Two men on a peak, armed with nothing but camera phones, a backpack and some water. Staring over a valley watching as clouds rolled in with a hint of thunder and lightning in the background.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, the two men hurried down the mountain path, hoping to get to their vehicle before the rains turned from sprinkle to torrent, and that no lightning would strike near them.
The two men managed to get to their vehicle right before the rains began to fall heavily, and drove down the dirt road celebrating their good fortune.
But at a bend of the road, stood a deer. Fortunately the driver's friend saw the deer and they stopped in time to watch the deer sprint back into the forest.
But naught 50 yards down the road stood a woman. A woman soaked by the rains who happened to be staring at the deer as well. A woman of long brown hair and jovial appearance. Cute. And requesting a ride.
The two men acquiesced to her request, and she ran to tell her group that she got a ride. The two men wondered if their short lives were about to come to an end. Would she come back with a weapon; an axe or a gun?
Thankfully naught but the truth left the maiden's lips and soon they were on their way down the mountain, watching as mist rose from the road below.
Showing posts with label My Writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Writings. Show all posts
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Shattering of a Fantasy
A man walked in the desert. He believed himself to be clear minded, only just a little bit thirsty. He knew not how long he walked, but he soon viewed an oasis pure and clean. He ran to it and was happy; for he would not die of thirst.
There he spent his time for many a moon, growing fat off the fruit of the trees of the oasis, healthy and strong. Until he unfortunately had to leave.
He walked and looked back and thought of returning, knowing full well he couldn't as returning to the oasis would be a stagnation in life, no longer progressing how he knew he should.
And so he continued walking until off in the distance he saw signs of civilizations. Which is when he tripped, fell, and went unconscious. When he awoke he found himself truly awake and saw that instead of healthy and fat off the fruit of the oasis, he was skinny and sickly, weak and with thirst.
The man wondered what had happened, and saw his body, full of needles, cuts and bruises. And then he remembered, the illusion shattered. He saw through what had been his madness, seeing that instead of a fruitful oasis he had instead visited a wild growth of cactus, and in his madness did what he could to drink the juices and eat what he could of the edible part of the plant inside.
He saw that the fantasy was shattered, the memories of the place tainted, and his experiences unreliable. He knew he had strength to reach civilization, but was still saddened by the false promises of the cacti.
And so he walked, hoping to be rid of his memory of the place, of what he thought was a small paradise. And instead only seeing the needles and places where he injured himself trying to survive.
And though pulling the needles out one by one, he could never escape the cacti; he could not but harbor on that memory, the loss of the illusion and the loss of the naivety.
He could only run and hope that soon he would be free of such memories.
There he spent his time for many a moon, growing fat off the fruit of the trees of the oasis, healthy and strong. Until he unfortunately had to leave.
He walked and looked back and thought of returning, knowing full well he couldn't as returning to the oasis would be a stagnation in life, no longer progressing how he knew he should.
And so he continued walking until off in the distance he saw signs of civilizations. Which is when he tripped, fell, and went unconscious. When he awoke he found himself truly awake and saw that instead of healthy and fat off the fruit of the oasis, he was skinny and sickly, weak and with thirst.
The man wondered what had happened, and saw his body, full of needles, cuts and bruises. And then he remembered, the illusion shattered. He saw through what had been his madness, seeing that instead of a fruitful oasis he had instead visited a wild growth of cactus, and in his madness did what he could to drink the juices and eat what he could of the edible part of the plant inside.
He saw that the fantasy was shattered, the memories of the place tainted, and his experiences unreliable. He knew he had strength to reach civilization, but was still saddened by the false promises of the cacti.
And so he walked, hoping to be rid of his memory of the place, of what he thought was a small paradise. And instead only seeing the needles and places where he injured himself trying to survive.
And though pulling the needles out one by one, he could never escape the cacti; he could not but harbor on that memory, the loss of the illusion and the loss of the naivety.
He could only run and hope that soon he would be free of such memories.
Friday, May 20, 2011
In the Wake of Things
The thunder rolled on. The battle, nay the war over. Engagements settled. Neither side the victor. Both side suffering losses but finally at an end the two generals meet and decide the conflict is pointless. Too many lives lost. And for what?
For what has the conflict served? As far as they can see, nothing. Even when the dust settled, there were jabs taken at each other for pride's sake. But now in the aftermath, neither side thinks the other is important enough to even fight. To each their own, they say.
And so the generals with their remaining forces go their separate ways, scarred by a meaningless war that at one point some thought meant something. But now, all that is seen in the other is someone not worth thinking about, not even to spend the effort thinking about.
And so they march their separate ways.
For what has the conflict served? As far as they can see, nothing. Even when the dust settled, there were jabs taken at each other for pride's sake. But now in the aftermath, neither side thinks the other is important enough to even fight. To each their own, they say.
