflects his eyes,
I see beyond the storm,
I think I can touch his...
But then where's his eyes?

I grasp at his side and hold him close,
Is there nothing he would miss most?
To live an easy life,
To live a troubled day,
Who really cared most?

Suddenly he is gone from my sight,
Never to be seen again,
My eyes begin to swell,
My heart begins to stop,
His last words ring again...

When you look into my eyes,
What do you see?
Is there hope
Is there dreams?
What can you see?

My head goes left to where you'll be,
But what's that mean?
Can you see it?
Is it there?
Or could it mean...

There he goes again on the ferris wheels,
Up and down we spin,
Nothing is said,
Yet the lights say,
Down and up we'll spin.

The face paint peels onto the stand,
The moon reflects his eyes,
I see beyond the storm,
I think I can touch his...
But then where's his eyes?

I grasp at his side and hold him close,
Is there nothing he would miss most?
To live an easy life,
To live a troubled day,
Who really cared most?

Suddenly he is gone from my sight,
Never to be seen again,
My eyes begin to swell,
My heart begins to stop,
His last words ring again...

Decoding the Cryptic Writing

I am not going to post part 22 of "the abandoned theatre" yet because I am in a horrible mood. If you don't believe me look at my comments on http://midnightonthursday.blogspot.com/ that I posted today.

I can tell when I am depressed now. I write like that man... he must have been more depressed than I am now to have been writing that way all his life. Not that his scripts or compilations are terrible. They are quite the works. The tone of voice, however, makes me want to slap someone in the face with a cold salmon. Such disrespect, hatred, moaning, groaning, bitch please, you suck, all-knowing, repulsive tone is used that it makes ME want to go kick a baby. (I tried to use humor to lighten the load. But seriously, no babies or spawning fish.)

Now I am going to attempt to show you why I am depressed and cannot write part 22 of "the abandoned theatre". It is because I have no one to talk to. Or that is what they are making me do. They are making me talk to no one.

NO ONE BUT THEM. And guess who can't talk to me? THEM. I don't mean to be disrespectful toward them, but when you come downstairs in the morning and one of them starts to break down in front of you at 7:30 AM right before you have to work... how are you suppose to talk to them? And how can you talk to someone who tears up on a daily basis when you enter the room? And how are you suppose to listen to the other side complain about you and why you are what you are and how (a direct quote mind you)

"This is all your fault."

The instant I told them... it was all about how to make sure I really was, so we went to the man. The man said, after ONE session, 99.9% yes. Then it was tears from them.

They tell me they are tears about how hard my life is going to be from now on. They tell me it is all about how hard it is going to be on me. They don't ever think they are selfish. They don't ever consider that I have been taking this burden since the beginning. They don't ever consider how hard it was for me to tell them. Yes, I talked to them about it. Once. Then I was the selfish one. I was the horrible person. It was my fault.

WELL GOD DAMNIT IT IS MY FAULT.

There, are you happy? I could never say this to them. They already know it is my fault.

Now they don't want anyone to know. They warn me like I am some escaped convict on the loose after killing a number of cops and pregnant women. It is my choice, isn't it? I want to be who I am after years of passing for another and now I have been told to hold myself back for them.

I want to talk.
I I I I I.
Me Me Me Me Me Me.

Who's fault is this?

MINE. I am a selfish bastard because GUESS WHAT?

THIS ENTIRE MESS IS ABOUT ME. I want to talk to someone.

So they tell me to talk to the man. Unfortunatly the man costs me money and time (and only once a week! ONCE A WEEK FOR maybe 45 minutes!!!) How I am I suppose to deal with this?

I want to talk.
I am selfish and I want to talk.
I want to move on.
I want to live.
I want to be outside with my friends.
I want to live on campus and start a relationship.
I want to read books and study dead writers.
I want to start a club and go to anime boston in a costume and totally geek out.
I want to be able to talk to my friends.
I want everyone to talk to me.
I want to talk to my friends and ask them how they are doing.
I want to go to england and the rest of europe, with everyone.
I want to listen to any kind of music I want in my Jeep Wrangler and sing horribly and off-key whithout knowing half the words with my friends.
I want to go to the ocean.
I want to go to THAT place.
The place we were baptised and had our high school slime washed away.
I want to see the old men watch me walk into the water with all my cloths on.
I want to float in the frozen waters for as long as I want.
I want to travel to the past and be myself, before there was myself.
I want to journey to Ancient Greece, Egypt, Rome, Britian, India, China, Japan, South Africa, Brazil, Mexico,
I want to boogie board on Hawaiian waves.
I want someone there beside me.
I want someone to listen to my selfish self talk senselessly into the night about selfish things.
I don't want to make people cry when they see me.
I don't want people to break down everytime I try to talk to them.
I don't want to be silent.

