Random post

It was a strange feeling really. Not that he wasn't used to it, but most of the time it slid under the consciousness. It was covert, but always let him know that it was there. Naturally, he learned to ignore it, as he did so many other slightly unpleasant experiences that he encountered. And it never really pushed the issue. It was content being a needle in the side, constantly harassing him with a little prick here and there and waiting for his measured response that would inevitably come out of frustration.

But this time, it chose a very interesting time to surface. Its likely that its caused by the general disillusionment that he felt about the subject matter that lay before him. It happened when he stared at the clock in front of him and noted that he had plenty of time to complete the tasks that lay before him. His brain decided to take a short detour. Some might call him irresponsible for doing that. After all, the questions he was answering was part of the system that is supposedly his only purpose in life for the time being. Admittedly, he had stopped caring about his purpose a long time ago as the people who watched his slow but steady slide.

But I'm rambling. We're here to talk about recent history, not well established facts about our subject.

If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he probably wanted it to happen. He doesn't really remember what happened actually, and what I write here is just based on a very clinical account of his version of the story. I suspect he was being quite honest though.

The amazing part about this situation is that he never goes into those really disturbing bouts of emotional upheaval that have become part and parcel of his life. I wonder if this is a unique case, or if he is actually changing.

It serves him quite well, this state of mind. Treating it like it was inconsequential does help him get on with things, but the inevitable doubts of whether he is trying hard enough surface. I've lost count of the number of times that I have seen him flinch when he hears Jason Mraz on the radio. I can hear him sigh, even if no one else can. I think he is heading in the right direction though. Nice good dose of confidence coupled with his usual sincerity by the truckloads. And for once, believing that it is not the end of the world if the next phase of life that he has hyped up to be a make or break doesn't work out.

I still cheer him on. Good luck mate.

Murder

Arthur looked distinctly out of place in the market that he walked in. His dark clothing contrasted sharply with the gay surroundings of a bustling square. It was a wonder that he had not aroused any suspicion just yet, but that was probably because none of the guards expected any trouble. No one ever did in this part of the country. Especially not in the early summer when everyone was in high spirits. The village clowns were out entertaining the children with their decidedly idiotic antics while an elaborate stage showcased the latest work by the maddeningly emo writer, Jasper Erathor. Arthur could feel the jolly energy grate at his conscience like a spiked mace dragged across the back of a condemned criminal. But he had to contain himself. He would get the last laugh yet.

Slowly shuffling himself, he maneuvered so that he had a good view of the crowd. His arm shifted slowly, creeping towards his waist. His mind cleared in anticipation of the rapture that was in store for himself. The rise and fall of his chest steadied, his earlier agitation put behind him.

Then he exploded. In two quick strokes, he had drawn his weapon and sliced open the chest of the nearest person. Before the first scream could be heard, the curved blade had already slashed two more times, each one slicing deliciously into the flesh of the victims. Arthur was ruthless, and he was in his element. The people would pay for what they have done to him. Not even the knights will stand in his way.

The crowd understandably stampeded. They bowled each other over and trampled the ones unfortunate enough to slip as they ran. But the roads of the marketplace were narrow, and the exits, narrower still. The square was turning into a cauldron of insanity. Arthur knew that he had to bring some form of order to the chaos that was before him; the irony of the fact that he had started everything eluded him completely.

The methododical murder kept its pace until Arthur's eye caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Sprawled on the ground, and trying desperately to get back up again was a woman in a long skirt and jet black hair. She had a subtle tuft of brown hair at the front of her head, marking her as a sorceress. One gifted in the magics, who use it when necessary, but are completely unaware of their immense power. Arthur had long advocated the purging of these witches, but no one ever seemed to be agreeable to his cause. Even if they did see the threat, they were quick to change their minds the moment they made any attempt to destroy one of the sorceresses. He wasn't surprised.

Arthur paused for a while. He looked her in the eye and saw the terror that he inspired. But he also saw a grim determination to survive and a glazing over the eyes that normally marked a subconcious invocation of elemental magic. Grinning like the like a demon in hell's torture chambers, he flung one of his daggers at the woman. He could vaguely remember the face. He remembered that it had existed in a time when times were not quite as dark as they were for him now. It was in the distant past, a memory so clouded in conflicting emotion that everything seemed warped and unreal.