And so the generals with their remaining forces go their separate ways, scarred by a meaningless war that at one point some thought meant something. But now, all that is seen in the other is someone not worth thinking about, not even to spend the effort thinking about.
And so they march their separate ways.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Gear
There was a little sad gear in the factory. He had once longed to be a bigger gear, to move important pieces of the machine and do his best to make the machine he inhabited function more efficiently.
But time passed, the work and training to become a bigger gear was strenuous, tiring. He was tired. More than tired, he soon began to doubt that he was important enough to dream such dreams, to work, to better himself. Surely there was a better gear out there than him for the position. Who was he to want to be something bigger?
And so one day he just grew up. He stopped doing his work, he stopped learning how to be a better gear. He just didn't see the point and didn't see in himself the capacity to be a grand and high gear.
But giving up didn't make him happy. Giving up on himself, precisely, caused his very soul to weep. But by then he didn't have the will to motivate himself. He lost the will, the motivation, the ambition. He didn't care if he ended working the trivial positions. He just didn't care.
And one day he passed for the factory. He saw his fellow gears grinding away. He saw they having as difficult, if not more difficult, time as he had. But they toiled away regardless. They worked, they slept less, they gave it their all. They didn't give up.
So what was so different between them and him? What did they have that he didn't? After all, he had striven and worked with them day after day. They had moments of despair, they had hard times. They weren't any better caliber of gear than he was. They were just like him, gears striving to be more than they are.
Maybe the only difference was the force of will? But the little gear looked and saw more than he thought he would. He realized that why were his difficulties and struggles any different than theirs? What gave him the right to give up on himself and to stop trying? His friends didn't. So why should he? Why was he so special to let his dreams fade and let circumstances overcome? He wasn't. He wasn't so special ti fail where others tread on.
And so the little gear began to take heart from that day, to not be selfish in his desires, and not let himself fail where others succeeded.
But time passed, the work and training to become a bigger gear was strenuous, tiring. He was tired. More than tired, he soon began to doubt that he was important enough to dream such dreams, to work, to better himself. Surely there was a better gear out there than him for the position. Who was he to want to be something bigger?
And so one day he just grew up. He stopped doing his work, he stopped learning how to be a better gear. He just didn't see the point and didn't see in himself the capacity to be a grand and high gear.
But giving up didn't make him happy. Giving up on himself, precisely, caused his very soul to weep. But by then he didn't have the will to motivate himself. He lost the will, the motivation, the ambition. He didn't care if he ended working the trivial positions. He just didn't care.
And one day he passed for the factory. He saw his fellow gears grinding away. He saw they having as difficult, if not more difficult, time as he had. But they toiled away regardless. They worked, they slept less, they gave it their all. They didn't give up.
So what was so different between them and him? What did they have that he didn't? After all, he had striven and worked with them day after day. They had moments of despair, they had hard times. They weren't any better caliber of gear than he was. They were just like him, gears striving to be more than they are.
Maybe the only difference was the force of will? But the little gear looked and saw more than he thought he would. He realized that why were his difficulties and struggles any different than theirs? What gave him the right to give up on himself and to stop trying? His friends didn't. So why should he? Why was he so special to let his dreams fade and let circumstances overcome? He wasn't. He wasn't so special ti fail where others tread on.
And so the little gear began to take heart from that day, to not be selfish in his desires, and not let himself fail where others succeeded.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
While Procrastinating...
Just a little something I wrote while procrastinating...
Over the mountains, the sun peaked over.
Little by little at first until all was touched by the light.
Shadows of a previous season shed
Warmth not felt in many a moon spread.
Sure, a downpour here or there.
Some overcast skies from time to time.
But promises of sun, as this new season had promise.
And the people rejoiced at the forecast
Of sun most days, of no darkened skies, no torrential rains.
But of perfect 70 degree weather.
But forecasts change.
A tumbling, whether from volcano, earthquake or meteor, it doesn't matter.
All that does matter is the sun,
Where people hope against hope they can feel its rays
despite the haze and dirt filled skies.
Days pass, and only a glimmer of sun can be felt.
The feel it is only within their grasp, but they appear to hope in vain.
Despite promises to the contrary, the skies refuse to clear,
The sun appearing distant, almost tauntingly...
Who knows how long before shadows consume the land,
Who knows before the haze completely blocks the sun?
And an age of ice and darkness fill the land.
That is what the people see, what logic tells them.
They prepare for the winter, while hope for the sun fades.
They bunker down, and wait for the sun to be lost completely.
Time will pass, this they know
where eventually another season of sun break through.
They know things will be fine in the long run, years down the future.
But they don't see that.
They only see the chill as the flowers stop to bloom.