All of these things I must keep to myself because I am NOT allowed to talk to anyone.

But they didn't say anything about writing anything that anyone could just happen to read by chance and understand why I don't want to write part 22 of "the abandoned theatre" at this time because I am a depressed and selfish, yet unique, individual who respects the theatre and its actors.

It's upsetting.

I am bothered by the fact that I have no urge to write right now. I will do something soon. Please don't give up on me! (Pats himself on the back.)

the abandoned theatre part 20

"Really? Me too," the woman says. "Well, more of a scriptwriter, usually, though I have been known to venture onto the stage. Do you know the way out of here?"

Where is the way out? I reach into my pocket and feel the note I found in the classroom. I suddenly realize it's importance.

"I found it, but I think I might forget it soon. We have to hurry. This way."

We hurry down the dark corridor. As if the maze is against us the lanterns begin to go out one by one. If the darkness engulfs us we will never get out. I pick up the pace and soon we are racing for the door. Just as the last light goes out we burst out of the door and appear backstage once again.

The Woman moves forward and picks up a script off the floor. Could the page I had found earlier be part of this complete work? Before I can say anything she turns to me and says, "We need to get rid of this script."

The look in her eyes is one I dare not challenge. I walk over and pick up the lighter and take the script. The ghostly audience watches in fear. I turn to them and light the script aflame. They rush from their places and leap at the stage. The Woman gasps with fright and steps backward. I toss the flaming papers at the advancing host. Their images are engulfed by the smoke and disappear.

I look around for more ghosts. The remaining images hover for a moment over the dying flames before vanishing from this plane. All that is left is a smoldering pile of ash.

The Woman falls to the floor. I turn to the left and see her image fading away. She smiles to me and says, "So this is the exit?"

"No." I say to her. I reach into my pocket and pull out the note. I notice when I examine the note that I too am fading away. There isn't much time left.

the abandoned theatre part 18

"Who are you?" My mouth moves on its own. I wish I had never said it. I clench my jaw shut as she ponders. What is taking her so long? Was it not a simple question?

"I don't really know," she replys. "Who are you?"

My lazy comment comes back into my face like a salmon. My mouth tries to respond but I won't let it. I am afraid of what it will say next. The struggle continues for a few short moments before my jaw unleashes its wrath. I close my eye in fear as my mouth utters... a sigh.

I am stunned. Did it have nothing to say after all? Now was my chance to say something of my own. Who am I? Focus.

"I am an actor in an abandoned theatre seeking to escape it."

the abandoned theatre part 16

Nothing changes. I remain here. I am in the "Now." and yet I am not. The cabinets are still as volumous as ever and the opened folders lie unkempt upon the floor. Where was the thing I needed most?

There is no sign of the Woman. I close the folder and decide this room of endless dreams and memories has served its purpose. My hands open the door for me and I venture back into the darkened hallway. Before the door shuts I hear footsteps from the other side.

"Hello?"

The question bounces into the hallway. More footsteps. They are coming.

I step to the left as the Woman of Optimism walks into the dark hallway, just missing me. The door shuts firmly behind her and disappears into the wall. There is silence. Her face is illuminated by the lanterns. This time her eyes are clearly visible. I feel them examining me.

I turn my head to the right and our eyes meet. I suddenly realize this is not the Woman of Optimism... this is... this is...

the abandoned theatre part 14

I don't know if I can handle much more of this. My head is spinning. Too much of my memory exists here. I open my eyes slowly and spot an older boy. A recent memory. Although still a boy, he has lost many of his childish features. He stands there all alone while shadows move around him in a circle. He tries to grasp at them, but they keep moving. He is calling out. To me?

My mouth locks up and my head begins to burn. He continues to cry out more urgently. His words pierce me like fiery arrows. I try to wave but my arms are lead. He falls to the floor and the shadows depart. He is alone. There is no one else. Darkness begins to creep into the room. It devours my vision. Only my foresight can see him now... the pitiful lump in the earth. Coldness. A chill runs through me. Still no one comes. No one is here with him except...