The dagger sunk itself into her eye, ending the threat that she posed. He felt a strange vindication, like he actually had done some kind of service to humanity. It was a strange sense of misplaced heroism, something that he rather enjoyed. For a while. Before long, his objective of systematic murder overruled everything else and his face went blank again.

And his blade kept singing the song of death.

Quiet contemplation.

Lost in thought. Such a picture of peace, but you can somehow sense the turmoil within. Or is it just me?

Blood haze on Centre Court

I stared at the other end of the court, glancing at the icy composure of my opponent. He had good reason to be calm. He was two sets up and on his way to winning the third very comfortably. Shoulders slightly hunched, legs apart, he stood ready to return whatever I could throw at him. It was almost like he was challenging me to give him my best shot. I grasped the ball in my sweaty palm, trying to tame my nerves. I was serving to stay in the game, and I knew that I needed to come up with something special to get past the legend that stood before me.

But I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. It never is against him. Three before me had tried and failed spectacularly, every one of them sent home with their tails between their legs. And I wouldn’t even say that I’m particularly good at the game. I was fast becoming one of those Kournikovas. Plenty of potential, but never actually gets there. And it was pissing me off. The thought of what I would read in the tabloids tomorrow made me want to fling my racket at the unsuspecting cameraman that sat at the side of the court. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but he worked in the same newspapers as those nasty writers, and that made them accomplices.

I stared at the sky for a moment, as if hoping for diving intervention. As I leveled my gaze again, I saw it. The one thing that could rile me up like nothing else can. My grip on the ball and racket tightened reflexively, my fingernails digging into my palms. My breathing quickened and my pulse started racing. I didn’t really feel like playing anymore at that point, but I knew that I needed to see the match through. I wanted to throw up on the grass I was standing on. And any moment now, the umpire was going to ask me to get on with the game. Further delay would get me into a lot of trouble.

So I served. But this time, it was different. It was like all the passion and festering frustration that I felt for the figure that now sat in the stands was channeled into the ball. My opponent threw himself across the court, but to no avail. He didn’t have a chance. Ace.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. I just played. Shuffling across the baseline to the other side of the court, I tossed the ball. I could feel the ball bounce cleanly off the strings as my overhead swing made contact. Another screamer, but he was much too good to be aced twice in a row. He was at full stretch as he returned the service. Seeing my chance, I moved forward. The ball came back short and I smashed it into the ground, making sure it would second bounce somewhere in the spectator stands.

Thirty - love. The crowd was stirring a little. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my chest. Without realizing it, I was gritting my teeth. I felt like I had a demon in me and I was having some kind of blood haze. A state that can only be corrected with liberal swathes of blood-letting. Whatever I saw just now was still there, unknowingly baiting me to new levels of aggression.

I didn't like what I was becoming, but I didn't really have a choice. Struggling to keep my composure, I sent another stinging serve across, leaving my opponent dumbfounded. I was back in it.

Now all I needed to do was not to kill him literally. And hope the bloodhaze passes before it causes any lasting damage.

Rumblings of doom.

The grassland was a picture of peace, the rolling hills covered by soft tufts of green. A soft wind blew across the plains, scattering the dandelion seeds into a cloud of yellow. Jackson sighed. "The calm before the storm," he thought to himself. The day almost seemed too perfect to spoil, yet he knew it would be.

He shifted about in his suit of armour. The metal plates had served him well over the years, and despite the shining sheen having disappeared to be replaced by dents and scratches, he still wore them with pride. His shield was equally battered, the metal edges notched my the blows of war axes. Jackson took a deep breath and looked around him. His friends and blood brothers stood beside him, all similarly suited and armed, staring at the space ahead of them. No one said anything. There was no need to. They were all waiting.

A distant rumbling signalled the end of the wait. They all knew what the sound meant. The horde was approching. As they drew closer, the sound of the wardrums being beatenbecame clearer, the bloodcurling screams of their green skinned adverseries growing louder.

