The Change

For a moment, we were all there. Listening to and laughing at the same jokes. The whole universe taking a second to feel something good, breathing at the same moment, smiling at the same moment. The stars themselves seemed to approve of the time together, for they shined twice as bright that night. A moment of happiness, for everyone. An evanescent second where nothing was wrong. Everyone was on the same side. Everyone was right and wrong, but no one was conceited and no one was ashamed. Nobody was scared because there was no reason to be. For a fraction of a second, our worlds were perfect.

As quickly as it had come, it left. Surely enough, we began looking in the same direction, and seeing different things. Standing in the same light while running different speeds. Always with mixed feelings. Nothing was plain, nothing was black nor white. Suddenly nothing was good enough, simple enough, inspirational enough, painful enough, important enough, and it was for this reason that no one cared enough. Not one person realized the difference, the change. All anyone noticed was how much they missed that one breath, that one laugh where everyone was together, without resistance and without question.

From that moment on, it was only walking. Always walking. Never stopping. Forward motion, don’t stop. It didn’t matter where, directions were thrown to the wind. As long as you were walking, you were okay. Some tripped and fell, some were faster than the others. When it rained, you toughed it out. When it got windy, snowy, stormy, you kept going. The footfalls marking one era after another, and they never slowed.

Some wished they slowed, sometimes wishing they would just stop altogether. Sometimes it seemed like things would only get worse if you continued walking, but you had no choice. Everyone was a slave to the world, and no one could escape. A number of generations have passed since that single laugh, smile, and breath. The children of the children of the children of the people who were there to watch it happen spend their days walking, and waiting for it all to happen again, but as the distance from the day it had happened and the modern day grows, it seems less and less likely. As long as they keep walking and keep waiting, hope will never be lost.


I know this isn’t what you have all come to expect from me, but I do happen to have a deeper side, so I hope you like it. If not, then don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal next week . . . probably. I don’t know if I should just consider this writing or poetry, it just started coming to me in history class, and I thought I would write it down and share it with you.


Just a Theory

Yes, a theory. Because I’m a nerd and I like science, therefore I use the term theory in everyday life. But in order to tell you the theory, I must first tell you how I came up with it.

I have been getting down on myself lately, for typical nerd reason. You see, if I’m not writing creatively, then I kind of feel like I’m not serving my purpose in life. . . but the reason I haven’t been writing so much lately is that now, I have a life.


It never really registered with me that, in terms of my writing skills, that isn’t really a bad thing. Having plans and living life gives you inspiration, it gives you instances to write about, it helps you create stories to write. I read in a blog once, someone was telling a first-time blogger not to be upset if they can’t stick to a schedule because life gets in the way sometimes. I don’t think it’s really getting in the way though, I think it’s showing us, and helping us to be better at what we do.

I used to be a horrible writer, I mean seriously extremely boring and lamely sticking to the rules. If I saw a green line on Microsoft Word under dialogue I had to make it disappear, even if what that character wound up saying doesn’t sound like something you would hear from an actual person ever. Now I know better, I’m more experienced  and I have made all of these observations from reading others that I can use to improve myself. For the most part, the more time I put between now and the next time I write, the more professional that writing will be.  Not to mention that in the future when I’m writing, I will be older and wiser.

library shelves

I’m not posting this so much for others as I am myself. I know that somewhere down the road, once I am back in the swing of things and am writing more on a schedule, this will happen all over again and I’ll get frustrated with myself. This post is for me and anyone out there similar to me who has this problem, just for us to know that it’s okay to live your life even if it gets in the way of writing. That Word document or notebook will be there when you’re done, and you can take it from where you left off with all of these new ideas you’ve gained from actually being out there in the world.


The last piece of information I want to share is that I came to the blogosphere with this stroke of genius (yes, I mean that sarcastically, only because I can never refer to myself in any tone but sarcasm) because I had nowhere else to go. Nobody in my life shares a love of writing the way that I do, and I suppose I could share it with my English teacher, but he’s much less of a writer and much more of a reader. Plus I don’t talk to him much about anything not regarding school so I feel like that would be an awkward conversation. That may have come across way more whiny than I wanted it to, so let me just explain that I’m saying it because I like that I have this outlet for my writing. Even my writing that’ s not all that good. It’s somewhere to go where I know there are fellow writers and people who understand and are interested when you talk about reading or writing or creativity. We have that here, and as far as I’m concerned that’s the best community I know of.

The Catcher in The Rye

This post might get me in trouble with a few of you. You might really be upset with me after this one, but hey, what is this world without opinions? (The answer to that question is ‘peaceful’). I’d also like to point out that this isn’t meant to be a review, just really my opinion (that’s worth mentioning because I never read reviews on blogging sites). So here goes, The Catcher in the Rye.

It sucks. It seriously sucked my soul out of my body, ground it up into pathetic little dusty pieces, and spit it out in the face of my soulless body that was left behind. Yeah, it’s that bad.

My brother and I have this ongoing argument about it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about and you’ve heard of the novel before and are debating whether or not to read it, DON’T. If you do read it, I promise you will regret wasting your time on it. He says I don’t get it because I’m not the type of person who can relate.

This ‘charming’ novel is about a teenage boy who is trying to find himself, but if you ask me, it’s about a jerk who thinks everyone is a phony, and narrates a bit too much. Holden Caulfield, seriously I’ve never hated a character more than I hate him. Not even Voldemort or *shudder* Umbridge (is it just me or did anyone else want Umbridge to die more than they wanted Voldemort to?).

On top of just being an absolute pessimist and not even trying to be a decent human being, he didn’t care about anyone except for his little sister. I admit, it’s sweet that he cares about his little sister, and sometimes I thought he was acting decently because he would be nice to people and make up stories so as not to slander the name of anyone that any particular stranger thought highly of (for example, he met the mother of a boy he went to school with on a train and went on and on about how great a kid he was). So maybe he wasn’t an all around horrible person, but there couldn’t have possibly ever been a character generated by an author that was more dull or pessimistic or bipolar for that matter.

Maybe it’s the fact that my brother just doesn’t read as much as I do (I literally gave my mom a list of books when she asked what I wanted for Christmas). He can’t see how badly it’s written, but the author is so redundant.

I was in the middle of telling my younger brother to never waste his time on that book (he’s in seventh grade and I believe it will be on his reading list when he gets his summer work for next school year) when my other brother walked in, picked up the book, and claimed that he was considering re-reading it. It’s not worth the re-read (it’s also not worth the initial read, but to each his own), but I encouraged it hoping that this time he would see that there is no plot, and no point to the novel whatsoever. He’s read other books since then, what with all of the English classes he’s taken since seventh grade.

He told me I should respect the book that killed John Lennon. I told him he was an idiot.