"I am here."

Suddenly I realize my eyes are closed. As they open the many cabinets appear once more. The "I tried my best" folder remains glued to the floor. Staring at it for a while made my head stop spinning. My body begins to function once more.

I turn and see a momentary flash. A cabinet lies open nearby. Is there another person here? The "Moments when the world was yours." cabinet is open. A folder rests open on the floor, but I do not know what it says. My senses tell me it is of great importance.

As I try to pick up the contents I am rushed into another space. I hear sea birds cry out to the breaking waves. The smell of sand fills my nose and the sound of laughter rings in my ears. There are others in the water. I spot the boy amidst them. Standing nearby is... No... could it be?

The Woman of Optimism's face is hidden by her tangled hair. Only her mouth is visible. It's half-heartedly smiling. Her hand reaches for her pocket... and she begins to fade away.

My words are carried away by a strong, salty breeze as she vanishes completely. Some old men sitting on a bench behind me snort. I turn to the left and reply defiantly.

"I am here."

Each time those words come from me I feel stronger. The sea shore is the cabinet room now. The Woman couldn't have gone far. I see yet another cabinet open. It reads on the label "Monsters in the shadows" and yet another folder is on the ground. She must have ventured to that dream... or reality.

I decide to wait for her arrival. As I casually glance around I spot a cabinet I cannot resist opening. It is marked "What I need most". A grimace appears on my face as I pull out a random folder cautiously. It reads "Now." with a noticeable period at the end of now as if it were placed there specifically for a reason or cryptic purpose.

My head turns to the left as I leave the room of cabinets once more and venture into "Now.".

Walk

I am walking. No stopping. Just walking. No resting. Just walking. There is no need to break. Just walking. If I stop I might begin to dream again. Just keep walking. At least I know I am awake. Just keep walking. If I don't walk... No I wouldn't. Keep Walking. The nightmares... I can see the horrible horrors... Just keep walking foward. Everything will be better there... Just... keep... going...

And then Mulan happened.

the abandonded theatre part 12

I remain standing but somehow in a different space now. I am in a dimly lit kitchen. A family is seated at a round table. Two adults and two children. One of the children catches my eyes. He looks at me for a while before uttering words that make me grasp my chest. Could that be me?

The scene fades away to another space. A kindergarden class playing outside. As I watch the children at play I spot the child from before at the top of a slide. He turns to me. He tells me things. Things I wish I never... I must stop him.

I race toward him. Another child from below knocks into the slide. Suddenly he is falling from the top of the slide. I try to move but I am suddenly planted to the ground. I watch as he hits the ground in slow motion.

I begin move to another space as I clutch my head in fear unable to turn it to the left. How do I escape this pensieve?

the abandoned theatre part 10

Darkness devours me. I calmly find myself covered in shadows. Small lights lead the way down a corridor and at the end... is another door. I want to find out the meaning of these doors. Why are they here, how many are there, what is their purpose these doors. Nevertheless my train of thought stops as I approach the door.

There is something written upon the door. The shadows are hiding me, but are also keeping secrets from me. Piercing the darkness my eyes read aloud "The Abandoned Theatre". What could that mean? Did this door reference the theatre?

I turn my head to the left and open the door. Light explodes from the room beyond and seems to push everything into view. I struggle inside and shut the door behind me. There was nowhere to hide inside. Why was I always hiding? I wonder at myself.

My attention is drawn to the astronomical amount of filing cabinets within this room. Besides myself there is nothing else but cabinets upon cabinets. Many are labeled with strange phrases such as "First Times", "Epic Moments", and "Serious Business Gone Wrong". Browsing the columns and rows I find one has been opened and a folder lies askew upon the floor. I immediately wander over and search for the culprit, but none is to be found. The label on this cabinet reads: "I tried my best...".

I pull out the note within my pocket and reread it. Could it be? I am quickly drawn to the floor and begin reaching for a piece of paper. The moment my hand grasps the paper I am pulled down into a flash of white light. I vanish from the room of cabinets.

What is the purpose of blogging instead of logging?

Because at least I know, without a doubt, that (in a non-negative way) if I die my memories will be here for them to see.

Define: Die

Define: Them

Define: See

the abandoned theatre part 8

Once again I must make a choice. No hesitation is needed. I must live now. The decorated door teases my senses. I turn my head to the left and pull the door. It resists my attempt. Locked. It had never occurred to me that a door might be locked. I must find the key. One of the other two doors must contain it.

