“Love is only inspiration in disguise.”
(Submitted by greenrhapsody)

“The reason why I refuse to take existentialism as just another French fashion, or historical curiosity, is that I think it has something very important to offer us for the new century. I’m afraid we’re losing the real virtues of living life passionately, in the sense of taking responsibility for who you are, the ability to make something of yourself and feeling good about life. Existentialism is often discussed as if it’s a philosophy of despair, but I think the truth is just the opposite. Sartre once interviewed said he never really felt a day of despair in his life. The one thing that comes out from reading these guys is not a sense of anguish about life, so much as a real kind of exuberance, of feeling on top of it. It’s like, your life is yours to create.
I’ve read the post-modernists with some interest, even admiration. But, when I read them I always have this awful, nagging feeling that something absolutely essential is being left out. The more that you talk about a person as a social construction, or as a confluence of forces, or as fragmented or marginalized, what you do is you open up a whole new world of excuses. When Sartre talks about responsibility, he’s not talking about something abstract. He’s not talking about the kind of self or soul that theologians would argue about. It’s something very concrete. It’s you and me talking, making decisions, doing things and taking the consequences.
It might be true that there are 6 billion people in the world and counting. Nevertheless, what you do makes a difference. It makes a difference first of all in material terms. It makes a difference to other people. And, it sets an example. In short, I think the message here is that we should never simply write ourselves off and see ourselves as a victim of various forces. It’s always our decision who we are.”

glory to the newborn king (revision)

(I decided to rewrite a previous story I wrote earlier this month. I was not too crazy about the first one. This one I can live with. Hope you like it.)

I was lifeless. With my face buried in my cold hands, I continued to kneel on small steps, covered by a carpet of artless blue and purple patterns. The carpet was saturated in, “I am so sorry. Please forgive me” tears, just like my face. Being here night after night was becoming nonsensical. There was no more resolution. I was indignant, frozen, and hollow. As I raised my head surveyed my surroundings, I saw so many others kneeling with their faces buried in their hands. Everyone appeared to be so … desperate. A sea of people wanting to feel, something. Whether or not anyone does is not for me to say. But I knew I did not, and it reduced me to tears. As I walked to the pew to grab my belongings, I could not stop thinking about him. His name was Stephen. We had met at a bar, and while exchanging carnal glances and feral touches, his words penetrated deep into my mind. About a week ago, I brought him with me to the bland altar carpet. When I raised my head to see if he was finding comfort, he was no longer next to me. Stephen, who I was sure was filled with iniquities, was sitting quietly in a pew. He had no tears – he had no outstretched arms. Yet he was staring at me, with somber eyes. I rose to my feet and sat next to him. “Stephen, why weren’t you at the altar? I thought you would have stayed there” I said, slightly perplexed.
From the first night at the bar, I got the sense that Stephen was absolved of all his sins. He had a sense of liberation about him, an unmoored spirit that I assumed came from salvation (with a capital S.) But I could see it in his eyes that being here, seeing all of the others and myself, left him befuddled, far more than any amount of alcohol ever had.
“Erica, have you heard of Friedrich Nietzsche?
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Well I read something we wrote. He said God is dead, and I agree. We killed him. So why are we here?”
I knew exactly what he was referring to. I wanted to tell him I thought he may have missed the point of that statement, but something inside of me compelled me to let him continue.
“Remember when you told me you felt like a portrait that god forgot to finish?”
“Yes” I said. I slowly lowered my gaze from his eyes to my hands that were resting in my lap. I told him that the night we met at the bar, I was hoping he would have forgotten it.
“Well you said you really wanted to start finishing it, your way. You said you were sick of waiting for God to give you answer. That you had different beliefs, different convictions, and how amazing it felt that you thought of new ways to live your life. You were saying you stopped thinking like all of the others and you thought for yourself.” His voice was stern now. I just wanted to stop him and yell, “Of all the things I said to you that night, this is what you remembered?!” But I was speechless, and he kept going.
“Look, that night at the bar, you were real. Regardless if you were drunk or not. A real portrait. Whatever you were painting that night, it was beguiling. I bet you add to it every night, every time you expand your mind. But right now, seeing you like this, it’s like watching you trying to destroy that portrait. This, none of this is real to you anymore… I know it. I suggest you stop trying to destroy what you created here, because God is dead, and you should stop trying to change it. It’s not the time or place. I don’t know if that what Nietzsche was saying, but that’s what I’m saying to you. Besides… you look so beautiful every time you dip the paintbrush and add another weird and fucked up color to yourself. Better than any altar carpet I know. This place is a graveyard. Go live.”
The more I thought about what he said to me, the faster I began walking out of the church. I soon found myself sprinting towards my car. I sped off down the street, over the train tracks and to the same bar I met Stephen. That was where I wanted to be. I ordered a Grateful Dead, it seemed fitting. As I began to sip on my drink, I suddenly I heard a voice whisper in my ear.
“Shouldn’t you be at church or something?” It was Stephen, as he cracked the same smirk he gave me the first time we mad eye contact.
“Church?” I chuckled. “Why would I be there? God is dead. Duh.”
As he grazed my leg, I stared into his mossy green eyes and said, “I feel… animated.”
As the night passed, a series of hues and dimethyltryptamine exploded from my brain. I could feel the colors fuse together my heart and mind.