It wasn't the first time he found himself facing a sight so terrifying. He had fought battles before, and he knew what would entail this one. And while he had always faced such a situation with the grim determination of a patroit defending his home, it was different this time. The sounds of war were no longer a rallying cry for him. They sounded like a death knell. He could tell, just by hearing the sounds before a battle, if it would be won or lost. And he knew it would take a miracle of sorts for him to come out of this one triumphant.

The signs were there. His instincts had spoken.

And still, he refused to listen.

Don't want to think about it.

I think I've just reached a new phase in life. One where I'm willing to let go. Control is nice, but its not always the best thing to try and do. Some situations really are like clay; the harder you grasp, the more of it slips out.

I'm not sure if I know what I'm doing. I don't normally sweep problems under the carpet. Not willingly, anyway. But even as I do that now, I don't really think I care that I'm breaking one of the most sacred of rules that I live by.

If its important enough, I normally grab the problem by the scruff of the neck and try and wrestle it into submission. My current response seems to be to let it be and go have tea while it resolves itself. Naturally, I'd butt in once in a while to steer it along. But I'm almost resigned to the idea that the problem is beyond me and trying is pointless. Its not only pointless, it will only make things worse.

I'm not used to doing this. The sense of helplessness is quite crippling. At least in the past I busied myself with throwing myself against an unmovable stone wall. Even if it didn't achieve anything, it gave me the illusion that I was doing something about the problem.

Now, I shrug at the stone wall, turn around and plant a tree or two. Ultimately, the latter is the more productive, but it sure is harder to do. The offending wall chews at my consciousness everytime I dig a hole or water a sapling.

I don't know what it is. Its not anger or annoyance or depression. Maybe its much worse. Maybe its defeatism.

It shouldn't matter.

Breathe. Exhale. You'll be alright.

The Spiderwick Chronicles - Retold.

Inspired by the Spiderwick Chronicles, this story has been through a number of incarnations. And each time I change it, it sounds less and less like the story that inspired it. Still, it was the Chronicles that kick started it. Many incarnations also means many hours spent. I certainly hope that the quality is proportionate to the effort spent. Enjoy. =)

It was a curiously bound book, wrapped in purple velvet with a gold spine, and gold flowers printed on the cover. It had nothing written on the cover, nothing to indicate what lay within. Around it was a matching ribbon, tied neatly into a bow, keeping the tome from being unintentionally opened. The little boy stared in wonder at the book that lay on the table; he had never seen anything quite as unusual. He was quite apprehensive about the book, the superstitions that seemed to govern the workings of all things strange were clanging the alarm bells in his head. He was drawn by the book, that much was apparent. Its flamboyant colour and intricate mural that decorated the cover appealed to him, for no particular reason he could think of. He was asking himself if he would ever find the courage to pick it up and open it.

It wasn’t exactly the first time he had found himself in such a dilemma. For so much of his life, the boy had let fear of the unknown control his conscience. It was only recently that the natural urge to explore his surroundings, that seemed to be inherent in every other child his age, took a hold of him and started his journey into the uncharted waters that he had once felt content to leave unvisited.

The tug of war still raged in his little head, but this time, as it had been in his recent history, curiosity had an inherent upper hand. The reassuringly cold tone that superstition used to take seemed to have lost their powers of persuasion. Finally, after two hours of deliberation, the boy made up his mind. He crept up carefully and silently towards the book, as if afraid of offending it by making sudden moves. When he stood within an arm’s length of it, he stopped and stared at it. It was even prettier up close than it had been from where he had been sitting. The boy began noticing little details that he never saw before. He decided that the book had to be special.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled at the ribbon. As the knot became undone, he heard a soft sigh, as if the book was talking to him. He stared at it. The book was alive. Or had he imagined the sound? Shrugging away his petty concerns, he slowly lifted the cover.

It was full of writing, complicated cursive written in compressed paragraphs. The boy had enough trouble reading in block letters, so neat lines of flowing writing looked like a messy jumble of random lines to him. He was intelligent enough to pick out certain words, and he began to piece together the story of the book a little at a time. He found the writing to be very melancholic, and most of the time, very evasive. He could never actually be sure about what he was reading, not knowing if his interpretation was accurate. Still, he persisted.

