The Battle of the Crosses

I make sheets of paper covered in words that are covered in crosses. I want to write but my mind wants to edit and I realize that all I have ever done was to make these crosses over my life itself in the name of viewing life as art. I have never truly created before and all my pen is good for is making these crosses. All my life I have merely recorded thoughts and feelings and so I am lost and cannot write what I do not know or what I cannot see before me. I was never a great writer and certainly not so much as I thought. I will never be a great writer if I don't write now and abandon these crosses.
They say I am only as good as I believe and so I say I will be the best no matter the cold wind that I do not feel nor the wars which I have not fought.
The fan blows my pages and a battle against crosses has consumed my mind. I fight to keep on creating these sentences and they are about the battle but they have been crossed out.

The Sunset and the Clouds

A dark blue and stormy cloud swallowed the plane. Then we rose above it and left the city lights behind. Then we sank and were next to it, the tops of the clouds loomed above us like the peaks of mountains. The sunset was gold and once we came above the cloud again I could almost believe that the cloud was something I could walk on, that it was the land and I could almost forget the land below. Every so often a small hole would open up in the cloud and I could see the city lights like stars except that they shone below me.

I could almost believe I was above the stars but I could not.

I have seen some of the most beautiful things while in planes. Things that I would die to take a photo of, but the window is always too small and too dirty and the light too dim for my camera. High above the cumulous clouds that were below the plane and on the horizon where they met the sunset there was another cloud, a stratus cloud, a quilt that almost covered the sunset but it did not.

Far far below I could still see the Dallas lights and knew there were millions of people there ignorant of the profound beauty that was above them all. It is a beauty that is reserved to travelers who experience it as special because it is not ordinary to them, and so it is beautiful. I am one of those travelers.

I had not taken seriously what my father had said that a change of scenery would be so good for my writing. I realize now that before even arriving in San Diego I already feel that my creativity has been refreshed and I shall be happy to describe the great valley that is Yosemite. I hope to write not only journalism but also fiction while I am there, though I am having fun with my entries on this trip. 

Dallas

A baby cries. Two pilots carry-ons thud across the tile floor. A blonde lady runs to catch her flight. The tv, volume turned down, displays the latest news on the Batman Shooting. The man at Taco Bell remembered me when I returned for another burrito.

I've been in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport for two and a half hours. The last time I was here I had arrived from Kolkata and the TSA agent stared at my dhoti and in a Texan accent inquired where my pants were. I had laughed but not said anything.

I am on my way to San Diego now. From Gainesville to Miami I had listened to my iPod and patiently waited for the flight to be over. From Miami to here I napped on and off and less patiently waited for the plane to land. I had to use the bathroom but I had a window seat and both people to my right were asleep and I didn't want to wake them. The pilot announced that there would be turbulence and ordered the stewardesses to make the plane ready to land ahead of time. We weren't to land for another 30 minutes, normally they ready the plane 15 minutes before arrival. The stewardesses told us to stow our tray tables and turn off our electronic devices. I didn't turn off my iPod, I wasn't about to sit for another half an hour doing nothing and wishing the seat belt sign was not on so I could use toilet. Finally we landed.

A blonde girl on the television talks about how people who have been on the battlefield together share a bond that can't be understood but by those that have had the same experience. Marines are interviewed, one who lost his sight and another his legs. I have an hour more here in DFW and not much to do. I ate one burrito too many and I don't think I'll be hungry tonight. That could be a good thing or a bad thing.

I ignore the political forecast on CNN and put in my headphones. It's time to edit this entry. 