Beyond the left side door there were other doors too. There must be an answer to something there. I hurry over and sneak inside. Doors are everywhere around me. I open the nearest one on my right. A restroom with no urinals. A girl's bathroom. It's unnaturally clean and I see nothing out of place. I leave. The nearest door to my left was dark and mysterious. A lone alter is illuminated at the far end of the room. There is nothing worth keeping inside. I leave.

I walk a little further before trying another door. An empty classroom. The desks are in rows, the chalkboard is blank, the teacher's desk is empty. Nothing of value here either. Just as I turn my head left to leave I spot a small scrap of paper under a desk nearest me. It was a note. There is nothing of value written upon it either. I pocket the message anyways. I leave.

There doesn't seem to be anything of value in this room of rooms. I slide through the original door and face the two remaining. The common door is my next target, but I notice a key protruding from the once vacant keyhole in the other.

My hand touches the key without removing it. It senses the touch of another. I begin to... but then I do not. I push the door open and turn my head to the left.

the abandoned theatre part 6

With little other option other than to further explore the darkened room I creep onward. I stop myself quickly. There must be something I can do to let myself know I have been in this room already. On the floor I spot a dusty pencil. I use my fingers to sharpen the point before I attempt any scribing. Then I realize I have no paper. Realizing the script in my hand I tear a piece off. I write on the back, "I am here". It makes me feel more comfortable to write that I am here rather than I was. The past seems unnecessary. At least I would know I was living if I read a note that said I am rather than I was later.

I placed this note where I had found the page, but I made it a little more noticeable just in case. Who knows if someone else might notice it? I turn my head to the left as I walk away. I sense another doorway across the stage, but where it leads I do not know. I have to cross the stage to get there. I take mouse-like caution as I step into view. Then as if possessed by an instinctive urge I dash across the stage to the opposite door. Fear of being seen by a ghostly audience has haunted me.

As I slid through the door my anxiety left me. What adventures await me in this room? I began to wonder. There are three doors now. To the right is a door similar to the one I had just past, to the left is a door with a window into which I can clearly see countless doors beyond it, and to my north is clearly an ancient and mystical door. To this door belonged an old, rusted handle and above it and old, rusted keyhole.

the abandoned theatre part 4

I was heavier on the other side of the door. That small, tin heart was suppose to be the very thing that was holding me back. Now I am weighed by... life. I am alive, reborn and no more a ghost in the play. But a new feeling has begun. I am alone. On the other side of the door there was suppose to be more than this or maybe that was just what I had hoped there would be. I will not pinch myself. Pinching yourself is like telling yourself you exist. Someone else must be the pincher.

A brief scent of flame reaches my nose. I move without thinking, eager to find more life. All I find is another door. Traveling through a door is what got me here in the first place. Traveling through another wouldn't do me much good. There were probably a thousand doors on the other side leading in all directions and I could easily be lost. Forever. I begin to ponder and soon realize waiting is not an option. I must make a choice. Explore or wait. Live or die. Now. I push open the door and step inside.

I am backstage. There is no one else but me. I feel ashamed, but my foresight begins to touch everything within reach. So many props and costumes lay scattered across the floor as if the actors had simply vanished. My hands refuse to touch any of these false prophecies. Only one item remains untouched by the curse. A single page in a far corner tucked away from the untrained eye. I eagerly grasp it. Maybe a sign left to guide me to them. A map to the ultimate treasure. In disappointment I begin to realize that this is nothing but part of a script.

Who am I?

That question has been asked by everyone. And I mean EVERYONE. Even if you don't need to ask that question because you are quite confident in who you are... chances are very high you still proposed the question! Literature has tried to solve this answer with stories of individuals "finding themselves" through a highly elaborate, dangerous, and serious string of events that ultimately leads to the answer. Maybe thats a question we ask ourselves when we try to interact with someone. "Who are you?"

the abandoned theatre (continued...)

The sound of clapping awakens the darkened stage, the eclipsedghts, and the dank curtains. There was most certainly no one else there... and yet... there most certainly was. I turn and manage to catch a brief glimpse of the Woman of Optimism's image fading away behind a fluttering, frayed ribbon. Resting gently on the raised floorboard was a bokay of healthy, blue roses.

