Foreword
To all the creative minds that scan blogs for interesting and thought provoking ideas and views on humanity and its course, I apologize for this post. My writing is unorganized, my thoughts are unoriginal and my methods are unorthodox--at least that is what I've been told. If after reading this post you want the last three minutes of your life back, I apologize. If you feel the need to murder me solely on the awfulness of this post, please don't do that. I promise I'm a nice guy.
———————————
The higher I climb, the air seems to thin; it seems breathing becomes more difficult.
I remember back in elementary school all I ever had to worry about was--nothing really. In the morning, Mom would wake me up at about 8:00 am. She'd then proceed to make me breakfast. I'd whine to her about the scrambled eggs being "overdone" while I sat on my future ACT and SAT textbooks. She'd say sorry. Then she'd drive me to school. There the teachers walked me through new activities: finger painting, counting numbers and reading. The teachers would evoke my imagination and told me to explore myself. They'd read me fairy tales with happy endings; Cinderella kissing her Prince Charming and Snow White riding off into the sunset with hers. The teachers would constantly badger me about how "everything is possible as long as you believe."
Then came the middle school years, and ooh they were R-O-U-G-H. In the morning, I'd wake up at about 6:40 am and make sure Mom was okay. I'd then proceed to make Mom breakfast, bring it up to her on the foldable table. She'd whisper to me "I love you" and "thank you" while she laid in her recliner bed. I'd close the door and say sorry. Then I'd walk down two blocks to ride the bus to school. There I scribbled notes through my classes: double-advanced math, advanced English, sciences. I would learn to think and see things linearly and I told myself to become someone others liked. I'd read Grimm's fairy tales; the sisters visions' were pecked out by doves and the queen is bound to burning-hot iron shoes until she perishes for trying to maintain her status. I would constantly remind myself about how "at the end of everything is nothing, at the end of beliefs are empty promises."
Everything seems to get worse as we age--especially in America's literature.
What I read in preschool about the muppets and the friendly purple dinosaur, contrasts largely when compared to books America considers classics, such as "The Bluest Eye" and "The Great Gatsby"; both which examine humans driven into a deep desperation by society. I understand that these pieces are so great because of their critical and true presentation of our evil nature, calling readers to action or at least to attention of needed change in society. But why can't it just be me loving you and you loving me in the first place? And if mistakes happen, why can't we just stop blaming each other and clean up, clean up everywhere with everyone doing his or her share?
I just don't get it.
Maybe I will when I finally reach to top (if I make it).
But Daniel, at the top of Everest, everything below you, you've already seen and done and there's nothing but open air around and above you.
I guess we were right about that then weren't we?
I guess we were right about that then weren't we?