I Want to go to Bed

It's 1AM. I want to go to bed because I have to get up early at pack. Chances are I will only get 4 hours sleep and fall asleep in the Dallas airport while trying to find my gate. I already wrote a post but accidentally deleted it.
It wasn't a very good post and this will be worse. My typing sounds like gunshots on Gettysburg Hill because I'm hitting the keys so hard  I have a crick in my neck. I'm listening to a song that I've heard a thousand times before and it's repetitive and too fast and too electronic. I used an -ing word just now and I don't plan on fixing it, I'm too lazy to maintain my standards. (I try not to use continuous tense verbs as well as adjectives and adverds, though the last two are harder to avoid so I keep them to a minimum. I also reject the words like and as, to keep Hemingway stable in his grave).
I'm truly sorry for the dud of a post today, it's hard for me to write everyday but I know that every time I see a page view on this blog I know that someone took the time to check my daily work, and that they undoubtedly had better things to do than read a post like this. So I'm sorry, and I thank you for bearing with me.

Goodbye

I stood with the boys next to the bus before they left to Mississippi. I must have looked like I was one of them, but I was only there to say goodbye. I had wanted to go on the tour since I was Mayapur, but we didn't look into it until too late because we were worried about the money. The tour is expensive, I told myself, I probably wouldn't have gone even if I had not waited until after it was full. 
I had promised my good friend Ambi that I would come to the temple to say goodbye. I didn’t want to go; I even tried to text Ambi to tell him I wouldn't make it because I needed to pack for my up-coming trip to Yosemite. But he didn't get the text and I knew I had to say goodbye.
I walked past the cars and to the bus. I saw the boys, shaved heads, duffel bags, saying farewell to their parents. I found Ambi and we talked for a while. I said hello to my other friends. 
It's accepted by my friends that this has been the worst summer ever. I couldn't agree more, my friends were leaving and I had only done a fraction of the things I hoped to do with them. They at least have the bus tour, a month of traversing the U.S., Canada, and Mexico while living on a bus with their friends.
It started to rain. A drop here and there, a steady drizzle, then it poured. They had to go onto the bus to avoid getting wet. Water rolled down my cheeks like tears and dripped off my chin.
I said farewell to Ambi and we hugged. I climbed onto the bus and walked down the aisle and looked for my other best friend. I stepped over bags and legs. Finally I found Nay on one of the lower bunks and I said goodbye.
"Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye,” we shared a smile.
I stood in the rain again. Water soaked my shirt and they were gone.

Proof

In most religions it is understood that the purpose of life is to serve god. Some religions venture into why god created us. In my faith, the Gaudiya Vaisnava Sampradaya as taught by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, it is made clear that god, or Krishna, created us living beings for association.


Otherwise would being god not be lonely?


What’s in it for us? Eternal happiness at the end of the day, when we have proved ourselves worthy and we can return to heaven.


It sounds good, but sometimes I doubt whether I want to go back to godhead. Eternal happiness can sound impersonal. The spiritual world is very personal, I am told. But, like everyone else, I can’t remember my past lives and what came before them.


I have felt happiness in my life and I am anxious to feel more. The spiritual world, on the other hand, can seem at times like a leap of faith in a god that sent you to a planet that most of the time resembles hell.


What keeps me on my spiritual path? Despite not having any remembrance of the spiritual world, I have experienced it. I have been there in Kirtan, while reading transcendental books, while in the company of saintly people. This is the only proof I have of Krishna, of God, of Heaven and of Hell.


It’s good enough for me.

Birth of the Short Story

I have finished the second draft of a short story I am working on. I take the word short to its most extreme usage, the story is currently only 675 words (about three pages). This is my first serious attempt at fictional prose in a while, so its short length is most likely due to my being habituated to poetry and blogging. I'll probably publish it in the next two weeks, either before or after my trip to Yosemite depending on how it's going. 
My blogging class just ended, I had the last lesson today. I find it truly inspiring to see what I can come up with when I really have to; hopefully I don't get lazy and go back to my old posting pattern once my obligation is over. It has been a fun, though stressful, journey and I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have. I had my ups and downs but I don't regret any of it and I look forward to the next 9 days with you.

