Memories

Memories.

They do funny things to you.

They like to pop out of no where and torture you with coulda-beens and woulda-beens and sometimes, they pop out of no where and you can't even remember why you remember them.

Sometimes, Memories are useful, like when you remember why you shouldn't date this guy, because he's an egotistical jerk and he was never nice to you, or when you remember why you shouldn't scream bloody murder while riding bareback on a horse because you can't figure out how to make her stop galloping through trees that like to smack you around with their branches. But most of the time, Memories are nothing but a nuisance.

I think personally Memories are in line with the dryer monster who eats my socks and the gremlins who hide things like my wallet, house keys and notebooks full of these kind of writings. I think Memories just like to mess with your head because they have nothing better to do and they find it amusing.

Today, when we lost power briefly, I was attacked by Memories. I guess Memories don't like either when the ceiling fans don't work and it starts getting really hot really fast.

Memories all but had me hog-tied with an apple in my mouth. Stupid Memories.

I was sitting there, munching on dry cereal because we couldn't risk opening the fridge. (Not that I can really have milk, mind you. I'm lactose intolerant and pure milk just doesn't go.) Memories attacked me with a memory right while I was eating my cereal and singing Spongebob songs. I remembered back when I was little and Mom was at work all of the time. Daddy would sometimes get up with us before school, and we'd sit there and eat cereal--well, I would--and sometimes he'd sing the Whooping Bird song while my siblings goofed off and pushed each other around. And then I remembered the morning after the night we found out about Mom's accident. The morning our lives changed for the worse. We sat there, playing with our food. And no one sang or goofed off. Daddy was at the hospital with Mom and we were all convinced she was going to die.

And then I wondered what I could have done differently.

I wonder that about everything.

If I had done this or that, would my life have been better? Would things have changed at all, or is the outcome the same, no matter what I would have done? Is life just some path you take, and no matter how many times you try to change it, your destination is inevitable?

I'm not sure I like the idea at all.

And then I thought about the person I used to be. Man, I hate her. I hope she stays in the stupid little box I stuck her in and never comes out. She never cared about anyone else, and she was punished a lot for it. The mental scars from that time still ache, and I don't think I'll ever completely recover. I wonder if you can ever recover from your past, or if it perpetually haunts you, joining in Memories' song and dance and torturing your mind, your soul, your heart, until you just snap.

If that's the case, how do so many people survive? If I had to endure another eight years of this, I think the person I am now would effectively be destroyed. I don't think I could handle it.

I used to think of myself as this strong, unbreakable person, but I lost that illusion years ago. No one is strong or unbreakable. Some may learn how to protect themselves better than others, but we all have our kryptonite, and we all inevitably fail.

And then we grow hurt and try to seal ourselves off from the world, and we come out looking like horrible, selfish jerks, but you don't care because it keeps you safe. Or it will as long as someone isn't determined to mash through your defenses. And you give up trying, despite how happy trying used to make you.

And Memories never let you forget any of this. They never let you forget your past, your decisions, or why you've become who you've become.

C'est La Vie, mi amigos. (Hmm...is that Spench or Franish? lol.)

Bags of Cereal

The Real Gilded Age...

I hate it when people lie, when they hide behind their gilded masks, trying to look like something they're not.

Why is it in today's society, it's the norm to be someone you aren't, rather than someone you are?

I don't understand why they walk around with gilded, glittered, fantastical illusions of the world and people, and then mock others for losing sight of "reality".

If that is reality, than quite frankly it stinks.

As I roam these lifeless halls, waiting for life to begin, I feel like I am invisible, without my glittered clothes or gilded attittude. It disturbs me to be so overlooked simply because I am real.

They say we are falling part for a variety of reasons, ranging from aliens to the econonmy, while I sit back, remove my rose colored glasses and see the truth. How is this reality? How can we blame life for the damage we have done to ourselves as people?

No one sees a person as a person anymore. Instead, we are seen as tools, bosses, workers, etc, in which we are far more robotic, and yet we turn around and critize others for not joining the autonomy of our lifes.

How is this meaningful?

How is this a life well lived?

We work so hard ever day for what? Another big screen TV? A hummer? A 2-story home? How do these things make life meaningful? How is it we've become so dependent upon these things for so-called "happiness"?

I could be happy without the TV or the hummer or the home.

Happiness is laughing with your friends at some cheesy joke you've heard hundreds of times in a variety of ways, but it's still funny because it's yours. Happiness is loving someone because you can, because you enjoy them as they are, not as what you can "mold" them into. Happiness is poking your friend in her side, knowing she's going to grumble and pout, and laughing because she cares enough to do so.

Happiness is life. It's breathing the air we breathe, knowing that God gave it to us. It's standing up and singing loudly despite who is listening or how well you sing. It's enjoying a precious moment with friends or family and thanking God you had this day to enjoy it with them.

It's sharing a bag of cereal with a friend and laughing because she has crumbs on her face, on her shirt, on her fingers, and laughing even harder because you know you have to look worse. It's driving somewhere with your friend, singing some silly song on the radio at the top of your lungs together, knowing you probably look ridiculous. It's calling your friend or family in the middle of the night for some stupid reason, and they pick up, despite the hour, because they care.

Happiness is not reliant on TVs or PS3s or Hummers or 2 story homes or the next big paycheck. It's friends, it's family, it's love, it's memories, it's dream, it's life.