Over the mountains, the sun peaked over.
Little by little at first until all was touched by the light.
Shadows of a previous season shed
Warmth not felt in many a moon spread.
Sure, a downpour here or there.
Some overcast skies from time to time.
But promises of sun, as this new season had promise.
And the people rejoiced at the forecast
Of sun most days, of no darkened skies, no torrential rains.
But of perfect 70 degree weather.
But forecasts change.
A tumbling, whether from volcano, earthquake or meteor, it doesn't matter.
All that does matter is the sun,
Where people hope against hope they can feel its rays
despite the haze and dirt filled skies.
Days pass, and only a glimmer of sun can be felt.
The feel it is only within their grasp, but they appear to hope in vain.
Despite promises to the contrary, the skies refuse to clear,
The sun appearing distant, almost tauntingly...
Who knows how long before shadows consume the land,
Who knows before the haze completely blocks the sun?
And an age of ice and darkness fill the land.
That is what the people see, what logic tells them.
They prepare for the winter, while hope for the sun fades.
They bunker down, and wait for the sun to be lost completely.
Time will pass, this they know
where eventually another season of sun break through.
They know things will be fine in the long run, years down the future.
But they don't see that.
They only see the chill as the flowers stop to bloom.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Pirates
Today I would like to compare some aspects of life to life on the high seas as a pirate.
Take the pirate captain, while he controls the helm, steers the ship and in general leads or guides the ship; he has to worry about the welfare of the crew. He has to know when they're worried, scared, upset, and happy. If he ignores them, they mutiny. He knows this. And thus he works with the crew, allays and soothes their fears. He does not express to his crew his worries, how he feels, cause his feelings would then ripple and spiral out of control with the crew. Despite how he may feel, he has to appear confident, he has to do what he can to appear without fear, or at least brave enough to conquer those fears. He has to do so in order to have the best unity and functionality of the ship. So they can pillage all sorts of booty. And the crew? They don't necessarily want to know what is going through the mind of the captain or how he feels. Sure, they say they want to know, but their mood, thoughts, and feelings come before his. Such is the way of life aboard a pirate ship.
And, in many instances, such is life.
Take the pirate captain, while he controls the helm, steers the ship and in general leads or guides the ship; he has to worry about the welfare of the crew. He has to know when they're worried, scared, upset, and happy. If he ignores them, they mutiny. He knows this. And thus he works with the crew, allays and soothes their fears. He does not express to his crew his worries, how he feels, cause his feelings would then ripple and spiral out of control with the crew. Despite how he may feel, he has to appear confident, he has to do what he can to appear without fear, or at least brave enough to conquer those fears. He has to do so in order to have the best unity and functionality of the ship. So they can pillage all sorts of booty. And the crew? They don't necessarily want to know what is going through the mind of the captain or how he feels. Sure, they say they want to know, but their mood, thoughts, and feelings come before his. Such is the way of life aboard a pirate ship.
And, in many instances, such is life.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Russian Roulette
The ball bounces, the table top spins. Bouncing and bouncing, all waiting to see the results of the gamble. All wondering what will be. Will much be lost or much gained? Here a little, there a little? Will the two players come out equally?
The game has gone on for hours. The die is cast, the goal set. 50/50 winnings are the goal. The stopping point. All watching expect to see. See the losses turn to winnings. Only one player knows differently. Knows what to expect. One player doesn't hope for such odds. Player 1 knows how player 2 plays, seen how player 2 isn't eager to give up so much, even for at least an equal if not greater return in the end.
And so Player 1 settles in, watches the ball bounce, and predicting without a word the outcome. Knowing the mutual goal not feasible, he sighs, and prepares to lose more, prepares to give it all. A near 100% gain for player 2. And so player 1 throws the chips in. Throws them in for player 2's benefit. Caring, and not wanting to see player 2 give up so much with so much effort, player 1 prepares to give it all for Player 2's happiness. Preparing, win or lose, to give it all up.
And cannot help but wonder if there will be any winnings for his great gamble.
The game has gone on for hours. The die is cast, the goal set. 50/50 winnings are the goal. The stopping point. All watching expect to see. See the losses turn to winnings. Only one player knows differently. Knows what to expect. One player doesn't hope for such odds. Player 1 knows how player 2 plays, seen how player 2 isn't eager to give up so much, even for at least an equal if not greater return in the end.
And so Player 1 settles in, watches the ball bounce, and predicting without a word the outcome. Knowing the mutual goal not feasible, he sighs, and prepares to lose more, prepares to give it all. A near 100% gain for player 2. And so player 1 throws the chips in. Throws them in for player 2's benefit. Caring, and not wanting to see player 2 give up so much with so much effort, player 1 prepares to give it all for Player 2's happiness. Preparing, win or lose, to give it all up.