Fading Glory

Fading glory has faded since
My life was laced with spring events
An epoch worth this memory
Gone like spring in an endless year
Seconds of joy have left me here
With but poems to console my soul
Writ in blood spilled by evanescent joy
Skilled out of place and without grace
Seconds turn where minutes are born
Minutes to hours in agony torn
Gone are the sunsets gone is the spring
In endless night spirit to bring
Deja vu turned nostalgia remains
The good things look golden long after springs rein

What it Means to be a Writer

Every writer wants to make a change. We want to be heard and given credit. We want even more to give something and even if it's just a smile to your day we are happy. 

I do not feel that I have any talent. When I've written a great poem I was given the lines and the rhythm and the rhymes by someone else. I sat and collected onto a sheet of paper what was whispered into my ear by angels. I later forgot any glory that I was given and signed my name onto that paper and proclaimed it mine and that was not right.

I think many cannot take seriously what is writ by a fourteen year old, I have not faced the trials, they think, that they themselves have faced. I ask for remembrance of those angels.

I believe that as writers we make ourselves vulnerable to give to you, but also we feel every stroke of the blade of fate tenfold for our walls are down.

I have not faced what brings pain to someone that is closed to avoid that pain. I face only the relative pain that is felt by those that would feel it and hope to make stronger themselves by the feeling and by sharing their realizations. I ask only for a second of your time that you should ponder whether this pain is any less.

I want only to be understood and I want more for you to take into your heart these words even if it is not me who has writ them. I want a connection that has to be two sided. 

What it means to be a writer is to give and take the pain and change it and give it again. 

Smile for you will make generations of poets successful in their attempts at this connection. 

Smile and accept these gifts. 

Runaway Time

My friends are leaving on the bus tour on Monday. Once they're gone, my summer is, for the most part, over. I guess I thought I'd spend my last day doing something more productive. 


I had plans with a soon to be gone that didn't work out. I ended up sitting on a computer all day, trying and failing to learn a dub step tune on the keyboard, and in general doing nothing. My friends get back in a month a day before school starts.


"What will I do while they are away?" I imagine everyday like today, as boring and utterly depressing as possible. Fortunately I am going to Yosemite in a weeks time, so I have that at least to look forward to. 


"What will I do the other three weeks?"


I guess I am sad because I feel like summer is over. What of all the plans I made? The things I was to do before returning to India for a year or two?


Where did the time go?

Death

I lay in my bed tonight. It was warm and so I turned on the AC. I thought about death. In the movie I had just watched, Midnight in Paris, the main character had a conversation with Hemingway and he asks if the author is afraid of death. Hemingway asks him if, when he "makes love to a truly great woman," he for a second feels no fear of death. The main character, Gil, says that that had never happened to him. He had never felt fearless from death.


Later he kisses the girl he meets in a different time period that he ended up in (you'd have to watch the movie to understand) and remarks afterward that he did not feel afraid of death when he kissed her.


Lately I have not been afraid of death. In the last year or so, I started to wonder why everyone is so afraid. Hemingway himself once said that fear of death grows in proportion to gain of wealth.


There are three reasons I can think of why someone would not be afraid of death. One, he feels he has nothing to lose. Two, like in the movie, one is truly in love so that he worries only about the one he loves and does not care for himself. Three, he trusts god fully so as to be surrendered that whatever the lord plans for him is in his best interest.


I can't claim to see my reason above. The first reason is definitely part of it, also the third. The 2nd may be there to some degree, though not in the sense explained. Altogether it is part of a general ideology of how  to live my life, I believe in acceptance.


Accept pain and create with it. Accept defeat of the battle and learn from it so as to win the war. Accept the good things. Accept death as part of the game.