As he flipped the pages, he reached a sudden change of tone in the book. The writing became more pronounced and larger. At the end of the page was a large print warning :

‘Proceed no further. You will bring nothing but harm to yourself. I beg of you, dear reader. Put me down’

The boy froze. The message was clear enough, written in such a way that even one of his limited vocabulary could understand it. He read the message again. And again. And then he flipped the page and kept reading.

Some would call him stupid to defy such a clear warning. Others would applaud his tenacity, but ultimately conclude that he asked for the consequences that he would have to pay for. As he continued scanning, he felt himself lose control of his own conscience. His actions were no longer his own, yet it seemed like he had done everything by himself. He was in a haze, a dreamlike state from which he couldn’t snap out of.

As he continued, he felt a sudden stinging in his right arm. His first reaction was to retract his arm, but his body defied him. Another sharp spike of pain seared his arm, and he started screaming. There were no physical marks, just a continuous barrage of unadulterated torture.

`The open page of the book flipped itself, and from its glowing pages, rose a shining meat cleaver. Terror overwhelmed pain, but the boy still could not move voluntarily. The large knife turned around in the air and presented itself hilt first to the boy. He heard a sad whisper in his ear. ‘Cut yourself free, dear child. Remove that part which hurts you so.’

Frightened and confused, the boy sat there doing nothing. He suddenly realized that he had control of his left arm. He flailed about trying to release himself from the bond, but always found himself being drawn back in. The whispering continued, ‘Cut yourself free. Cut yourself…..’

“NO!”, cried the boy. He was still defiant, refusing to give in to the pain. There was something more than just himself in this chain of events, and he was determined to see it through. But the pain intensified, and more voices joined in, telling him to let go. Telling him to do what he needed to do.

He reached for the cleaver, willing himself to get it over with. But each time he drew close, something within himself stayed his hand and kept him from touching the weapon. Then it happened.

A white hot flash of pain burst through his arm, overwhelming his senses, very nearly driving him insane. Reality set in very quickly and in one swift motion, he severed his right arm at the elbow. The pain shifted at the moment of slashing. It was a thoroughly different kind of pain, but equally torturous. The fact that he now had regained control of his own body did little to dampen the burning.

He collapsed into a sobbing heap as to book snapped itself shut. The ribbons that had held it together did themselves back into a pretty knot.

The boy’s stubbornness had cost him. Again. He had left a piece of himself in the book, never to regain it.

Unless, one day, the book sees it fit for him to continue reading.

I haven't written a caustic rant in a while, and even I'm beginning to miss that part of me. With any luck, regular service shall return. =))

For the love of a project.

He walked briskly, wanting to get the matter resolved quickly. His posh leather shoes fell silently on the soft carpet, making his heavy footstep sound a lot lighter than it actually was. The lack of exercise was beginning to show; he wasn't quite the compactly built person he used to be. He passed the abstract sculpture that stood in the middle of the waiting room as he walked. He never liked the sculpture. Too ostentatious and vulgar for his tastes. It actually looked like some ancient phallic symbol, which isn't exactly something you want as the focus of the waiting client's attention. But the boss liked it, so naturally, he kept his opinion to himself.

He turned into the brightly lit meeting room at the end of the hall and found Nathan sitting at the end of the conference table. He was staring at the mess of papers that lay before him, his mind quite obviously wandering. There was a look of defeat on his face, a look that he had carried a few times before. Only this time, it almost looked devoid of hope, as if he had lost one battle too many and he was going to leave everything to rot now. At the sound of the door opening, Nathan snapped out of his dreamlike state and sat up. "Micheal! Finally! A voice of reason!"

"What happened?", asked Micheal.

Nathan picked up a folder and flung it across the table. Micheal stopped it before it could fly off the edge and took a look at the cover. Across it, was emblazoned the insignia of Jetstar Enterprises.