And cannot help but wonder if there will be any winnings for his great gamble.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Strike Two
Strikes abound, but is this bowling, or is this baseball?
A strike before and a strike again.
Striking at the little things that matter.
Hoping not baseball, knowing it's not bowling.
Still, strikes have been called,
Perhaps only the batter knows the score
The score of life, seeing two strikes, focusing on that
Focusing on swings missed and not seeing the ball out of the park
Rounding the bases, thoughts not on victory
Thoughts on the strikes, not on the laps
Not on the score that shows the overpowering odds
Just on the strikes. Not concurrent, separated.
But in his mind, he wonders what the third strike will mean.
Not a strikeout, this known to all but him,
But he is blind to all but the missed swings
as his performance throughout the innings slide.
A strike before and a strike again.
Striking at the little things that matter.
Hoping not baseball, knowing it's not bowling.
Still, strikes have been called,
Perhaps only the batter knows the score
The score of life, seeing two strikes, focusing on that
Focusing on swings missed and not seeing the ball out of the park
Rounding the bases, thoughts not on victory
Thoughts on the strikes, not on the laps
Not on the score that shows the overpowering odds
Just on the strikes. Not concurrent, separated.
But in his mind, he wonders what the third strike will mean.
Not a strikeout, this known to all but him,
But he is blind to all but the missed swings
as his performance throughout the innings slide.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
SQL Mafia Death Threats
"Transaction (Process ID 107) was deadlocked on lock resources with another process and has been chosen as the deadlock victim. Rerun the transaction."
It was the message he always dreaded, one he had only heard about in legend. He heard the rumors that the Mafia had infiltrated SQL, and that this sort of this was happening, but he never thought that the mafia would move from dead pigeons to deadlock sql messages on his computer. It was almost too much to handle.
Messages being lost, transactions disappearing. It was only a matter of time before such a thing happened to him as well.
Oh what to do, what to do. Not much to do but wait. Wait for the query window to appear. And then? No one knows. No one has returned o0nce they have entered the query window.
But enter he must, or else be lost as resources became deadlocked...
It was the message he always dreaded, one he had only heard about in legend. He heard the rumors that the Mafia had infiltrated SQL, and that this sort of this was happening, but he never thought that the mafia would move from dead pigeons to deadlock sql messages on his computer. It was almost too much to handle.
Messages being lost, transactions disappearing. It was only a matter of time before such a thing happened to him as well.
Oh what to do, what to do. Not much to do but wait. Wait for the query window to appear. And then? No one knows. No one has returned o0nce they have entered the query window.
But enter he must, or else be lost as resources became deadlocked...
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Fear
Maybe fear is the incorrect word, but what else would you call something that you knew would come, that you knew you would enjoy, that you know you will enjoy when it comes. But now as the coming is nigh or approaches, you begin to fear that maybe you don't want that thing. You begin to doubt yourself, doubting the wanting or the desire in the first place.
Maybe it is a type of terror? A terror that looms and makes you feel inadequate, a terror that makes you feel not ready or worthy for the responsibility to come. Something to make you want to hide your head in the sand.
But come it will. Though doubt and fear gnaw, perhaps it is the knowing, the knowing that I should, the knowing that there is no reason not to. The knowing of happiness, that will carry one along. Maybe.
Maybe it is only a fear, and nothing more. Something silly, something crazy, spawned in my own mind. Unsure. What more is there?
I guess the only answer is to step up bravely and continue as always planned. And hope that it is only a fear.
Maybe it is a type of terror? A terror that looms and makes you feel inadequate, a terror that makes you feel not ready or worthy for the responsibility to come. Something to make you want to hide your head in the sand.
But come it will. Though doubt and fear gnaw, perhaps it is the knowing, the knowing that I should, the knowing that there is no reason not to. The knowing of happiness, that will carry one along. Maybe.
Maybe it is only a fear, and nothing more. Something silly, something crazy, spawned in my own mind. Unsure. What more is there?
I guess the only answer is to step up bravely and continue as always planned. And hope that it is only a fear.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A Moment, Paused for Eternity
The rhythmic breathing. Steady. Sure.
Fallen asleep in his arms. Peaceful.
Enjoying a moment of eternity.
He awake, wondered at his luck
his fortune to be with the woman of his dreams.
She, embraced in the comfort and protection of his arms.
Looking down saw the beauty;
The curved smile, the angelic face.
Beauty seen when given more than a look.
Skin so soft, love so deep, eyes that sparkled,
eyes that twinkled with a knowing smile
In on the secret of love
And there she lay.
Peaceful, lovely, innocent.
and he, the luckiest man alive,
this he saw, this he knew;
his fortunes, his luck
all during a moment in eternity.
Fallen asleep in his arms. Peaceful.