Novel

I've been inspired to start work again on a story of mine. More than blogging or poetry I have always wanted to write novels, and someday I hopefully will. It takes a much higher degree of concentration, dedication, and skill with both words and plot devices to pull off a novel. 
A novel has infinitely more power than a poem or article however, as it adds a personal dimension. Characters in a ballad and their struggles are only real in proportion to how much the reader can apply them to his life. In a book however the characters become part of the reader’s life to the degree that their struggles are felt by the reader like his own. 
On a scale of importance, having a well thought out plot is more important than crafty writing, having good characters is more important than having a well thought out plot, and having a good story idea is more important than good characters. 
Hopefully I have a good idea and good characters. I lack experience in using plot devices and planning out a story line.

Ramblings

I tend to be depressed. It comes from looking too much at the bad things and not enough at the good. It’s a simple fix, but it does take effort.  Some people are naturally happy and some sad. The happy are by far the wiser. 


The mind is a powerful tool; it is possible to be always happy. If I’m just satisfied, not always wanting change, nor being afraid of it, then I can be happy.


Perhaps it is far easier to change the world than change oneself. I wouldn’t know, having never done either.


 It is so easy to be influenced by others but hard to influence myself. Most of the time I think I am influencing myself while I let others change me. 


And why can’t it be easy to pick who influences me?


There is always a desire to be unique but it is never as strong as the desire to be liked. 


Nobody is who they say they are and very few are who they want to be. 


It is hard to tell which is wanted more; adventure, freedom, love, or popularity.

Morning Shower

I don't like going to sleep after the sun brings light to the clouds. I also dislike waking up after the sun is already blazing through the blinds of my window. Today however both were not avoided. 
I went to sleep at 5AM, a half hour later than I wanted to. I woke up with the sun in my eyes at 1PM. I took a shower.

Adorned Walls

Sorry for a short post today. I will share a sonnet I wrote, it's not one of my best as far as structure (I experimented with 8 syllables per line and 10 for the finishing couplet, instead of  10 for all the lines.) or content (I feel I could have better rendered the metaphor, which was actually taken from another poem I wrote along time ago called "Cold Sunshine." You can find it on my main blog).

I plan on editing it later, but here is the raw first draft.

The moon illuminates my soul
These walls are bare like winter leaves
I cleared this space and took my toll
I feel empty myself to weave  
I gave my soul in charity
To someone rich who needed not
Adorned this hall with memories
Torn pages that were mine I thought
How much we make and how much steal
An unbalanced scale shows a harsh truth
Tell yourself the truth keep it real
Will yourself and faith you shall prove
Bedeck these walls with your pain your success
Live YOUR life if you haven't start fresh

Acceptance

I think that I have finally reached a conclusion to my writer's block. I hope that I have learned a lesson from my difficulties. 


I didn't want to write because I was bored of writing of the same thing. My problem was that I was not willing to open up more. There's only so much you can write without going to to the next level, breaking your boundaries again. Each time you break your boundaries for how much you can open up you are gifted with more to write about. If you are not willing to keep moving forward than you will tire of writing about your current plateau. 


How can you be willing to open up more? By accepting who your are. If you accept yourself, believe that you have nothing to hide, than it will not be difficult to share your deepest secrets.


There is no right and wrong. There is only keeping on moving forward, keeping on writing, or stopping. Giving up.


Today at the temple I got to watch the film "Women of Bhakti"


I came in at the end. I was there for the last ten minutes of interviews. One stuck out. To tell the truth, it annoyed me. 


There's a certain type of love that is only for god. A selfless love and a whole love and a fully giving yourself love thats only for god. And I mistook that love as being appropriate for men. I lost personal boundaries. And I think a lot of women do that, they love so wholly and so fully in a relationship that they could even lose themselves. And I've lost myself in a relationship, and have come to understand that that selfless love is precious and is only for god. Not that I can't express deep and profound love for other living beings, which I do feel that I have and I do express. But there's a certain love that's only for God, and can only be truly reciprocated by God.


I couldn't remember the quote, so I had to look it up later. What stuck with me is that if you give yourself in your entirety to a man [and obviously a women, though she never mentioned that side of the ball game], than you will be heartbroken because the only person that can fully reciprocate is God.