I stay long enough to watch the ribbon float to the ground before I turn and walk away from the stage. Up the seated aisles I see ghosts plead with my seer eyes to stay behind and collect the dust of time with their tin hearts. My pace remains strong as the rusted double doors approach. The right brass handle met my palm and it remembered the wombat behind me and begin to resist. I turn my head slightly to the left as the hinges come alive and scream. A beam of light blinds me anyways and I disappear from view.

The wombat's vision recovers as the door sighs shut. Seconds later a loud clang echoes and a small object rolls away from the door. The wombat waddles over and waits beside the door where the tiny, tin heart stopped ticking.

Doodle you Noodle

There. A small breeze. Now warm it up just a bit. Not too hot or it will flush your face. Ease yourself down onto you back in the grass. Don't worry about bugs, dew, or dirt. There is only grass here. The sun is out today, but it is slightly cloudy. It just so happens that the clouds move over you in a pattern so that the sun is never shining directly into your eyes. Your on to bottom of a small rise in the ground. It's almost a hill, but not even waist high at the tallest point. There is just enough incline to raise your head so that you can daydream without even the slightest effort. Now you're worrying someone will find you and end this. Well the grass just happens to be high enough to shelter you from sight. Now you begin to worry about falling alseep and missing an appointment of some kind. Well how about I just break those appointments for you right now? No more things you have to do or need to go to. Just stay here and enjoy yourself for as little or as long as you like.

Now you begin to slowly slip downward. Everything is disappearing into one bright mess. Falling downward never felt so good. You don't lose your stomach though. It's like slipping off your bed. You are in control of how fast or slow you fall. The wind blowing upward is also as warm as the breeze. You can spin if you want so your face is falling first. It doesn't matter because you can righten yourself if you feel like you want to stop.

Now fold your hand slowly. Whichever hand you folded, it now has a writting impliment in it. Draw. Sketch. Paint. Doodle. Whatever pleases you do it. You are creating. You are in control as you fall slowly. Dont worry about making a mistake. If you make one, erase it with only a thought. You don't need anything in mind. Just draw a single line if you want. Lose yourself in the image you've created. Let it surround you. You can move the image as you work on it with only a thought. You don't even have to move. Watch the image spin around you, and slowly plant itself on you. It disappears to the naked eye, but only you can see it there.

Now the light brightens to the point where you cannot see youself anymore. It fades until you realize that it's just the computer screen. You look down at yourself to find the marks you made. Are they there?

I'm Losing Who?

I've lost you, you've been found
But why does that matter now
There is still some left behind
Who's lost now you're gone?

What does it mean
When you still scream
While your asleep
In wetted sheets
Stuck to your back
Flying like a bat

journey to the land of the living.

The water is oiled.
Faith is done.
I cried tears for two,
But not for you...
Selfish you called the pieces of pices,
Tangled in the Tot's knot.
Oh why do you cry or try to sigh?
Nobody here to see your side.
Am I?
Or are you?
Could you be one or two?
Love nothing ...... but,
Lust for your lucious booty.
I sentence you to die.
Carved from your side.
Will you be my left hand?
Could you be my right?
Guide my tears from my face.
Please,
help yourself.

You are a hedgehog.

I am a bear.

And it was so...

(Enter Wombat from right stage)

Wombat: Hello, I'm a Wombat and my name is Wombat.

(Enter Rabbit from left stage)

Rabbit: Hi, I'm a Rabbit and my name is Rabbit.

(Enter Teddy bear from right stage)

Teddy bear: Hey, I'm a Teddy bear and my name is Teddy bear.

(Enter Gerbil from right stage)

Gerbil: Yo, I'm a Gerbil and my name is Gambit!

Wombat: ... Gerbil didn't we reherse this over and over yesterday?

Rabbit: and all last week?

Teddy bear: and all last month?

Wombat: And didn't we say clearly, "No more new, crude nicknames that don't make any sense!"

Gerbil: Well I thought I would spice things up a bit. This play is pretty lame.

Teddy bear: What the hell Gerbil! Now you just ruined the play!

Rabbit: This isn't your play Gerbil. You had your chance with "The Inflammable Gerbil: Gerbi"

Teddy bear: And don't forget "Everyone's Favorite Gerbil: Germy"

Gerbil: But those all sucked!

Teddy bear: Then why ruin this one when this is clearly Wombat's turn?