Enjoying a moment of eternity.
He awake, wondered at his luck
his fortune to be with the woman of his dreams.
She, embraced in the comfort and protection of his arms.
Looking down saw the beauty;
The curved smile, the angelic face.
Beauty seen when given more than a look.
Skin so soft, love so deep, eyes that sparkled,
eyes that twinkled with a knowing smile
In on the secret of love
And there she lay.
Peaceful, lovely, innocent.
and he, the luckiest man alive,
this he saw, this he knew;
his fortunes, his luck
all during a moment in eternity.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
From Another Perspective
Covered in mud, living in squalor
destitute, homeless, hungry
Been that way most of his days.
A miserable life it's been.
Now old, infirm, weak
But it has been his own.
He's lived through pain
seen loved ones suffer, even die
All struggling to survive.
Death common, death frequent
it's a miracle he hadn't passed away yet
But not so viewed in everyone's eyes.
Though a miserable life it is
It is his, and he is happy.
Content within his ways.
Though not perfect, he manages
but not enough for some it seems
for some to consider him already dead.
Twas a morning that started like any other,
till picked up and treated as dead, he was.
Making a case for life, but ignored.
But pushing his luck on life
resulted in a blow to the head.
As his eyes went black, he heard the familiar cry;
The sound of striking metal
A shout for all to hear, and heard often
the call of, "Bring out your dead!"
destitute, homeless, hungry
Been that way most of his days.
A miserable life it's been.
Now old, infirm, weak
But it has been his own.
He's lived through pain
seen loved ones suffer, even die
All struggling to survive.
Death common, death frequent
it's a miracle he hadn't passed away yet
But not so viewed in everyone's eyes.
Though a miserable life it is
It is his, and he is happy.
Content within his ways.
Though not perfect, he manages
but not enough for some it seems
for some to consider him already dead.
Twas a morning that started like any other,
till picked up and treated as dead, he was.
Making a case for life, but ignored.
But pushing his luck on life
resulted in a blow to the head.
As his eyes went black, he heard the familiar cry;
The sound of striking metal
A shout for all to hear, and heard often
the call of, "Bring out your dead!"
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
My Blog's Already Green...
I've been busy with school, so I apologize for the lack of updates. Anyways, today is St. Patrick's day.
Now I know Wikipedia and history would have you believe the lies that it was the introduction of Catholicism in Ireland, but rather it is a tale a desperado, a tale of heroism, a tale of the little people.
You see, St. Patrick was not a religious man. He was an ordinary man doing ordinary things. Except, he served as ambassador to the little people. No one knew of his position, well, most people didn't. It was a secret position, but a position that he labored in faithfully. Normally he would deal with problems between the little people and humans. They lived apart, but intermingled frequently. To put it accurately, because the Little People had an image to maintain, St Patrick served more as a public relations officer than anything else, to keep humans from intruding upon the territory of the little people.
But with the approaching armies of the Christianized Romans on their way, the Leprechauns decided to use St. Patrick so they would be left alone, knowing that if the Romans caught sight of them, they would be exterminated.
And so the Leprechauns faded from public. Using magic and St. Patrick's talented persuasion abilities, the little people became a sort of myth, so that when the Romans came, they would only think that the little people were made up by the superstitions of the common people.
So, because of St. Patrick, the little people were spared and the Romans, being impressed with the man, used his name as they spread religion in the region...
That is the true story. Or the true story as fabricated by me while procrastinating homework at least.
Now I know Wikipedia and history would have you believe the lies that it was the introduction of Catholicism in Ireland, but rather it is a tale a desperado, a tale of heroism, a tale of the little people.
You see, St. Patrick was not a religious man. He was an ordinary man doing ordinary things. Except, he served as ambassador to the little people. No one knew of his position, well, most people didn't. It was a secret position, but a position that he labored in faithfully. Normally he would deal with problems between the little people and humans. They lived apart, but intermingled frequently. To put it accurately, because the Little People had an image to maintain, St Patrick served more as a public relations officer than anything else, to keep humans from intruding upon the territory of the little people.
But with the approaching armies of the Christianized Romans on their way, the Leprechauns decided to use St. Patrick so they would be left alone, knowing that if the Romans caught sight of them, they would be exterminated.
And so the Leprechauns faded from public. Using magic and St. Patrick's talented persuasion abilities, the little people became a sort of myth, so that when the Romans came, they would only think that the little people were made up by the superstitions of the common people.
So, because of St. Patrick, the little people were spared and the Romans, being impressed with the man, used his name as they spread religion in the region...
That is the true story. Or the true story as fabricated by me while procrastinating homework at least.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Contemplating
Contemplating Why
Why the difference in treatment
Why it matters
Contemplating and frustrated
At how a simple thing
A divergence of ideas
Causes such a rift.