Wait, so if one person can give themselves so fully that they "lose themselves," whats to say the the other can't? 


Vedic philosophy states that the only real masculine (purusa) is God, Krishna. Before him everyone is feminine (prakriti). So because the man is not in his natural position and the woman is, women can love wholly and men can't? 


Why do I always get ticked off by valid points that I can't argue against? Some of us haven't been married yet, and would like to think that there is such a thing as true love. This notion may not work out so well in practice, but not believing in the possibility makes sure that it cannot work out. 


This is where acceptance comes in. Life sucks 100% of the time that you don't accept that it is the best it can be. You have to accept yourself in order to write, in spite of those that will call you immature or wrong. And you have to accept that there is still reason to try. There is still reason to do your best - maybe even do better than anyone before you. There is still reason even though you will never be perfect.


I will never be perfect.


Accept the truth and change the lies. If you can't change it accept it, if you can't accept it change it.

The Bottom

This is my fourth day in a row writing without truly feeling inspired. Granted, my posts on the 4th and 5th weren't bad, maybe I should say it's my second day writing without inspiration and my fourth day writing without the desire to write. 


I'm thinking I need to shake things up a bit - find a new muse, start reading more, do stuff I don't do very often. Maybe that will help. I plan to start reading A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway tonight after I finish this post. 


This is my attempt to get to the bottom of my writers block, to find its source. 


I think part of the reason I don't want to write, even when I may be inspired, is that I'm tired of my muse. I don't want to write the same things over and over again, so I just don't feel inclined to write. So like I said, I need a new muse.


I should also try banging my head on hard objects, it might help. 

The Purpose of Blogging

I'm gonna be honest with you. I write to express myself in the strongest, if not most lucid, way. I love to write poetry because it is easy to evoke strong feeling. Concrete poems bring images. Ballads tell stories. And it's all done with a flow, in a musical way. 

Someday I'd like to be able to write short stories and novels. If I'm putting this much work into my writing I would want to be working on those things. 

But blog writing? In the past year I have became disinterested with blogging as a medium for sharing life experiences. Blogging is a good way to share your life, but it has no place in the world of art. Single posts can rarely be so good as to bring attention to themselves from a large audience, and although it would be possible to create a book from numerous blog posts, I would feel more inclined to actually write a book. 

In a blog post you can accurately represent an event. But you can't make it more than what it is. If you do, then it will be considered that you are overly dramatizing it. With a poem, short story or novel over dramatization is not a problem, story lines should be dramatic and poems should evoke strong emotion. Where do blog posts fit in?

On a blog, Edgar Allen Poe could have written: "My wife died. I'm sad. Feel sorry for me." If he had made a bigger fuss out of it people would think "Hey, everyone has tragedy in their life. Your a raging lunatic." 

But in poetry he could express his feelings in a way that touched everyone who read them and lasted and will last for centuries. No one complained. No one didn't read it because his problem was immature, they had more serious things to think about like global warming or the deaths of many people. 

What is the purpose of blogging really?

Better

I know that when writing my realizations, it is better if you tell the story behind how I got to thinking about the emotional or philosophical aspect of the matter. I've been told this many times.

However, sometimes it just isn't your story to tell. 

Competition is only fun when both parties win at different times. If one party always wins, it ceases to be fun for the losing party. It results in the winning party feeling superior. 

This behavior pattern is written so deeply in our mind that we tend to compare ourselves to others even when there is no soccer game, we do it all the time subconsciously. 

We compare each other based on actions or choices, hereditary traits, skill obtained by practice, etc. And the problem is there is no right in doing this.

People make choices based on how they've grown as a person. How they have been influenced by their environment and experiences. People make foolish decisions based on negative experiences, being raised in a neglecting environment, a hurtful environment even. People make good decisions based on positive experiences, being raised in a nurturing environment. 

There are people that were given less, and people that were given more by those around them. 

