once upon a time, America was a land of freedom. There were no restrictions on the land. A man could walk across the country without someone telling him to get out or a fence declaring the land to be someone else's. The mountains belonged to the earth and those who conquered them. To scale a mountain is to own like one owns a soul; not to fenced in or shut up. The land blelonged  to everyone who felt it beneath their feet. The people who lived here before knew this. To them, denying a person the land was an unimaginable sin, as it was in fact theft.
They knew that one day people would come to America and section off the land and declare it theirs or his or ours. It would be time where people would be shot for daring to step on their own soil and barred by fences from knowing their own land. And so they made a plan. They lived in a valley protected from the world. The seasons were frozen in time, unchanging from month to month. They knew this valley was a sacred place. One woman did not want to have her homeland broken up in false ownership. She asked the gods to let her live forever, to protect the valley from the greed hands of men. So the gods made her a mountain, her sillouette lined against the sky. As the people came, they sectioned off the land and made it theirs. But Ladyface inspired the hearts of those people and they conquered the land that they were forbidden from and made it theirs. The valley was safe and the land belonged to everyone. And ladyface mountain remains the protector of the valley for all time.

The Apathetic Curse

Why is America so apathetic?

Scratch that for now; why am I so apathetic?

I have noticed a frightening trend in my mental state as I progress through life. More and more often I find myself saying I just don't care.

Why don't I care? All I know is that this disease has been getting progressively worse as I mature. It used to scare me, but now I just don't really think it matters all that much.

case in point.

This is a problem. It is affecting my work, my activities, my choices, and my mental capabilities. I have a suspicion that it may be due in part to the relaxed, happy-go-lucky attitude that I am surrounded with on a daily basis. It has infected even the most hardworking and intellectually prominent of my peers.
Is it just a part of growing up? realizing that some of our actions are weighed more than others? If so, than I presume I would start caring more about something to replace my lack of interest. This is not the case.

It isn't just my intellectual life that is slowly degrading in the slow and horrible spagetttification of my interest in the overwhelming void of not caring. I am also quite a bit less emotional and Romantically romantic. I don't seem to care about the well-being and relationships of my peers and even less of my family. It frightens me to realize how casual some of my strongest emotions have become.
I used to be the most emotional and intensely Romantic child I have ever come across. Have my feelings and emotional senses been deadened and rubbed down so low on the grit of teenage culture? Or is it just a sign of emotional maturity that I am able to calm down the raging and savage hammers that pound on my heart?

Maybe I'm trying to protect myself. I have been hurt before. Maybe my mind is trying its hardest to tuck up my personal investment in my life and take myself away from harm. But if that's true, then I should be ashamed. It is a weakness to fear life to the point that I take myself out of it.

It's not like I'm apathetic all the time. When I do have a little pang of emotion left over from the memories of people who forced their way with a chainsaw through my hardening heart and the left side of my face twitched into a half-smile, I feel alive.
That's stupid. any version of "I felt alive", especially when considering strong emotions as a testimony to that aliveness, is over used and conceited.
But hey, it's true. The problem is that other people know it too.

This can be applied to the youth of America. But that's for you to think about.

Hopelessly Romantic

I have been told I am a Romantic.
As I have studied the Romantics and their beliefs and literature  I have personally found that I tend to agree with many of their ideas. Definitely not all of them, not by any means. In fact, so greatly have I differed from some of the Romantic ideas that I have, to an extent, refused all association. On the other hand, I have been told that I am a Romantic by an admirable friend who is more experienced on this sort of thing than I ever can hope to be, so, therefore, I am a Romantic.
Do not confuse being a Romantic with being a romantic. I am not a romantic.

This can be troublesome at times.

The Old Violin

Antique shops are wonderful places. They are filled with a sort of magic of the distant past, and contain the lives of many people and histories of cultures. Most things in an antique shop are outdated, broken, or generally unusable. Not that you'd really want to use most of the things you can find.
There is, however, one thing that kills me to find in an antique shop. I hate finding violins.

As a violin player myself, I tend to have a personal connection with the instrument. Each one has its own personality and story. The older they are, the better. I believe it's because they have seen much more and are able to give the music played on them a rich tone filled with sorrow, happiness, and years of history that shaped them carefully into the beautiful and delicate instruments they are today. Every time I see an old violin my breath is caught in the wonder at the years and years that the violin must have survived.

Some of these better, more well made violins are sold for millions and played by masters.
Some of them, sadly, end up broken and dusty in the back corner of a shop.

That's what makes me die a little every time I see a violin in such condition. It could have been anything in the past. It may have been some child's first instrument, leading them to become a great artist. It could have been an instrument used to bring some comfort to the sick or elderly with sweet songs. It could have been nothing at all, hardly touched, but full of the potential to become anything.
But over the years, it just sits in an attic, its strings becoming brittle with neglect, the carefully polished and formed wood warping with the damp and cold, the body slowly graying with dust.
A pleasing sight to a Romantic. A cringe-worthy scene to me.

Violins are like wine. But we don't treat them the same.