For worse decisions could be made
Or worse done by those around
Or graver still.
But make a decision not approved
and out the door you go.
Out and about and out one goes.
Nothing wrong done,
No laws broke
Just a divergence of belief
Or supposed belief at the very least.
And the world shook upside down.
Frustrated and all, just a wondering.
Wondering why some people act the way they act.
Why the difference in treatment
Why it matters
Contemplating and frustrated
At how a simple thing
A divergence of ideas
Causes such a rift.
For worse decisions could be made
Or worse done by those around
Or graver still.
But make a decision not approved
and out the door you go.
Out and about and out one goes.
Nothing wrong done,
No laws broke
Just a divergence of belief
Or supposed belief at the very least.
And the world shook upside down.
Frustrated and all, just a wondering.
Wondering why some people act the way they act.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
There Once Was...
There once was a woman,
A woman red through and through
who thought we should bomb
those who would do us harm.
Not a drone missile or two
but a nuke, or a few.
And in all seriousness said,
their country should be made
into a parking lot.
Nothing could be said
to turn her from the red.
Just inward groaning
and maybe a chuckle or two.
A woman red through and through
who thought we should bomb
those who would do us harm.
Not a drone missile or two
but a nuke, or a few.
And in all seriousness said,
their country should be made
into a parking lot.
Nothing could be said
to turn her from the red.
Just inward groaning
and maybe a chuckle or two.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Risks
Sometimes you just have to take a risk.
Something crazy. Something wild.
Something that makes feel all sorts of crazy.
But something that just makes you happy.
Something that you know it will be worth it
Something that is crazy, exciting and thrilling.
Sometimes it is worth knowing the risk was worth it.
For seeing a smile meant just for you.
For being there and seeing into the eyes.
Was it worth it,
To see, to feel, to get to know?
Yes, yes it was.
Cause the smile meant for me,
the laughter caused,
the feel of the hand,
of just getting along.
No awkwardness...
What can I say? Sometimes you just have to take a risk.
And sometimes the risk pays out greater than expected...
And sometimes you just hit the jackpot.
Something crazy. Something wild.
Something that makes feel all sorts of crazy.
But something that just makes you happy.
Something that you know it will be worth it
Something that is crazy, exciting and thrilling.
Sometimes it is worth knowing the risk was worth it.
For seeing a smile meant just for you.
For being there and seeing into the eyes.
Was it worth it,
To see, to feel, to get to know?
Yes, yes it was.
Cause the smile meant for me,
the laughter caused,
the feel of the hand,
of just getting along.
No awkwardness...
What can I say? Sometimes you just have to take a risk.
And sometimes the risk pays out greater than expected...
And sometimes you just hit the jackpot.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Nuthun
I really wish I had something to say. I don't. Class work is taking up way too much time. Although... I did punch my Calculus test in the face though. So I can tell that tale I suppose.
The Challenger was tired, for the past weeks the champion had been mocking him. The Champion laughed at the challengers face and boldly pronounced that the Challenger was not worth the fight, that it was not a fight. That the Challenger would be taken downed in the first round. But the Champion was wrong.
The Champion was unaware that the Challenger was studying up on the forms, how to get between the curves and calculate the volume between them, to know the force of impact his punches would land. The Champion was unaware that the Challenger was not wallowing in pity, but was encouraged by friends, and a super foxy friend. The Champion regarded her not, thought her just a faceless fan. He knew not the strength of friendship and luck she bestowed upon the Challenger.
The Champion had faced the challenger and knew of previous defeats, using his special sine and cosine 1-2 punch to knock out the Challenger.
But this time, this time was different. This time, the Challenger came prepared.
As the Challenger entered the ring, his super foxy friend blew him a kiss and cheered him on with the enthusiasm of 12 super bowl games combined. The momentum of the cheers caught the Champion temporarily off guard and allowed the Challenger to enter in and start throwing punches, using derivative force to counter the Champion's and raging like a wild animal. The Champion was off surprised and being beaten. The Champion tried to his his integral evade maneuvers or derivative counters.
The Champion grew desperate and launched a series of punches he knew the Challenger had lost to before, flowing with the curves of a sine or cosine integral function, but though the Champion managed to strike the Challenger, his blows were not as powerful as expected. The Challenger managed to divert enough of the energy to still stand. A little bruised, but still standing. Smiling.
The Challenger on the other hand had a black eye, blood on his face and a possibly broken nose. As they went to lunge for each other again, the bell rang. The match was up.
Although the official score was not yet at the ready, it looked like the Challenger was clearly the victor.
And so the Challenger strode to his super foxy friend and together they strode out of the auditorium to await the results of the match.
In other words, I think I did well on the Calc test, but I do not have my test scores yet.