Occasionally there is a person that was able to transcend a negative environment and become a product of their power of will alone. They gave to themselves what others neglected to give them, be it belief, love, hope, courage. 

Even these few people, those who did the psychologically improbable, are still not better than the others. They are stronger but not better. The moment they think they are better, it is sure they are not.

People are given hereditary traits through DNA by their parents. They cannot chose what they look like, their ability to become physically strong, mentally smart. Again, some people are more privileged than others. 

People can only become skilled at so many things, so this is affected by choices and whether or not one is fit for the task based on genes. 

All creatures are created and remain equal in their purest form. It is up to those more able to help those in need. 

The Need for Relationships

It's the Fourth of July. Everyone will be gathering at the Rec Center tonight for fireworks, a party. They'll see their friends, familiar faces with whom they share countless memories. 


I've never gone to public school here. Over the years I have accumulated a few close friends, but when it comes to their friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, I'm lost. 


Because of this I've never been one for big, social events. I just feel out of place. 


Any road that leads away from material entanglement is a lonely one. A poem by Byron Herbert Reece comes to my mind.

I go by ways of rust and flame
Beneath the bent and lonely sky;
Behind me on the ways I came
I see the hedges lying bare,
But neither question nor reply.
A solitary thing am I
Upon the roads of rust and flame
That thin at sunset to the air.
I call upon no word nor name
And neither question nor reply
But walk alone as all men must
Upon the roads of flame and rust.  

Sadhu Sanga is important in Bhakti Yoga for this reason. Spiritual advancement without association of devotees is impersonal. It will not lead to the Goloka Vrindavan, where you will serve with other devotees. If one merely advances spiritually and not personally, emotionally, he will find himself in the impersonal Brahman. And he will fall back down to to earth for the very reason that he craves association, relationship, love. 


Human nature is so conducive for building relationships, that it is extremely difficult to grow in Krishna Consciousness if our natural impulse to build relationships is taking us in the other direction. The answer then is to use the instinct to build relationships for good, and this is done by surrounding oneself with devotees so that one becomes attached to them.

Every learned man knows very well that attachment for the material is the greatest entanglement of the spirit soul. But that same attachment, when applied to the self-realized devotees, opens the door of liberation.

~Srimad Bhagvatam 3.25.20 

Introducing Me

Have we met before? You look familiar. What's that? Who am I?


Often I am asked to describe myself, on paper, on websites, by people. I never know what to say.


"What does it say about me," I always wondered, "that I don't even know who I am well enough to write a paragraph or two?"


My friends and acquaintances know me by my actions, but websites, papers, and strangers don't know me by my actions. They've never met me. Perhaps you've never met me. After you read this you may or may not want to meet me. If I were you, I can't be sure I would want to meet me. But I don't have that choice.


I make mistakes more than I do right. I don't learn from them ninety percent of the time. Im not particularly good with people, but I'm not bad with them either. If people don't like me it's because they see my faults and not my virtues; I can't blame them because I have more faults than virtues. I see peoples faults more than their virtues too.


But I do have virtues; I try to remind myself of them when I'm feeling down. I'm bad at a lot of useless things and I'm good at a few even more useless things. I can say though that I try to be good at the actually important things. My attempts are feeble. Most of the time I don't even want to be good at the useful things, but I want to want to be good at them. I can say that for sure.


I've been given more opportunities than I can thank others for and I've wasted more opportunities than I've been given. I can't remember a time that I was ever doing everything I should, that I couldn't have done better. But that seems to me to be part of life. That there's always room to grow.


There's another part of life that I haven't been able to find a way around. In the process of growing up I've had, and I think we all have, to forge our own path. And in doing so it seems at times that I disrespect those that came before me. That by not following their path, I am not grateful to them for offering it to me. So this is me thanking you all, my parents, mentors, teachers, friends, elders, brothers, sisters. I thank you but I must find my own identity, my own way.


