Strange.

Sometimes things are just strange. In the way they function or their existence. They just have that strange vibe to them. I think it's strange how incredibly slow time moves by when you are alone in your room savoring the moment of little to now other being around you, but then how quickly the hours float when you are in the company of the people you can tolerate. The minutes always seem unbearable when you are waiting for THAT text message; the one that will give you the answer to exactly what they wanted to talk about. It's strange and peculiar how we have taken time and secretly made it maneuverable. It does not seem so now because we function according to the clocks on our phones and the watches on our wrists, but we were able to take the concept of the sun disappearing for twelve hours and maneuvering it in a way that benefits us; creating our own manipulation of time. Now it is not so because it is the norm to have a set time. To be on a schedule. Even beyond this, the feeling of time moving slowly or rushing by is our own manipulation. Everything is still sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day, so on and so forth. Time just seems so much more now a days because we made it into that.
All of this sounds completely bizarre and like I have been smoking a blunt, which for the fact I have not. I m just sitting here thinking bout how strange and completely different my day would have been if I hadn't got out of the house. I would have sat around feeling abandoned because my dear didn't text me. But because I escaped my solitude, I barely thought about the missing text message. He was probably out doing his own thing too. There are seven billion people in this world "doing there own thing" at the exact same time I am doing my own thing; right now as I type this stupid blog post, a million different things are happening simultaneously. It just continues to be strangely mind blowing to me.
I think it's strange that our brains are intensely complex, but sometimes I can't remember what I did yesterday. IT's strange that I have lived through seventeen years of life and i only remember like eleven years. No one remembers their childhood distinctly. The memories are there, right inside your head but they are no conscious memories. Their existence is plausible, but you can't pull them up like a saved file on your hard drive. It's just no a thing.
I have one particular memory. The memory of me first realizing "I am alive". The first memory of me being incredibly sad by the thought. I was standing on my booster stool because I was too short to reachh the sink of my bathroom. I squeezed the Crest spearmint tooth paste onto my purple and white toothbrush and began to move it across my teeth. I intently stared into the mirror and thought "One day I will not be ble to do this. One day my brain will stop thinking and my heart will stop thumping. One day I will die because right now I am completely alive, but time is not on anyone's side."
Fuck man, I was like eight years old. Looking back on it now, I have only come close to the depth of sadness I felt right in that moment looking at my reflection. I wanted to burst into tears and more importantly, freeze time. Freeze the strange arrangement we manipulated to make death seem further away. But here I am, seventeen years of my life flashed by like it was a mere two minutes in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I can't even imagine how it's going to feel when I look back twenty years from now, forty years from now, and then from my death bed.
I remember distinctly thinking "time is not on anyone's side". It really does seem like it is on our side. That's why we developed this whole system. The breaking up of education and even something as simple as days. Man, we haev 24 hours in a day. That is a LONG TIME. But in reality, when you wake up in the morning, those 24 hours are going in  blink of an eye. Last time I checked, I was still a freshmen in high school simply researching colleges. Now I am actually having to plan what college I am going to go to, what I am going to major in, and what the hell I want to do with my life. There is so little time to enjoy the time we are given. Our life span is huge in comparison to other animals. Man, some of us live to be one hundred years old! A bee can last up to a couple of hours! It's just so strange that we are given so much time, so many years, but we waste them with this manipulation. Our life span, in a realistic way of looking at it is unimaginably stretched, but then again, looking at it from the other side, we have no time what so ever.
We go to school for eighteen years of our life. Mandatory school that is. To us, eighteen years is not that much. Meh, it's nothing in comparison to the whole picture. But in actuality, it's freaking EIGHTEEN YEARS! 6,570 DAYS! 157,60 HOURS! IT'S ABSOLUTELY INSANE! But we just put it right away. Like we just snapped our fingers.
Then we go to another set of school years, completely optional. However, the idea of  putting a meaning to the unbearably stretched amount of time we have in this short time period has become a Siamese twin to college education. "Sure, you don't have to go to college, but you probably won't be as fulfilled as those who do." Then we spend sometimes up to ten more years in a classroom.
Just like that we hev to decide what it is we want to put another decade of our lives into. We have to decide what path we think is more likely to be bright and favorable to what we have in mind.
After eighteen years in a classroom, we are supposed to know our spot in society. We are suppose to know what we want to spend our energy on to compensate for the eternally short amount of time we have in this world.
There is a system. Make people believe. Believe in themselves. Believe in an idea that time is infinite. Time will alwys be here, but our individual time in not infinite. It is completely limited. We will end, and this idea of time being dominant. The idea that our time is short yet so far fetched will continue, long past your Master's Degree in Psychology ass is in the ground. The matter is if we will regret the way we dreaded over things that became so irrelevant. That became so far fetched because they never came up in our future time line.
It's just so strange that we think we have manipulated time, but it has us wrapped around it's finger.