The Challenger was tired, for the past weeks the champion had been mocking him. The Champion laughed at the challengers face and boldly pronounced that the Challenger was not worth the fight, that it was not a fight. That the Challenger would be taken downed in the first round. But the Champion was wrong.
The Champion was unaware that the Challenger was studying up on the forms, how to get between the curves and calculate the volume between them, to know the force of impact his punches would land. The Champion was unaware that the Challenger was not wallowing in pity, but was encouraged by friends, and a super foxy friend. The Champion regarded her not, thought her just a faceless fan. He knew not the strength of friendship and luck she bestowed upon the Challenger.
The Champion had faced the challenger and knew of previous defeats, using his special sine and cosine 1-2 punch to knock out the Challenger.
But this time, this time was different. This time, the Challenger came prepared.
As the Challenger entered the ring, his super foxy friend blew him a kiss and cheered him on with the enthusiasm of 12 super bowl games combined. The momentum of the cheers caught the Champion temporarily off guard and allowed the Challenger to enter in and start throwing punches, using derivative force to counter the Champion's and raging like a wild animal. The Champion was off surprised and being beaten. The Champion tried to his his integral evade maneuvers or derivative counters.
The Champion grew desperate and launched a series of punches he knew the Challenger had lost to before, flowing with the curves of a sine or cosine integral function, but though the Champion managed to strike the Challenger, his blows were not as powerful as expected. The Challenger managed to divert enough of the energy to still stand. A little bruised, but still standing. Smiling.
The Challenger on the other hand had a black eye, blood on his face and a possibly broken nose. As they went to lunge for each other again, the bell rang. The match was up.
Although the official score was not yet at the ready, it looked like the Challenger was clearly the victor.
And so the Challenger strode to his super foxy friend and together they strode out of the auditorium to await the results of the match.
In other words, I think I did well on the Calc test, but I do not have my test scores yet.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Fencing
Snicker-snack
Swish-swash
clish-clash
The blades strike
Lunging,
dodging,
evading
charging
Clad in white,
head clad
arm extended
Knees over ankles.
A breath...
and then forward,
testing the blade
checking for strength
thrusting, clashing, beating
metal grinding on metal
twisting, and piercing
For the point.
Back and forth,
charging and retreating
attacking and parrying
watching and watching
Trading blows for blows
Being struck and striking back
ages aching, arms tired
Out of breath.
A moment.
And then the rush
feigning and beating
Going for the strike.
For the final point
four, six, seven or eight
All areas to aim for;
The chest...
Strike!
A final beat
A twist of the blade
Scoring a hit
with a bit of metal.
So snicker-snack
Swish-swash
clish-clash
The blades strike..
Striking
in alien rhythm
setting pace
all night long
In the Fencing club.
Swish-swash
clish-clash
The blades strike
Lunging,
dodging,
evading
charging
Clad in white,
head clad
arm extended
Knees over ankles.
A breath...
and then forward,
testing the blade
checking for strength
thrusting, clashing, beating
metal grinding on metal
twisting, and piercing
For the point.
Back and forth,
charging and retreating
attacking and parrying
watching and watching
Trading blows for blows
Being struck and striking back
ages aching, arms tired
Out of breath.
A moment.
And then the rush
feigning and beating
Going for the strike.
For the final point
four, six, seven or eight
All areas to aim for;
The chest...
Strike!
A final beat
A twist of the blade
Scoring a hit
with a bit of metal.
So snicker-snack
Swish-swash
clish-clash
The blades strike..
Striking
in alien rhythm
setting pace
all night long
In the Fencing club.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Lazy Monday
Tis truly a lazy Monday! Equal laziness all around!
It really is an uninspiring day too, all clouds and rain. Melting the snow down here. There needs to be a good snow storm before it all melts!
But as my laziness is upon ending (blasted school work), I thought I would write this short poem.
No Title
A short moment.
A quick message.
All it takes.
To wonder what lies beyond.
From joking and acquaintanceship
To true friendship, maybe more.
Little by little, text by text.
Swirls around and around
To notice the amazingness of one
To desire the terrifying.
To begin to contemplate...
And the path continues
Wondering and hoping
for merging of paths
enjoying the journey.
Waiting to look
Look into the eyes
Look into the soul
Looking for happiness.
Waiting, waiting for the moment of utmost joy.
- Sam, the Nanti-SARRMM
It really is an uninspiring day too, all clouds and rain. Melting the snow down here. There needs to be a good snow storm before it all melts!
But as my laziness is upon ending (blasted school work), I thought I would write this short poem.
No Title
A short moment.
A quick message.
All it takes.
To wonder what lies beyond.
From joking and acquaintanceship
To true friendship, maybe more.
Little by little, text by text.