"What about Jetstar Enterprises? I thought this was a work in progress. Under top administration instructions. One of the long term projects that our apparently brilliant CEO seems to think is a worthy investment," said Micheal.

"I looked at the books already. It doesn't look good. Percentage probability of actually hitting the target the the CEO has set is in the single digit zone. And even then thats after heavy investment and a long string of making the right calls. This is bloody insane!"

"Mate. This is investment banking. Its always crazy. I've seen projects with worst odds make it before."

"Yeah, but this is ridiculous. Even the upper management of their company has told me that they welcome the investment, but they can't provide any returns. He actually asked me to take our money elsewhere. They know that they can't deliver."

Micheal frowned. "They actually said that?"

"Yes! And our CEO's response was 'have faith, son'. God dammit, sometimes I feel like wringing his idealistic neck. This company is a no-go. Every manual on investment banking will tell us to stay away. I got consults from a few third party bankers. All of them gave negative appraisals. One actually pointed out that even if the company does post a genuine profit return, which it won't, the alliance is not likely to work. Two separate philosophies. I just don't know why our CEO loves this little project so much."

"There are some things you just cannot explain, Nathan. Just accept that."

"Don't you go pseudo-philosophical on me now! You know very well what this is costing the company. At first, I played along. It looked like a fantastic deal actually. I had a few doubts, but when I started to get to know the company, things started to look up. I was actually cautiously optimistic. Then I went to one of their meetings and they dropped this huge tangle of problems in front of me. And every subsequent meeting, the web gets more complicated. And here is the kicker! I can't untangle it. I'm not allowed to. Apparently, its all very complex and it will be a complete bother trying to explain the whole thing to me. We have to seriously cut back our involvement with this company. It could spell the end of our organization."

"Nathan, listen to me. You just came out of graduate school, and you have this very preformed idea on how the system works. I'm not saying its wrong. I'm saying that sometimes, things just don't work out the way you want them to. But we are a company with principles and values, and we will stick by them. Whatever the cost. If leadership wants to love its little project, then let them do it. There is more to life than making money. How you make it and who you make it with is important too."

"You're kidding right? Money is money! Its the same wherever it comes from. And besides, we can never provide them what they want. We don't have the ability. I've seen their journal online, and I know that we don't have the kind of understanding that their past backer used to have. Its heart-breaking, but so searingly true, that I can't ignore it. We can't compete. Time to cut our losses and move on."

"Dude. You have no idea what you are talking about. Maybe you will in the future. But let me give you a word of advice. Stop fighting it. I've given in to it, and everytime you storm into the CEO's room and you try to prove a point, he is just going to brush you off as the noob who doesn't get it. In a way, your apparent discontentment could be setting off alarms in Jetstar Enterprises. They are not going to storm off and refuse to cooperate because of you, but they are probably going to resist the ultimate aim of the company a lot more. We already have a whole bunch of things working against us. Don't make it any worse."

There was a tone of finality to the speech. Satisfied at making his point, Micheal turned and walked away.

/curl up and cry

/wake up to reality

/wallow in own insignificance

/scream

/emo

/repeat cycle

A silly little monologue.

You know what your biggest problem is? You let life's little imperfections get to you. You make mountains out of bloody dung beetle nests.

You say it all the time. Life sucks, deal with it. Its about time you started living by it.

Let go. Move along. There are enough things going right to be happy about.

State of transition is an excuse and you know it. Everyone is in a state of transition. They may be less aware of it than you are, but it still doesn't mean that it isn't happening. Confusion is common. Depression will come and go. But you have to bounce back.

You have come a long way, friend. But the end is no where in sight. Just keep your head up and keep walking.

Waking up II

The wind blew gently into his face, occasionally throwing a stray blade of grass into his face. He sat on the soft ground, hugging his legs, his chin resting lazily on his knees. It was a beautiful morning, and he had a wonderful view of the sunrise. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, smiling as the scent of spring flowers wafted past him. Life was good, almost dreamlike.

He heard a squeak. He couldn't place it, but he knew what it meant. Springing to his feet, he started combing the hill, looking for its source. It could have come from anywhere in the grass, and as he searched, his desperation started growing.

