Monday, February 28, 2011

I am.

I am someone without the best of manners.

I am someone without the best of tempers.

I am someone without the best of patience.

I’m someone who will never even touch the base of the best in all these attitudes. In fact, I will admit that I fail completely at trying to polish these attributes and among them many others that are assumed to be positive mannerisms in humanity.

I am someone to hold a grudge, even long after I forget how that grudge existed in the first place.

I am someone who forgets the good in people, not that it is done in purpose, but except for those I actually pay attention to, I see no need to purposely remind myself of how much I am truly indebted to them.

I am someone who assumes the worst in people, often at the first glance, so that sometimes I can just convince myself that they are not worth knowing when they really are better than how I will ever be.

In these negative attributes, however, I am king.

If I hate you, I won’t pretend to fawn over you.

I’m not god, nor am I a saint.

I can’t forgive and forget everything that has ever happened and stand strong for those that will probably recur.

I am not a human.

I can’t put on a mask every single day and look you in the eyes when I have decided that I want nothing to do with you anymore. Don’t push me.

Science says I am an animal. My spirit tells me I am not human.

Animals display their emotions directly. If a cat dislikes you, he walks. If a dog hates you, he bites. If a snake decides to, he kills.

No. animals never hide their emotions.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The Edge

Have you wondered what pushes someone off the edge?

Or, WHAT was it that put that person ON that edge to begin with?

And WHY did that kind of thing have the power to put that person on the edge?

HOW did that person allow that thing to affect himself like this?

So in the end, who’s to blame for pushing the person over the edge?

The person?

Or the “THING”?

You see, when you read in the papers about someone commiting suicide, you’d think: He’s so stupid. But what you don’t think is: WHAT the heck MADE him this stupid?

Sure, you’re responsible for your own actions but doesn’t the source that triggered that action in a way to be blamed? The said source might have made him unable to live while staying true to him principles; unable to face his family, friends; driving him into an act of crazed desperation.

Humans are weak creatures. Most of them are unable to fully utilize the blessing of an intelligence they have received and often succumb in a moment of mental weakness. The only thing that differs humans from animals is their mental capacity.

So when humans take this blessing for granted, they are worse than animals. However, scientifically, humans ARE animals, so saying this statement more often than not insults the intelligence of animals so much more than they impact the former.

Suicide, or the attempt of one, in one form of the mental weakness humans all display. The one standing on the edge is often portrayed as the victim, where his mental weakness drives him to his predicament. A lesser acknowledged side of the “victim” is that he is the mastermind, preying upon the mental weakness of those around him who cares.

I say, leave these humans be. If he is the former, then he is stupid and weak enough to allow something other than himself to take over and influence his life to the extent of ending it. If he’s the latter, then, need I say more? These kinds of people need and deserve no sympathy from the general public. Realize that it is a waste of time to save them as this would only keep another donor with weak mentality in the gene pool.

We don’t need that.

There are enough stupid people in high places.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Black Wings

For birds, their wings literally represent their livelihood. And for ravens, they take humongous pride in their strong flight feathers.

So when one proud raven was broken by an accidental shot by a newbie hunter, he dragged his shattered pride of a body to the nearest shelter he could find. As it turns out, he fell near one of the bird parks.

As he hid under the shade of the foliage, he realized that the stray bullet had destroyed his feathers. As he was dwelling on his misfortune that he wouldn’t be able to fly any time soon, he realized that he was also really lucky that the bullet has not broken any of his pinion bones.

As he lay in the shadows watching the other birds in the park, he dwelled on how he used to envy them, being fed at set hours in a day, and never having to go hungry or look out for predators. He, on the other hand, had to forage for food to fend off starvation, always keeping his guard as lowering it by even just a fraction would result in death.

He watched the regular exhibited birds around him, some glad for this life of captivity for the price of flight. But there are also others, like him, who would stare into the vast skies for hours on end, dreaming, of the freedom they once had.

He should only be so lucky. After all, he would regain his wings one day. The others would never have the chance.

For that day, for his freedom, he would wait.

Wait for the day he would regain his place in the blue sky.

His wings.

His pride.

His freedom.