Swirls around and around
To notice the amazingness of one
To desire the terrifying.
To begin to contemplate...
And the path continues
Wondering and hoping
for merging of paths
enjoying the journey.
Waiting to look
Look into the eyes
Look into the soul
Looking for happiness.
Waiting, waiting for the moment of utmost joy.
- Sam, the Nanti-SARRMM
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A Most Supreme Battle
The battle started yesterday. Not even a battle expected. More of training exercises with other forces. Nothing new, nothing unexpected.
First shots were fired, the exercises commenced. Except the other side's volleys were more intense, more deliberate. Confused, the small force continued the exercises, wondering about the fellow brigadiers that they were in training exercises with.
They stepped up their efforts to compete, knowing like always they would lose. They always lost. That's just how things were, some shots fired, some points gained, mostly enough to prove that they could compete against the others. But this time, it was a slaughter. Provoked or unprovoked it will not be known, but the small force bravely withstood, losing their ranks one at a time.
They didn't show sign of weakness, they knew the game itself might change if this weakness was revealed against the intensity of the attacks, or perhaps the intensity would further augment. Or maybe some sympathy. The small force did not know, for their fellow comrades with whom the fought were unpredictable.
And so, the other forces released the dust bunnies, thinking all was the same. They didn't watch the carnage that ensued, they only knew that their fellow comrades were still playing, and injured like they. So secret armies of dust bunnies unleashed, the Entrapper of Souls feigning innocence.
The other side huddled in, unleashing shots, but heavily wounded, scarred, mourning. This wasn't a normal skirmish. It was a slaughter, and all they could do was weather it out lest they be cut down.
Skirmish hours ended, and both sides went to rest, the opposing forces not knowing the heaviness of the wounds and the losses the other side received. They won. They always won. That is how it always was and how it shall always be. Everything was OK.
But the original camp could barely get out with the sun. They thought they could not regroup for the next skirmish, they could not recover soon enough. Morale was gone, energy gone. Lethargic, morose, slothful. Flag raised to show all was well, cheerful greetings sent forth, mocking their slaughter, but not revealing their wounds, for the sake of pride, for respect.
And so the day started drearily, cloudy, cold, barren. And it continued that way until an ally sent greeting and brought news of a new force, of a cheering up and moralizing of troops. And then the sun burst out and life bloomed. Soldiers on the point of dying smiled and gained the life to recover, wounds began to heal, cheerfulness became prevalent in the camp. Shouts of 'huzzah' rang out, life began anew.
And the other sides? Well, this cheering was nothing new. Their comrades were weird. It was to be expected. But even they would have to smile when they saw this riding by:
And all continued with the world.
First shots were fired, the exercises commenced. Except the other side's volleys were more intense, more deliberate. Confused, the small force continued the exercises, wondering about the fellow brigadiers that they were in training exercises with.
They stepped up their efforts to compete, knowing like always they would lose. They always lost. That's just how things were, some shots fired, some points gained, mostly enough to prove that they could compete against the others. But this time, it was a slaughter. Provoked or unprovoked it will not be known, but the small force bravely withstood, losing their ranks one at a time.
They didn't show sign of weakness, they knew the game itself might change if this weakness was revealed against the intensity of the attacks, or perhaps the intensity would further augment. Or maybe some sympathy. The small force did not know, for their fellow comrades with whom the fought were unpredictable.
And so, the other forces released the dust bunnies, thinking all was the same. They didn't watch the carnage that ensued, they only knew that their fellow comrades were still playing, and injured like they. So secret armies of dust bunnies unleashed, the Entrapper of Souls feigning innocence.
The other side huddled in, unleashing shots, but heavily wounded, scarred, mourning. This wasn't a normal skirmish. It was a slaughter, and all they could do was weather it out lest they be cut down.
Skirmish hours ended, and both sides went to rest, the opposing forces not knowing the heaviness of the wounds and the losses the other side received. They won. They always won. That is how it always was and how it shall always be. Everything was OK.
But the original camp could barely get out with the sun. They thought they could not regroup for the next skirmish, they could not recover soon enough. Morale was gone, energy gone. Lethargic, morose, slothful. Flag raised to show all was well, cheerful greetings sent forth, mocking their slaughter, but not revealing their wounds, for the sake of pride, for respect.
And so the day started drearily, cloudy, cold, barren. And it continued that way until an ally sent greeting and brought news of a new force, of a cheering up and moralizing of troops. And then the sun burst out and life bloomed. Soldiers on the point of dying smiled and gained the life to recover, wounds began to heal, cheerfulness became prevalent in the camp. Shouts of 'huzzah' rang out, life began anew.
And the other sides? Well, this cheering was nothing new. Their comrades were weird. It was to be expected. But even they would have to smile when they saw this riding by:
And all continued with the world.
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