Gerbil: Wombat doesn't even care. He said "Let the moment move itself and let you mind speak freely" so I'm doing him a favor by doing what he asks. He should be grateful.

Rabbit: You're just being dumb by manipulating the situation to your advantage.

Gerbil: Shut the fuck up!

Wombat: Thank you Gerbil. You are excused.

Gerbil: What do you mean I'm excused? You don't have the right to excuse me! I'll leave myself! Try growing up sometime!

(Gerbil storms off right stage)

Wombat: Too bad. He really is a character in my play afterall.

Backyardigans

Hi, I'm Pablo.
My name's Tyrone.
I'm Uniqua.
I'm Tasha.
And my name is Austin.
And we're ...

Your backyard friends, the Backyardigans!
Together in the backyard again,
In the place where we belong,
Where we'll prob'ly sing a song,
And we'll maybe dance along.

We've got the whole wide world in our yard to explore.
We always find things we've never seen before.
That's why every day we're back for more
With your friends, the Backyardigans.

benefiCently gig ohM sTorm

The boy sat alone in the darkness. He couldn't hear the voices anymore. Light was filtering in through the window on the far side of the room. The rising sun reached into the small room revealing a set of bunk-beds, one opened chest, and toys scattered across the floor. The minature models of cars, robots, and people were abandoned in awkward positions. There was no more play left within them. In the streaming light dust danced with itself within the silence only broken by the soft breathing coming from within the closet.

S.I.M.P.L.E.

Life as a child was simple. It was less violent and more of a 'living for the next day' mentality. As we grow up, the time we live for grows longer and longer, a week ahead turns into months and then years. SOon enough we start thinking about retirement without any care in the world for tomorrow. Actually the truth is we ARE thinking about tomorrow. We think too much about tomorrow. Tomorrow is so planned out that we can't live without a tomorrow planned out! Even our weekends and vacations are planned to the hour. This is a way to 'maximize' potential resting time, but isn't this what we are trying to escape? Every time my relatives come over they try to not 'plan' anything so that they can do what they want. In the end it turns into what is everyone else doing and they end up planning to include us. I think a cruise would be a good way to release someone from the bonds of planning, but the problem there is that you are on the boat's schedule. No matter where you look there is always scheduling. One of my good friends just told me he likes to "Leave the weekends open to change" or "Not have anything planned" which turns into them staying home all day doing absolutely nothing. Is that a childish act? Does the need to remain "unplanned" paralell to the need to retreat into our childish past? Again with old people, I admire them. They are at the end of their lives and still they have to plan according to the world around them. They don't want to do anything anymore except be with other people and not be judged (in my personal opinion). I was just talking to this older woman the other day and recieved word from a friend that she couldn't believe I talked to her like I did. Not in a bad way... but I talked to her like she was just some ordinary person I would find around the states. Actually I shouldn't say that. People change dynamiclly depending upon their region. This older woman was from the North-Eastern part of the country. She lives in an apartment complex for old people.