The squeak started changing. It started becoming lower and lower, until it was soon more of a growl. At this point, the source has become quite visible. A great hulking mass of muscle and fur lay at the foot of the hill, curled up into a ball. It was breathing heavily, and steadily growing.

He rushed forward hoping to reach it before it became too late. As he ran, the beast unfurled itself revealing its claws and teeth. It still moved slowly, like a bear just coming out of hibernation. The growling was turning into roars, each one progressively louder.

He reached the growing monster and flung his arms around it in a bear hug. Surprised by the sudden intrusion into its leisurely awakening, the beast started trashing about in an effort to throw the offending creature off its back. The claws flailed about in random directions. But he hung on. He had to.

Pulling himself a little higher up the back, he wrapped his arms around it's neck. Feeling the small limbs wrapped around it's windpipe only served to make it feel even more vulnerable and prompted even more violence.

He stared whispering into the beast's ear. He has learned long ago that a soft, persuasive tone didn't work. It only antagonized the monster even more. The only thing that worked was an icy, emotionally detached appeal. A cold dose of logic and reasoning. The simple facts and nothing more.

It was taking longer than usual this time. The razor sharp teeth were slashing dangerously close to his face. Sometimes, they got close enough and they grazed him slightly. But that was enough to draw blood, and soon his face was a mess of nasty cuts. Soon he began to tire, his aching muscles begging him to let go. But he hung on, keeping his vice-like grip. He kept up the whispering, kept up the firm and gentle pressure to calm down.

It took what seemed like an eternity, but the persistence finally started to pay off. Slowly, but surely, the snapping and scratching abated. The monster started shrinking until it was back to its usual small self. He slumped to the ground, thoroughly exhausted. Every time he does it, it gets harder. One day, the beast will get the better of him, and all hell will break loose. He needed help, needed someone to help contain the monster.

He could only pray that the saviour will come soon.

Waking up

It was a brightly lit room, with florescent lights lining the sides of all the metallic walls. In the middle of the circular chamber was a high chair surrounded by flashing control buttons. The place had a very sterile feel, and endless sea of aluminum punctuated with an occasional flashing red button.

One of the many doors let out a quiet hiss as it opened, and in strode a tall, chisel jawed man. He had a purposeful demeanour about him, eyes sharp in a no-nonsense way. His strides were quick and long, but as the approached the centre of the room, he started slowing down. He stared at the creature occupying the high seat and sighed.

"Every bloody morning, he takes the seat first. Stupid dick," he muttered under his breath.

On the receiving end of the scathing attack was a fat boy with a rat's nest for a head of hair. He wore a black T-shirt with the words 'I am emo' and had a perpetually glazed look in his eye as if he was high on blow. His chubby fingers danced absently over the controls, occasionally poking one of them. No one really knew if his actions were of his own volition or just another random response. If he heard the comment, he didn't show any response.

The doors opened again, and in strode a rather small fellow. He wore a brightly coloured tie-dye shirt and tattered jeans, and walked as if someone had taken to his testicles with a cricket bat. When he saw the fat kid in the seat, he sighed and turned to leave.

But before he could step out, the tall man spoke.

"Annoying bugger isn't he. Ever since he moved in, he's been hogging the controls at the start of the day. Hell, I can't even remember the day I started at the helm."

Facing the tall man, the flamboyant dude snorted. "You don't say."

"Oh, I guess its worse for you Impulse. Your size does make it a little hard for you to jostle your way in. But you have to say don't you, that ever since this kid came about we've been a lot worse off. I dare say that I'd win the approval of everyone should it go to vote, me against him."

"I'm sure you would, Confidence, but you know very well it would change nothing. He will still be there every morning, leaving whenever he feels like it."

"Can't he see that no one likes him? And that he is doing us all a lot of harm."

"Actually, I wouldn't say that everyone has a problem with him. Have you seen how Logic and him get along? Everytime Logic walks in and sees him, he thinks that there is a problem. You know, sullen looking Goth kid who looks like he could use a week in rehab? The problem starts when Logic starts spouting solutions. Those two cannot work together. Remember last week? I got dragged into that as well, and it turned out to be a bit of a mess. Especially when Anger stepped in."

