666: Why are we here?

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The devil once danced upon the earth and laid claim to this land as his home, laying siege to the relics of our realm. Satan’s destruction was of a magnitude in which our society had never previously imagined. Empires fell and cities burned, this world was in ruin and our dreams crushed. Everything our race had created turned to dust leaving our species wondering “why are we here”?

It began when Pandora opened her satanic box. All the atrocities of the world were sealed away, until one pretentious and curious creature unlocked our worst nightmares and let them run amuck. The people of Earth plunged into a depression filled with rage  and sorrow, fueled by hatred and heartbreak. Our people cried, they wept and they died, leaving the widows mothers, fathers, brothers,  and sisters wondering “why are we here”?

 

My Chinese Teacher Is A Communist

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In eighth grade, I made one of the most well intentioned mistakes of my life.  It was an ordinary day at the prestigious (not so prestigious) Benjamin Franklin Middle School. But on this day, which you are about to find out is not quite as ordinary as I previously led you to believe, I  was tricked into taking High School Chinese class upon my arrival at the
High School the next year. I was mostly persuaded by a combination of undeniable contact with people who at the time I considered “friends”, the promise of frequent culture lessons where I was to enjoy genuine Chinese cuisine ( prepared specially for me by a Chinese woman), and lastly I just could not resist the sweet innocent smile of the Asian face in front of me convincing me that Chinese was an option that could only lead to positive out comes. That day, I was lied to, three times.

Flash forward to the first day of High School, and I have Chinese class. I show up to the class and am greeted by the sweet Asian lady’s welcoming face, but what I did not expect to find was in a corner there was a second Asian lady, this one looking significantly angrier than the first. This second woman was mean and scary, imagine an short Asian witch lady wearing a coconut on her head with a red silky scarf wrapped around her neck; I knew just by looking at her that I wished to have nothing to do with her. (It is generally wrong to judge a book by its cover, but in this situation, my perception of her hit the nail right on the head) Fortuantly for me, I would never have to encounter this teacher because the teacher I had would be my teacher for all four years I planned to take Chinese. So as the year continued with biweekly culture days, and little to no contact with the Chinese food promised to us, we were eventually hit with the biggest plot twist yet; our nice Chinese teacher was moving, to Maryland.

Flash forward again, and now I am sitting in the mean teachers Chinese class while she repeats word for word Chinese phrases off of a CD that we can all hear. Five of the eleven people are paying attention to the senseless droning of the teacher an CD fusing together. With her broken English and passive aggressive voice she attempts to conduct her class like a dictatorship, a Chinese dictatorship holding down the American students expectations of democracy. The dictator believes that she is the most important person in the society, but what she doesn’t understand is the degree in which she is hated by her public. She sits upon her spinning throne with wheels and tries to conduct a classroom type society with her broken English and communist intentions. It’s pathetic. She is an ineffective teacher and this entire year I have learned little to nothing, but still the school system pays for her salary and gives her a job. In America, a democratic country, we are allowing communists to teach our children. Is nothing wrong with that? That is truly ridiculous and contradictory of federal American policy. I can’t begin to fathom how our country ( one who fought communism for decades) can allow communists to walk right past immigration and proceed to teach our youth, and whether you want it or not, that will eventually lead the youth to communist ideas and beliefs.

The bottom line is that I am an American, an American who believes in the power of democracy, and I am being oppressed for 55 minutes a day by a communist and there is nothing being done. The United States government doesn’t stand for communist oppression overseas, but why will they allow it in their own country?

Dreams

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We all dream, and after I awake at the end of each dream I typically find myself genuinely confused by the content of my dreams. Oddly, in most cases these dreams seem extremely realistic, and almost feel like the dream could be a reality. Now what makes these dreams so realistic, is that what is in the dreams is not uncommon at all. I will have dreams that are as simple as opening doors, or playing video games, the time consuming acts of nothing I partake in each day are being reflected by my subconscious into my dream state, but why? I feel as though every dream contains a message, like your subconscious brain is trying to tell you something that you have forgotten, or need to remember.

I’ve had dreams where watch reenactments of events in my life. I’ve seen my memories recreated and enhanced, but what does it mean? Recently I had a dream about a friend of mine, we were very close friends at a time and eventually for unexplained reasons, the relationship we had dissolved and we became just acquaintances, but the dream depicted a scene of the two of us doing something that I can no longer remember, because one cannot generally remember the entirety of a dream. But, it is not unusual that people have dreams yielding unknown information, but what was odd was the staggering sensation after I awoke, that I was not the only one who had this dream and that the person that the dream was about was having the same dream, but just from their perspective instead. I believe that would be particularly interesting. Just think about the science of how that would work. One brain sending subconscious brain waves to another person potentially miles away. That would truly be incredible, it would prove the limitless ability of the human mind.

