Sunday, February 27, 2011

Not Exactly 100 Words: School

The things I have learned--and would rather remember--are pushed aside by classes I want to forget.

What did I learn about Freud? It is all clouded by rock clusters, pythagorean theorem, and ramblings of Andrew Jackson's odd behavior.

Sure, they all have their uses, but the knowledge feels mandated and irrelevant. I just want to move on--move on to something more personal to me.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Toy Guns

When my brother and I were young, we used to play with toy guns. The cowboy kind, completely made of painted plastic, that made a clicking sound whenever you picked them up, as if we broke something and it were rattling around inside--which was likely. They were painted beige, and the mechanisms on the outside painted silver. The pop it made when we shot the gun was a bit piercing, but when we were younger, we never noticed the loud noises. Everything was just for fun.

Heath and I would run around the home we had then--a small yard, a small trailer home. He was so small then, but he was slender, and had a bit of tone. Probably from jumping off of things and reenacting the lightsaber fights in the original trilogy of Star Wars. My arms and legs were no bigger than his, really. Five years apart in age, and at that time, no one could really tell a difference, we were just kids. Age did not matter. Nothing mattered, as long as it was fun... And as long as we did not get scolded for it.

I remember those days. I miss those days. Watching my brother outside in the front yard playing cowboys--or at least what he knew about cowboys from Woody in "Toy Story"--and pretending to be a Jedi Knight, sometimes tagging me in his little imaginary games. He had a trunk full of costumes and clothes that held onto his little body as he zoomed around our home and tried to tangle me into his chase. Everything from Jedi outfits, to a Spiderman costume, to a bit of cowboy accessories. He even had a Link costume from The Legend of Zelda.

These days, he is much slower. Video games and television excite him more than anything else. These days, I am much slower. School drains me mentally and physically the longer I stay here. But the both of us, no matter what we are doing, we are doing something we love. The five years we have different feels like a larger gap emotionally, sometimes. But in the end none of that matters.

When we reunite, on my days away from campus, we have fun. He is my younger brother, after all, and I love him.

I miss him.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Revitalization and Redemption

Florence and the Machine is loud in my ears. Not because I want to tune out the world, but the pedestrian mall is particularly crowded for a Wednesday morning. And I need to breathe.

I spent the small bit of night I actually dedicated to sleep in a deep, dreamless coma--from which waking was not easy. I took the time last night to pour my feelings out into a message and with every apprehension I have built around expressing myself to others--oddly enough, despite being a writer--it was cleansing. And I slept; I was revived.

Two years ago, I spent some of my flaky time with a boy who would not understand what a connection between two people is if it bit him in the ass. I was just wasting time. It was a vain attempt at trying to find worth somewhere. But there was nothing to gain, and all of that time is now lost to pages in a diary I ripped up and scratched out. When I tried to express myself to him, I was shut down by a shallow wall of concave vanity. And he was not the first to act so coldly to me. So, I shut off.

Last year, I was left believing I would yet again be without someone to turn to in my times of overwhelming despair. In all honesty, I was fine with this. I hated the idea of having to divide my time or really be responsible for my actions or for another. I had spent so much time to myself, even when the aforementioned sat like stone next to me, I did not really know anything else. And then it happened: someone came along.

At first, he was just a guy I was getting to know. And past experience taught me not to be hopeful. But he stole me. And now I find myself frustrated, more than anything else--frustrated that I did not find him sooner. With him, I see the world differently. He is my constant inspiration--a reason to be better than the pathetic excuse I have been, lacking in any self-worth. He made that person in the mirror seem a little less hideous, and gave me one more thing for which to live.

And when I express myself, I am not stupid. I am his world. He makes me feel like somebody. Somebody with real words worth being heard.

When I wake up in the morning, I am someone's love. It makes this dull life full of academia and away from home-ness less dreary. When I am with him, I am home.