the forcible CRy

The problem with me is I don't understand what I want.
I know what I think I want, but could it be that what I want is what I need?
No, that doesn't make sense... it isn't what I need.
If I needed it I would have had it long ago and still had it.
But... I just got it... so how could I need it now?
I was doing fine before I found it.
Well... no I wasn't...
I was practically lying to myself actually.
Who didn't know that?
But I don't understand how I could have this.
Why have I been disease sticken if the whole world isn't?
Doesn't desire, such as a disease itself, become contracted from an outside host?
Or is this plague a Stand Alone Complex?
An illness that inhabits others too but has no origin...
It sounds farfetched.
Even unlikely.
It sounds like something I couldn't understand.
But I do now.
And if a Stand Alone Complex is occuring...
Then what makes these people any different from anyone else?
Is it something like... a super-hero?
All super-heros are the same, yet very different.
Each has a different power from a different source, yet all lead to the same title.
They are their own individuals with their own powers, yet each one has been granted it for very different reasons.
But what about those like the fantastic four who contracted powers through the same event?
All of those involved in the conflict were exposed to the same "host" of their powers, but all of them have different powers.
They aren't standing alone.
Then why do I make this comparison?
Maybe it is because,
I feel like I am standing alone.
My mind tells me that to be like this is not alright.
Yet the youth inside desires to be like the heros we idolize.
I want to be a Stand Alone Complex.
To be unique.
But to be unique is to be alone.
This is against our inner most desires.
So do I isolate myself because of this illness?
The virus I have carried that I do not want to spread did not even have an original host.
I am the original host.
Unless someone with my blood felt the same.
If they felt they were alone in the world...
Then why was I granted their mentality if it forced one into isolation?
I am not a direct desendant so I could not have been afflicted the same way.
Then maybe my assumptions are correct.
I do stand alone.
Although someone before me once stood alone, they no longer stand to be beside me.
So in the end I am the only true carrier.
But what about the others who are also affected?
What about those who aren't?
If I seek others then I will only be hurting myself.
Everything I have worked for will fall apart.
This is my prediction now, but in five years I bet this disease will have faded.
In its place will be something even more grotesque.
Isolationism.
After I knew about it, this was the only choice.
There was no other choice.
But Isolationism is hard to practice.
One deserves to be loved.
Now thats probubly the most powerful word I could name off the top of my head.
Its power is fading every day, and yet it is growing stronger.
In the end the meaning is changing.
What will replace love?
So far there seems to be nothing but a shell of what love was.
The true definition, along with the meaning, of love will be lost.
What can one define as love?
Does it depend on your society or culture?
Sometimes I just don't know.
I can only barter with myself endlessly until I agree with myself.
Then, when the rare person trails into my thoughts, they can challenge me.
In this way I develop.
But because I doubt myself so much I immediatly think they are correct.
And so I lose my own opinion.
This is not always the case.
In some issues I do know where I stand.
And there I stand firmly.
For example: The issue of Art.
What is Art?
A timeless answer that will indefinatly vary.
In my own eyes, I understand artwork completely.
In one glance I can see what is 'right' and what is 'wrong' with thie piece.
In almost every case though... I need to get close to the artwork itself.
I need to feel the paint strokes, the shape of the handworked clay, or the worked material.
In this way, I believe, one can truely understand what the artist was feeling when the piece was created.
Some people are more skilled at portraying their emotions, but everyone does it equally.
And this is why I cannot continue as an art major.
I understand what others cannot.
No matter how far I could get... I would still feel the same way.
Nothing would change.
Only "generalizations" could be agreed upon.
But I will always feel the same way.
You will always feel the same way.
That accomplishes nothing.
All we do is agree to agree that this piece fits this status.
Nothing more and nothing less.
It is something I know, somehow, that I have recieved from my ancestors.
Maybe that is how intellectuals are made.
Throughout time, the process of discovering pieces of the world are combined until one person exists with complete knowledge.
After that person has existed with all of these pieces in place, they can end the cycle eternally.
It reminds me of how some religions focus on the rebirth of the soul until one is 'pure' or enlightened.
Could the alternate meaning of enlightenment be all-knowing?
I have to look this one up.
Dictionary.com has defined the verb 'to be enlightened' as "make understand".
Does a complete understanding of the world coencide with salvation from life?
By 'salvation of life' I mean the end of the painful cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.
Yes, if you didn't know it being born hurts.
Yes, sometimes death hurts. But every time it is emotionally damaging.
Well, if birth hurt the first time... it can be assumed it will hurt again.
Does this cycle parallel to something else besides life?
Could it be the biggest generalization to the world?
Could you bring everything from your life and put it into this wheel of rebirth?
Would it all fit?
I think so.
Maybe that is all that counts.

a divinity loud If Unity

Is there such thing as individuality?
Individuality is something that distinguishes us from someone else.
But what if we aren't individuals?
We are trained to be as individual as possible.
At least in modern society.
Even now I am constructing something based upon my cultural struture.
How individual is that?
There is no benefit from individuality for a society.
If everyone were to become uniform and focus on their objective we would prosper.
There would be no thoughts against one another because without one we aren't a whole.

I'm getting off track tring to be on track.
Or maybe this is my mind secretly evading this subject because I have been trained to think. My mind had been manipulated into thinking that society is good. Or maybe my inner self knows that this is just more than an empty feeling. Could it be that there was something beyond this democracy that was much better?