Figure it Out

These past few days I have had an interesting argument with my good friend. Some how, he has come to the belief that King Hamlet tells his son to act mad in order to avenge him. Of course, being the die-hard Shakespeare fan I am, I knew for a fact that this was in no way the truth.
After several blunt and rather forceful arguments, I managed to pull out one major problem.
"Did you actually ever read the speech?" I asked.
"Well, not all of it," he admitted.
It was at this point that I was fairly disgusted.
he had be firmly arguing a point that I had reviewed several times and knew as a fact, and yet he based his argument on something that someone else had said.
Really??
Of course, I advised him to never argue something like that without figuring it out on his own first. But still, the point remains that too often people take too firm of a stance on ground unfamiliar to them. And of course, even if proven wrong, their pride (and possibly shame) will prevent them from ever accepting defeat or attempting to allow truth to pull down their defenses so that they can become more informed and an asset to society. This can easily be applied to any situation. especially comments on the internet, a connection which is often ironically pointed out several times a day.
people need to start figuring out things for themselves. I have been forced to several times, and being able to rely on judgement and experience rather than having to run crying to someone else had been a blessing in my life.
If only...

Trappings and Entrapping

I have a problem with journals.
Oh, not the type of journal that are torn and ragged from from years of the abuse and trauma their owners went through. Those are just fine.
I am particularly bitter towards self proclaimed journals and diaries, like the ones at Micheal's or any other store. The ones that have pretty covers and nice, patterned sheets with little inspirational quotes and whatnot in them. Everyone has or has had at least one.
They are deadly.
The very fact that they present themselves as a "Journal" is distressing  They are not journals. All the glitter, fuzz, patterned paper and pink-tinted pages are used exclusively as bait for their trap, designed to ensnare the little hearts and minds of fragile little girls into believing that they are truly journals. If such little girls are anything like I was, then the sight of such finery is irresistibly tempting. Owning such a book; a Journal, would be the pride of their lives. they would swear that if only they could take that cheap lump of over priced glittery tree-pulp and bring it home with them, they would be the owner of a daily journal in which they would spend every day transcribing secrets, routines, stories, and their lives.
It is pitiful how many times I fell into the dark clutches of these journals. I bought them shamelessly, and each one I opened promised a new commitment and a new beginning. I bought so many - and none of them belonged to me.
I believe that self-proclaimed journals are a little self-absorbed. They seduce and ensnare only for a moment, and then leave the new-found journalist without a page of their own to write their pains and grievances. It is almost sinful. Comparable to the bread and water in The Pit and the Pendulum. The first page of a journal is always open and inviting, but the second and the third become cold and harsh. The commitment spurred on by the novelty and invitation of a journal is lost and suddenly, the "journal" is lost from ownership forever. I cannot count how many journals I have bought that have only one or two entries, written as an expected formality.
Of course, this is not true for everyone, nor is it applicable to all self-proclaimed journals. It is only my belief and experience. Had I continued this practice of an unending search for my own journal, I would not be writing this. I would have lost all faith in spontaneous and unplanned writing and given it up long ago.
Thankfully, I was saved. Saved by my first ever emotional storm and trauma that just about drove every part of my mind into madness for the need to write. Saved by a split second decision. Saved by a cheap, half-sized, beat-up Staples memo pad with odd yellow paper and absolutely nothing remarkable about it at all.
Hardly journal material. Yet it means more to me than almost anything else in the world. I can call it my journal because I made it my journal. through a blue bic pen, I forced myself into every page of that insignificant memo pad. I made it listen and accept me and because it had no fancy, fine airs, it was humble enough to accept me.
And that has made all the difference...

Introduction

Turnip.

It is an odd sort of word to begin with, I suppose, but to me it is as good as any other. Beginnings are much too stressful  So much, in fact, that I believe the desire for an adequate beginning outweighs all else in the creation of a blog. This may account for the numerous times I have tried and failed to keep a blog. After the beginning is established, the thrill that comes from the first words to impact any reader that may stumble across such a sacred thing is quickly dispersed, and I am left with endless pages to fill, but no particular desire to write down any of the mundane events in my life.
And yet here I am, typing out these words in complete defiance of my undesirable history in blogging. I find it tedious to sit down at a computer and make any sort of creativity or passion seep out of the mind-numbing sameness of Times New Roman characters. It is a formal and common font, although I fear that many people often abuse it and write as though it were a font as casual and vulgar as, say, Comic Sans MS. I do not mean that Comic Sans is a horrid font- on the contrary; I used to refuse to type in any other font, since none other would suit my purpose. I prefer to write by hand. The absence of any set font is appealing. Disorder and imperfection, in such small amounts, can reveal itself to be quite comforting to the troubled heart. And this troubled heart is what has brought me to write. For the past two years I have kept a notebook, or a diary, as some would prefer to call it, and I have learned that it is never the beginning that is ever recognized or remembered. At times I would find myself aching to take a pen in hand and make an attempt to force my ardent desires and impressions to take shape in the form of ink on a page. Tried, and often failed. Even now I cannot capture the full extent of the emotions and words that boil inside of my chest. Writing is too imperfect. Words limit and hold back true feelings. A brilliantly composed love poem can never be nearly as strong as the passions that brought it to life. Yet however much is left behind in our hearts to be blown away by everyday things and distractions, it is still better to capture a brief moment of suffering, love, or awe, so that our memories may fill in the rest. Which, of course, leaves you at a natural disadvantage. You are not me, nor will you ever be.
I want to write. I do not know how, but I assume that will come with experience and practice. Unfortunately  the sudden and urgent need for me to write often comes when I am in a position that is most inconvenient  When I do find myself in a position to take advantage of any ability to write, my  mind is empty of the various poems, passionate speeches, and fiery sermons that occupy my mind at any other time. And so, my collection of random, yet powerful written thoughts is small and quite underdeveloped.
I would like to fix that.
I have so many thoughts that are fighting for attention that my mind is just now realizing the massive task I have taken up. It is my earnest wish that I may conquer it.

-Ariel Liddell