"Yea. I remember that. You know, Anger is very useful sometimes, but I really hate it when he turns on us. He seems to have a bit of a tiff with you doesn't he Impulse?"

"Don't remind me. I still get aches in the places that he broke my bones the last time. But even he is no match for that kid. No one knows how he does it, but when you can turn the whole room black and start shooting lightning bolts out of nowhere, people stop messing with you."

"Yea, but it doesn't stop Anger trying though. Always leaves the room in a bloody mess after they fight."

There was a moment of silence at that point, both the men staring at the child in the chair.

Confidence tried what he tried every morning. "Excuse me, would you mind moving aside and letting someone else pilot for a moment?"he asked.

His reply was a dry crackling in the air as sparks started bursting around the kid.

"Okay. Okay. Just asking. I'll leave you alone." The two of them turned to leave the room.

As the walked down the corridor, they met Wit. "Hey guys! Same story again this morning?"

Confidence answered. "Yes, same thing again. No one seems to be able to dislodge Loneliness at the start of the day."

I don't like British Music.

WTF.

I swear I'm right. I swear I knew it all along.

The Dashboard Confessionals sang that and its been my little anthem since it was released.

You don't like British music huh? Apparently, Muse isn't quite your thing. Supermassive Blackhole not a good track? I believed it. Until you said you'd go to one of their concerts anyday. I shrugged. Muse had just visited, so maybe it was all the hype..

Oh. And the Sugarbabes suck too huh? And now, you liked them ever since they hit the air.

Yes, I'm nitpicking. They are non-issues. They don't matter, at least not to an average reasonable person. Yes, I'm bitter. So sue me.

The army and I

I was going to blog a third part to my 'love' observations, and had the idea nicely line up in my head. But I decided against it, mostly because I think that I need to take a step away from ranting and visceral fiction.

So, a bit of relatively light material today.

This post struck me as I was watching 'We are Marshall'. Actually, two things stuck me in that show. One of it was the reason that American football is the most popular sport in that country. The other was the way that the movie made me feel.

I felt the exact same way watching Band of Brothers. For some reason, and movie the properly depicts esprit de corps is to me the equivalent of the notebook to most girls. It can drive me to tears.

For that reason, I really think that if I wasn't born here and if I didn't have so much contempt for the values that this country stands for, watching something like that could very well have made me a soldier. It might sound a little gay, especially since a lot of that has to do with male compatriots bonding, and dying for each other. But it isn't. I just don't know what part of me puts my tear ducts into gear when I see a captain or a coach stand before his men and rally them. And just trying to put yourself in their position, and feeling the very same drive that surges through the team. The belief that the impossible can be done. Its all terribly corny. Which is why I think the comparisons to notebook type movies works very well.

Fighting for the fallen, making their sacrifices count, battling on to make the unit proud of itself. All those things probably elicit eyerolls form a lot of people. But I'm not ashamed to say that I feel for them. Of course, knowing that most of it is based on a true story helps. This really happened, in some way or another. Not everyone is an asshole.

Mehness.

Ever feel this strange depression creeping in but not know where it is coming from? This unexplainable feeling of despair for which there is no explanation. I hate that feeling.

I have no idea where it comes from, and I suspect that I'm afraid of identifying the reasons. People love deluding themselves, and as much as I try to tell myself that I can take it, it feels like something wiser than me is holding me back.

Denial of information to myself in the name of self preservation.

I hate the feeling because it debilitates me. I start justifying time spent staring into space doing absolutely nothing. I feel like crap. I have a reason to be lame. Except, I don't. And the knowledge that I don't just makes everything worse.

The feeling of utter helplessness, knowing that there are solutions, but not being brave enough to accept them, always hoping that an easier way will present itself. Fear of change. Fear of being judged. Fear of the unknown.

Its enough to make me want to cry.

I can't delude myself. I can't tell myself to go to sleep, and when I wake up in the morning, all will be well. Because it won't.

And when I start comparing my situation with the worst case scenarios, I know that what I'm going through is nothing. And knowing that makes me want to cry even more.