Democracy has been shown to rise and fall quickly. As a philosopher once theorized, a democracy eventually evolves into a communist dictatorship. If you don't understand how this could possibly happen, let me enlighten you:

The Fall of Democracy in a Nutshell

First we start with the beginning. We are all happy with electing officials and owning our own buisnesses. This is a nice little democracy we have going. Slowly though, larger companies evolve out of the smaller ones. This causes a fall in the amount of private buisnesses that the consumers can look toward and they end up purchasing from these larger companies. Eventually this turns into our classic Walmart situation where there are loads of big companies but few small, private ones. Now that most of the small companies are extinguished, the bigger ones start buying each other out. This leaves us with a few enormous companies that pretty much govern what we buy at what price. This causes a roit amonst the people and the government is forced to take control over these big companies so that items can be distrubited in an economically profitable way. With this evolution comes the change from democracy to socialists where there is no longer a president that governs the country, but a group of elected officials. This goes on for a while until an event occurs... let's say a war breaks out. Amongst the elected officials comes the rise of a single leader, the dictator, and takes hold of the country. Thus we have come to communism where the dictator tells us "Who will go and who will stay" in a basic sense.

So we fear not only other economies, but our own too. In the end wasn't it simpler to be just a small group of villages or city states? Unfortunatly, humanity has a basic instinct we cannot escape. The need for unity.

We can all get together and have a party, but it wouldn't be as fun if the same people came around all the time. Trade routes would eventually develop and goods exchanged for nessesities. The conductivity of this would spark a new urge to join with these other people, the "grass is greener on the other side" theory we all follow by.

Even now people go back to ancient religious views shared by their ancestors... but how does that fulfill them? All they are doing is revisiting an old way of life. Isn't the purpose of life to be individualized? Unique?! AH!

This culture thing is getting to my brain. Its like one of those alien-babies from Alien. It attached to your face and stays there until it plants itself inside of you so it can feast of your body until it can live on its own. That is a democracy. An alien trying to use us until we can't be used anymore. Go visit the elderly sometime and ask them how retirement is. How would you feel if you had to sit around all day with no one to talk to except other old people? There had better be something for me to do when I get that old.

In other cultures being old was a gift! Oh god, they get treated with such respect and reverance just because they survived life. Those old people are always the ones that get it good.

Old people should learn how to use the internet.

Then again, when I am as old as them I wouldn't want to think about trying to learn something new all over again like I did for my entire life every-single-day.

cRies in me

I began to read them.
They were so old that they almost to frail to read.
Dust seemed to fly away as my eyes moved down the epitaph before me.
So many memories filled the spaces between sentences...
Ghosts began to emerge from the sea of letters and reach out their hands.

I could only watch their helpless gazes with half-hearten smiles and frown.
These shells were only fragments that I wanted to see.
My hands were blistered from reaching to these Ghosts.
It was like watching a play unfold before my eyes that I'd seen before.
But I did not cry when the Ghost had gone.

This was only a shell of someone who once was, but one I had only wanted to see.
This only a shell of someone that I wanted to see.
This shell that I wanted to see.
This shell I wanted.
This shell I.
This I.
I.

Not they, but I could see.
It was a dream once lost for them, but one I carried.
Maybe they too had this dream in a pit somewhere.
Lost forever in a junk pile they were waiting to erase.
Or maybe they already erased.

Which means only I hold on to a dream, not mine.
Which means I hold a dream, not mine.
Which I hold a dream, not mine.
Which a dream, not mine.
Which dream, not mine.
dream, not mine.
not mine.

This is not my dream, but then why do I carry this dream?
A dream another shares to another and then dies from the host.
What becomes of that dream?
Why must I be charged with the final release of it?
The problem resides with giving back the dream to be properly disposed.

Or is the dream really ever disposed?
Does one dream stand alone or is it shared by others?
Is it they who make the dream true?
When we see a child get a gift they have dreamed of having,

Is that child's dream fulfilled or is it a dream we stole to fulfill our self?
Is that child dream a dream we stole to fulfill ourselves?
Is that dream a dream we stole to ourselves?
Is that a dream we stole?
A dream we stole?
We stole.

But if the original carrier of that dream threw it away,
Then we can conclude they didn't want it anymore.
So how do we justify fulfilling a dream not ours in the first place?
Is it for ourselves so we can enjoy the fulfillment of A dream?
What if the original host of the dream discovers you fulfilled it?
Will they hate you for being a cheat?
Or praise you for doing what they never did?

These shells sleep until awaken by the sound of memories and dreams.
Then these fragments hold out their hands and ask for help.
Just smile and remember that these shells will always beg to you.
But it is the original that made the ghost in the first place for you to admire,
or scorn.

but nevertheless love.