“The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader, the mind is a complex and many-layered thing, Potter – or at least, most minds are.”

Why Generation Y Yuppies Are Unhappy

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wait-but-why/generation-y-unhappy_b_3930620.html

“Please know that there are much better things in life than being lonely or liked or bitter or mean or self conscious. We are all full of shit. Go love someone just because; I know your heart may be badly bruised, or even the victim of numerous knifings but it will always heal even if you don’t want it to, it keeps going. There are the most fantastic, beautiful things and people out there, I promise. It’s up to you to find them.”

We really do. *sigh*

22 Times When Harry Potter’s Bitch Face Was Better Than Yours

http://www.buzzfeed.com/kmallikarjuna/times-when-harry-potters-bitch-face-was-better-than-yours?sub=2594644_1614067

In honor of my 50th post (that was fast), I figured I would share something Harry Potter related. Because if you didn’t know, it’s my entire life. This is beyond funny and I can’t stop laughing. Enjoy.

glory to the newborn king

face down on small steps, which are covered by a carpet of artless blue and purple patterns.

the carpet is saturated in, “I am so sorry. Please forgive me” tears, just like my face.
I look up around and see Stephen. Stephen, who I am sure is filled with iniquities, is sitting quietly in the pew. He has no tears and is mindlessly playing on his cell phone. I rise to my feet and sit next to him and I say, “Stephen, why weren’t you at the altar? I was expecting you.”
Stephen, seemingly absolved of all his sins, laughs and puts in phone in his pocket.
“Erica, have you heard of Friedrich Nietzsche?
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Well I read what he said, you know, that God is dead. And I agree. We killed him and you can’t ask the dead to love you or forgive you. God is dead. So stop crying.”

I wipe my face. “My tears are real, Stephen. That means something. Loving God is real.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He pauses for a moment, looks up at me and says, “Remember when you told me you felt like a portrait that god forgot to finish?”
“Yes” I said, as tears began to fill up in my eyes again.
“Well you said you really wanted to start finishing it, your way. I think that’s when you killed God. You thought you and God would be happier if he were dead and that you could save yourself. That you thought that’s what he ultimately wanted. But it’s like you forgot you killed him, so you keep coming back to this altar and asking where he is. You keep trying to right your wrongs, but who decided any of it was wrong?”
“God and his church. That’s why I am here.”
“But Erica, you stopped thinking like them and you thought for yourself when you killed God. But it looks like when you stepped into the unknown you got scared. I don’t blame you. You thought you needed him to save you from the unknown, because that’s what you’ve always been told. Whatever you were painting, it was beguiling. I suggest you start setting your own rules again. I suggest you start living and painting again because God is dead, and you should stop trying to fix it. It’s not the time or place. I don’t know if that what Nietzsche was saying, but that’s what I’m saying to you. Besides… you look so beautiful every time you dip the paintbrush and add another weird and fucked up color to yourself. Better than any altar carpet I know.”

I hold back my tears and follow him outside to smoke a cigarette.
“Come home with me” he says. “I want to show you something.”
So I did. And now I am outside on his balcony, smoking another cigarette.
I laid with him; our bodies intertwined and a series of hues and dimethyltryptamine exploded from my brain. I’m not sure of what will come of us, and I do not care. But I fell animated again.
It was exactly what I wanted.

Like Lilly Like Wilson

I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly Wilson, the recovering like addict,
the worst I’ve ever seen.
So, like, bad the whole eighth grade
started calling her Like Lilly Like Wilson Like.
Until I declared my classroom a Like-Free Zone,
and she could not speak for days.
But when she finally did, it was to say,
Mr. Mali, this is … so hard.
Now I have to think before I … say anything.
Imagine that, Lilly.
It’s for your own good.
Even if you don’t like …
it.
I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly is writing a research paper for me
about how homosexuals shouldn’t be allowed
to adopt children.
I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Like Lilly Like Wilson at my office door.
She’s having trouble finding sources,
which is to say, ones that back her up.
They all argue in favor of what I thought I was against.
And it took four years of college,
three years of graduate school,
and every incidental teaching experience I have ever had
to let out only,
Well, that’s a real interesting problem, Lilly.
But what do you propose to do about it?
That’s what I want to know.
And the eighth-grade mind is a beautiful thing;
Like a new-born baby’s face, you can often see it
change before your very eyes.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I’d like to switch sides.
And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it!
That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether or not you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn’t matter what you pack
them with so long as they open
at the right time.
O God, Lilly, I want to say
you make me feel like a teacher,
and who could ask to feel more than that?
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you!
So I finally taught somebody something,
namely, how to change her mind.
And learned in the process that if I ever change the world
it’s going to be one eighth grader at a time.-Taylor Mali