We will end, but time will keep swallowing things up.
It's all just so strange.

Poetry for the Soul #1

Before I write novels, I'm going to post my poetry. It's nothing special. It's just a collection of words in lines that were separated for no apparent reason. Here we go. 

Erasing You. 

It does not make sense to me

the feeling of needing someone

it's worse than being alone

because once you know what it's like,

the company of another, 

the air you breathe is bitter

your bed is an entire country

the space between your fingers is made of galaxies

I'd rather never have known

the tempo of your heartbeat,

the smell of your skin,

or the length of your eyelashes

because then I would never know

the true feeling of being alone

Research

I am validly aware that I have not posted to this blog in quite some time. I don't even know the time frame in which my last post falls into. Of course, I could look since it is provided right next to the title. But there is no time for such things. I have research to do and research to tell. The only reason I am paying any attention to this blog is because I need somewhere beyond my personal journals. Somewhere beyond the "My Memoir" application on my laptop. Someone needs to see my writing besides my own biased eyes.
Someone I love and respect dearly told me to write. "Just write, just let things spew out of you". He even quoted Mark Twain, the bastard. " 'Dance like no one is watching, sing like no one is listening. Love like you've never been hurt and live like it's heaven on Earth' but I"m also telling you to write like you've never been stuck, write without knowing where it will take you. Just write, simply write" And I took his advice in the lovely journal he gave me. But it turned into a diary. A spot to write down my deepest feelings, not translating them into literature. I would rather not have such personal thoughts published, let alone on an online blog. But then it hit me. The research I had to do wasn't that of looking for literary magazine to publish my poetry, it's for me to find my voice. Somewhere to start, a place in my head that can take my journal thoughts and turn them into a true piece of classical literature.
I want to be an architectural writer. NO, not one that literally writes about architecture. But n architecture meaning creating dimensions to a character. Starting with a foundation and building upon. I looked at the way authors begin their novels. J. D. Salinger opens The Catcher in the Rye with commentary from his main character Holden Caulfield. But it is also a fact that Holden is a translated piece of Salinger's mind. Yes, granted Salinger was a little twisted in the head, but a genius nonetheless. Chuck Palahniuk wrote Invisible Monsters with everything outside of the box. His characters are filled with such mystery, I still cannot understand how he came up with them.
The goal is beyond cliche. No one wants to see the same story line over and over with just a different writing style. I need a character that is unlike anything in literary history. Fitzgerald created Daisy and Gatsby out of the events from the 1920's. With this time period, let's face it, all there is to write about is the detrimental affects of technology. And I'm pretty sure Bradbury already covered that with Fahrenheit 451.
It's all about originality. But what's original anymore? It feels like everything has been done. A friend of mine read The Fault in Our Stars and claimed the ending to be "predictable", she also called the ending to Looking for Alaska. Maybe she's inclined with the gift to guess endings, incredibly stuck up, or she symbolizes a much needed slap in the face for modern writers. That everything we write, every ending we think is clever, and every complex character we create, will be predictable to someone. It will be heard of before because there is bound to be a book or story with some what similar features.
So how deep is the concept of being original? Because every once in a while, we stumble upon a book that blows us away with a concept that no one has seen before. The Hunger Games is twisted, but there is also familiarity: strong female lead, love story, evil antagonist. So that's the key. A perfect mixture of originality and familiarity.

The formula is here, but it's a matter of how well I don't follow it.