I am not what I should be, and I will never reach the limit for what I can be, but I am who I am.


I would give my life for my ideals, my loved ones, and my God. I can only hope that those people who know me will forgive me for what I've done and what I may do.


But I'm sorry, we haven't been formally introduced yet. My name is Balaram Briant. What's your name?

Melodrama Poem Revealed

How many nights have I stayed awake and
Pondered of my worth do I belong here
Am I different will I ever find love
Shall I never be freed from all this fear
Am I wrong or is there purpose to this
Was I created with destiny will I stay
Lost without reason to find but one kiss
Turning their backs on confidence they stray
To the darkness to hide their faces which
Society deemed not pretty enough
To be another mannequin left in the ditch
Pretty faces are never called in their bluffs
The rest to be said for you is left blank
Live how you like and in death find your rank

~Me


Had a hard time naming this one; the poem doesn't have much of a central theme. In the end I titled it "Melodrama," but I'm not quite satisfied with that.


The first quatrain deals with low self esteem and insomnia, common problems for teens nowadays. 


The next three lines (Am I wrong or is there purpose to this ~ Was I created with destiny will I stay ~ Lost without reason to find but one kiss) talk of wondering about the future, and weather it is already planned out above. 


The next line (Turning their backs on purity they stray) leads into the next quatrain, admittedly a fault of this sonnet. 

Turning their backs on confidence they stray
To the darkness to hide their faces which
Society deemed not pretty enough
To be another mannequin left in the ditch
Pretty faces are never called in their bluffs

These lines begin by narrating how kids who are not up to the standard set by their more popular peers lose hope in themselves, and ends with two lines that tell of the fate of the "in crowd" who build their "good" self esteems on false principles that fade as they age and are no longer good at sports and their faces lose the luster of youth.


The finishing couplet is pretty clear in its meaning.

The rest to be said for you is left blank
Live how you like and in death find your rank

No matter how much good advice you get and no matter who you get it from, it's your life to live. You create your own story. But remember, what you may be able to get away with in life, you can't in death. 




...
I've never done this before, hope you liked it. If you'd be interested in seeing the purports to any of my other poems, let me know which one in the comments below.

Nothing Save Palm Trees and Coconuts

I have to write again? Already? It feels like it was just yester...ohh right. That was yesterday. I have to write everyday. For thirty days.


I thought I'd read a poem I wrote last night for inspiration, a lot of times I find my posts here to be almost like purports to my poems. Unfortunately, I can't find my iPod which I wrote it on. So now I'm stranded on a desert island with nothing but a few palm trees and coconuts in the sand to write about. 


That metaphor brings back memories. Truth or dare? What/who would you have with you if you were to be stuck on a small isnland for the rest of your life? 


Maybe your a musician. You want a piano and some paper on which to write your beautiful symphonies; though they'll be lost and you forgotten, until someone comes along and finds some sheet music and the skeleton of the next Mozart. 


Maybe you'd want a skateboard and a half-pipe, to perfect tricks that will never make YouTube. Maybe a punching bag that you can use to relieve your frustration as well as perfect your boxing. A canvas and some paints? A journal and pen?


None of that sounds appealing, does it? 


Who cares about getting famous after they're dead? Who cares about being Tony Hawk if you can't show it off? Who cares if your Muhammad Ali if you can never beat anybody up?  If your Van Gough and...well that's enough in it's own, he was a pretty depressed guy. And was Anne Frank happy? She's one of the most famous journalists in history because she was killed in the Holocaust. 


No, those aren't the answers you get when you ask that question. 


People would rather have a person to talk to and nothing to show off in front of them than something amazing and no one to see. Everybody always chooses a person.


I once asked a friend if he'd rather lose both his legs and have the girl of his dreams or a fully functioning body but never find love. 


He said he'd rather have no legs than no love. And I think the same goes for most of us.


Being stranded on a desert island hasn't been so bad for this post.