Hours in Seconds

If time were pain, then my British Literature class would be perpetual torture.   

It's kind of silly because I remember how much I bitched about having to do "10 Definitions and 10 Sentences" in 6th grade.

Then I thought about how easy that little assignment was when I reached High School, spending hours a week with my textbook alone in my little room thinking: "Damn....10 Definitions and Sentences are heaven right now."

And now, woopty doo, now I'm spending hours with my textbook daily.  3-4 hours with the textbook of not just "studying" but intensely studying.  Just knowing the facts isn't all important anymore, I have to actually draw conclusions and make connections with everything I'm learning in order to draw a cohesive illustration of the time period and the attributions from the literary works of the time.   AP Euro is fucking heaven compared to the workload in this coarse. 

Although....

it's kind of strange that a deeper part of me seems to love everything about it.  To the years and dates that nobody gives a shit about, to the poets, the writers, the politics, the struggles, the shifts in society and economics, to the works that we study in depth.

Well gee Kid, maybe you should major in British Literature then you sonuvabitch.  

But it's not that I'm in love with literature.  It's the fact that for once in my damn education I'm forced to think for myself about what I'm learning.  I'm not just learning who died when and who did what.  I'm seeing that every factor counts in the development in everything--how a war or an execution or some kind of drastic change in society changes the course of history and how this affects poetry and literature and the perspective of an artist living during the time.  Until now, I didn't realize how beautiful some writings were written over a fucking thousand years ago.  Sentiments I could only dream of expressing in writing were written by a man who lived in a period where people still threw shit buckets out the window and into a main street.  It's not just history, it's life as it was.  It's life as it is.  In a way, nothing has changed.

Sure, I'm getting a little into depth of what the course entails; but it's more than literature.  It's learning about the subtle works in life that has shaped what we are.  From mathematics to arts to history.


High school does not prepare you for the academia of college.  

High school was for the social experience, I believe, that's just about it.

In just 5 weeks we've covered more information in a year than in any of my classes at Chap, including my oh so dreaded Advanced Placement European History.  But...I never thought I'd be able to do this much work before and not absolutely hate my life.  It's a strange thing...

I think I like this place.

Understanding, Perhaps Is Asking For A Little Too Much

It's weird.

I really don't find any girls attractive at my school. 

It's not that there's a problem with them;

It's just me.

It's just me and my studies.  Me and my work.  Me and my work outs.  Me and...myself.

I talk to myself every morning, every study hour, always.  I'm what I lean on.  I pull creative ideas from opposing sides of the brain.  I rap lines.  I sing songs.  I yank verse, I yank skits, I yank imaginary situations out of everything I find. 

My social life has been destroyed.

But when I do socialize with people, I am far from shy.  I am open and outgoing, comforting and alive; direct and focused, humored and obliged.

The shell was broken in high school.

And now my counter balance has caught up with me.  I lie in solitude, but not unyielding to social opportunity. 

This is ...different.

But in this stage of my life; this is what I need most...

Sometimes Never.

Desire.

Want.  What.  I.  Do.  Not.  Have.

This Moment.  Right now.  

Something.  Someone.  An Idea.  A reality.  A possibility.  A concept.  A precept.  A noun.

Person.  Place.  Thing.  A Noun.

Desire.  

A strong wanting for something.  A yearning.

The feeling that accompanies an unsatisfied state.

What am I without desire..?  I am ...surviving.  I ..continue..  towards..  what?

Can I go anywhere without any wants..?  Can I...be happy?

Happiness.  Contentment.  Fulfillment.

Key:  Fullfillment.

What is fullfillment; the act of filling.

What is filling?

The end of the quest.

The prize to be won.

Key:  Won.

This game, this competition, this race...is one to win.

Win....you have to want...to win.

....................................

So here I am, with precious time on my hands in a wasted away day; soon to be forgotten by the outer consciousnesses of my mind.  Ingrained by undigested recesses of the back of my memory. 

I've fallen in love with an idea again.  I've fallen into a mess.  With each mess getting more difficult to find my way out of.  It makes you wonder, when you sit in the back of your mind in a dim room, asking:  What's the point?

The point....the point...I seemed to have lost my point.  What was it?  What is it?  Didn't I have it just a minute ago?  The point...it was...for certain...for someone...for something....it was...my point.  To live; to sacrifice, to work, to be full.  Where did my point go?  And when can I find it again?

Always the right ideas.  Always the wrong people.
Always the right people.  Always the wrong idea. 

God's little game justified in a sick circle of irony.  It's all irony.  I could laugh about if for months and months until I die from exhaustion.  Peeking through small gaps between His so called "plan,"  I believe I've had my point once again.
Until I blink.
Then I'm lost in the foray in a sudden jolt of sleepiness.  I'm not so awake anymore.  I'm not present.  I'm dead.  Far from breathing.  What is death?  Death Is.  What is life?  Life is... 

Possibility.  
Function.  

Even the dying have both.  But life is dying, and dying is life--so let's put that one in the back burner, shall we?  

What happens when I want to lose grip of this human feeling of "emotion."  Human so to speak, as I've detected no such "emotion" in anything else on this planet.  Do the trees sway in joy?  Or in depression?  Does the wolf eat with sympathy?  Or with deliberate cruelty?

LISTEN TO YOURSELF.

There is no wolf.  There is no sympathy.  There is no love.  There are no trees.  There is no sky, there is no nothing, something, anything.

There is only you.  These words you speak are all that they are.  Words.  Nothing else.  This attempt is futile...what is a tree?

A tree...

You've seen trees.  I'm sure.  But a tree ...is not our tree.  When we say "tree," our lips move to form a series of vibrations and echoes from our larynx.  "Tree" is a sound we make.  We attempt to label that great life with a sound, and a symbol--a representation of something.  "Tree" is representative.


And representatives bring us no closer to the real truth.

"Love."  Human representation of an emotion, a concept, a loyalty, a reason.  A reason for living.

Yet it still remains a representative of what it actually is.  Thereby eliminating possibility to understand it fully.


But where does comprehension come into play then? 

I hate that I don't know.  I'll never be content with not knowing.  I have to know.  I need to know....

I want you to know.


I'm still falling.