I personally would love to believe that there is a meaning behind every dream and that upon awaking from your slumbers, you are intended to do something with your dreams, but I don’t believe that the subconscious brain can effortlessly employ its intentions into your dreams. That just seems a little too far fetched. I mean I believe that it is possible that your subconscious, if strong enough, can control your dreams; but forcing an individual in a certain direction just based off potential subconscious intentions? Too much conspiracy for me to believe in. But I am incredibly fascinated by the idea that the subconscious’ information is being sapped away and fed back to your conscious by the dream state. I mean imagine that, if the sole purpose for dreams was to relay partially forgotten information back to the conscious so it is no longer forgotten. What if the subconscious is like an external hard drive for your memories. Almost like a flash drive for your memories where dreams are the computers that can put memories on or take memories off.

No matter how I look at it though, I will never be closer to finding the true purpose of dreams. This is as close as I’ll get.

 

A broken Void

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I’ve never considered myself selfish. It is one thing that I had never wished to become. I lived my life with the singular purpose of pleasing others. I never cared about my self, my feelings were irrelevant to me, and I neglected them for so long that they eventually left me. I was emotionless. I was heartless. I was broken. I, the kid who unleashed raging rivers of sorrow from my eyes in my youth, could no longer even force the smallest of droplets of emotion pass from those former pools of soul. I replaced the my void with hatred. I felt nothing but hatred, and walked the streets faking the smiles, never committing to my endeavors. I was the shell of a human, with a smile plastered to my face, while behind the mask a seemingly endless void consumed seemingly everything. That void, the vacuous space of nothingness lurking right beneath the surface frequently emerged, and would replace every feeling I felt with pure hatred. The void controlled me, everything I was, and everything I did. The void created me. The void broke me.

And still broken I am. No longer will I cry, no true emotion is ever felt. To me, everything I feel is artificial. I have not in the past months felt a single true emotion, the kinds of my youth do not exist to me. But subconsciously, I long for them. I subconsciously long for the nostalgic bliss of untainted happiness. I subconsciously long to be fixed. I subconsciously try to mend the broken bones. Maybe if pound them enough, they will eventually break back into place? I use everyone as the tools to fix the bones. Everyday is agony, every waking hour is pain. Pain forcing me back into the submission of the void. But deep within, a part of me sits, holding the shredded, ruined, broken pieces of the former me, desperately trying to repair me. That part of me deep within is using everyone who is close to me in a blatant attempt to fix me. It is selfish. I hate it. I hate myself for allowing it, but I feels almost as though I have no control. I cannot stop the process in the same way that I cannot force my own tears. I want to be whole again, but at the same time I do not want to give up who I am. Because what happens when I’m whole?  What happens to all of you? Now that I am whole, I do not need you. The people who valued me when I did not value myself, gone from my life? That would cause nothing but pain to them. The whole me wishes pain upon no one, I only wish to help those who need me. It is a trap, a never ending loop. I’m whole until I break, then I’m broken until I’m fixed, but the fix just breaks me again. The paradox flows on, and all the while, still not one morsel of emotion falls from my eyes.

There is one person who cares about me above all else. She says she loves me. But I do not know love, and when the plastered face of mine tells her he loves her back, the paradox deepens. I use her to fix the breaks. I force myself to try to feel the emotions. Time and again I force myself into feeling what I imagine as love, and every time I walk away more perplexed by the emotion than the last. I fear that I will let her down. I fear that I am not meant to love. I fear that it is my destiny to feel the lonely and loveless void for all of my days. I fear that I will always be broken, and that I will never again feel whole. I fear that never again will I meaningfully shed a tear from my eye. I fear that I have will always search for something to fix me. I fear that I have become selfish.

Geigs

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Stuff sucks. Like lets be honest here, the world is kind of shitty. Everyday of our existence we must bide our time doing something that we do not want to do. This is true for a majority of people in modern society, but this is not true for everyone. Day after day we subject ourselves to enduring the hardships of normal, average, everyday life, and maybe it is just for a single day, that pain isn’t quite so bearing, but as the days add up the pain begins to effect everything you touch. It is almost like a disease. One person feeling the pains of society touches another person, and they feel the pains. Then that second person touches a third and they feel the burden, and so on and so forth. Eventually we come to a world where every one hates the way that society functions, which is where we are at now, and from that point, a change must be made. Whether it be an individual change, or one of a larger scale, the key is that something is different. No longer can we sit around and subject ourselves to the sorrows of society, no longer can we let the emotions forced upon us oppress us. As a group, as a species, as humanity, we must over come the societal issues tat we have created for ourselves.

Pudding

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I hate my father, like if there is one thing I want to be duly noted when looking back on my youth, I want to remember the intense and immense hatred I have for that man. It has become my goal to prove my superiority over him in all aspects of life. I have not a single doubt in my mind that I have more than the potential to surpass him and today I made my first step in the direction of my goal.

I’m not explaining what I did, or how I did it, because I’ve typed way to much today and I don’t wish to explain. But today I proved that I am creatively superior to him and it wall all proved by one simple small word, Pudding.

Pudding proved my superiority.

A note of Social Suicide

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Well happy sunday everybody. Or should I say, Happy Sunday nobody, because nobody really reads this blog and it almost feels as though I am just sending these miscellaneous words into a vacuous void space where they will fade into nothing, neglected and ignored for all of time. *gasp* God forbid a blog and or blogger becomes self aware of the mediocrity of the object in which it and or they are creating. That would truly be devastating to the blog and or blogger, now wouldn’t it be?

Well, to answer your question, yes. Yes it is devastating to know that this “object”,or better phrased “project”, that I have been working on for months, has really amounted to nothing of feasible value. I have come to the conclusion that the material I produce now is of significantly lesser value than that of what I produced in the beginning of my project. Why is it that my work appears to me to be worse than before? Has my control of personal literature diminished? Have I lost touch with myself and thus lost touch with my writing?

I believe not. I believe that I have not lost touch with myself, but instead I have grown closer to my inner conscious, and that is why my writing is so different from that of the beginning. The thoughts that I post are coming from closer to my heart. With ease could I write again another “of shelves”; weaving metaphor upon metaphor into my piece until the purest of meaning is resting soundly under the large buffer of confusion that I have laid upon it. But I no longer wish to write such literature. The things I write on this blog do not need to be hidden. Nobody reads this, thus allowing my thoughts to flow freely without fear of the social consequences that it may bring me.

I pity all of the pathetic classmates of mine still consumed by the idea that the words they write bear any uniqueness or weight. Each and every one of those fools remains trapped by the idea that the words they produce are in some way different than the words of another. That their words are solely their own. They are wrong. They produce sentence after sentence, structured just the same as some one else who may be thousands of miles away. Their words are not unique. The things they write could be written by anybody. The illusion of uniqueness they believe in is diluting their vision of reality. Their words mean nothing. They speak as just another number in the system, and their words, like mine, are swallowed by the void of society to be ignored for eternity.

But I am not like them. I am not like you. My words are my own and only that. No one can recreate this text. Nobody, in the history or past can recreate what I have written here today; because these thoughts, with all there grammatical and punctuational errors, are entirely mine. The system that has created you has failed me. While society has created all of these identical clones, I have remained an individual. I have not changed for the system. I have been neglected by the system, left to forge my own path. A path that I cannot look to others to find. For you it is simple. Get an education. Get a job. Fall in line like another soldier, waging a war that cannot be won, fore the enemy is oneself. The petty life you live. The pathetic path you follow. What of your dreams? What of your aspirations? Have they become nothing more than the shelf that you rest your texts books on? The staples that held you together on your journey through life now merely becoming forgotten memories of the past?

We all aspire to be things. To achieve greatness by our own means, and each of us must take our own path to get there; but we live in a society where it is more accepted to become that number in the system than it is to follow your heart and pursue that dream. Why is that how we live? Why is that what the human race is degraded to? A mass of brainwashed zombies endlessly chasing the dollar.

As a whole, our species lives life for one purpose and one purpose only. Money. We abandon happiness and ambition for the all powerful green piece of paper. But if that is the case, which it is, then riddle me this; When you are lying on your death bed at the end of your days, why does money no longer matter? Why are memories of bliss and serenity the only truly meaningful sentiments?

I will be awaiting an answer for all of my days, but no answer will ever come, fore no one will read this post. And thus as this post fades into nothingness, so shall I.

Geigs