Idiosyncratic.

3/15/2010

Childhood

When I was little, I spoke little. I dreamed up worlds of my own, and I didn't need anyone, because my mind could entertain myself.
I still am a dreamer.

I love who I am, I love well. I love how I look and how I see things.
Where I am may be bad, but who I am never truly changes and so where I am is easy to change.

I learnt I could manipulate. It was easy, so I did, and it was fun.
But I'm still growing up and I know it should be used in moderation.

We're all capable of chaos, and such things give us power. Power tastes good.

Blogging.

What I love about blogging, is that this is what I really want to say, but few people read it.
So few people know the real me, but then, not many people know the real anyone.

I conceal, because the truth hurts.
I manipulate, because I can. I don't even like it much.

People hurt others, and when you hide, its harder to get hurt.

3/13/2010

Just average

How is it that an insignificant individual makes us feel what we can't to another?
Even if said individual is bad, or not our type, just average.

It seems like there's more to it.

Scissors for Leftys.

I'm left handed. People used to think that made you dangerous, wrong, evil.

There is a theory that being right handed was beneficial to us, when we weilded swords and spears.
We would use our right hand to hold our weapon, and our left to hold the shield over our hearts.

Left handed people throw themselves in, heart first :)

Different.

Predators are drawn to attack an animal that is different in some way. Hans Kruuk, whilst studying hyenas, found that putting paint on an animal guaranteed it would be killed in the next attack.
So is the power of difference.

The lesson is; Stay together. Stay the same.

But where's the fun in that?

Self Knowledge

"It's very rare to find genuine self knowledge. It's almost as if you need someone else to tell you who you are, or to hold the mirror up for you. Which, if you think about it, is very weird.
Or maybe it's not."

3/07/2010

Ganja Necklace

Whenever someone (at present 'someone' always being a male) is greatly special to me, I give them a ganja necklace. Not because I like weed, in fact. I just happened to make a habit of it.

Why do we give special people our clothes, and trinkets? How can they mean so much?

The boy and his falcon - One of my favourite stories.

Once there was a boy.
When the boy was six years old, his father gave him a falcon to train.
Falcons are raptors - killing birds, his father told him, hunters of the sky.
The falcon didnt like the boy, and the boy didnt like it either.
Its sharp beak made him nervous, and its bright eyes always seemed to be watching him.
It would slash at him with its beak and talons when he came near: For weeks his wrists and hands were bleeding.
He didnt know it, but his father had selected a falcon that had lived in the wild for over a year, and thus nearly impossible to tame.
But the boy tried, because his father had told him to make the falcon obedient, and he wanted to please his father. He stayed with the falcon constantly, keeping it awake by talking to it and even playing music to it, because a tired bird meant it was easier to tame.
He learned the equipment, the jesses, the hood, the brail, the leash that bound the bird to his wrist.
He was meant to keep the falcon blind, but he couldnt bring himself to do it - instead he tried to sit where the bird could see him as he touched and stroked its wings, willing it to trust him.
He fed it from his hand, and at first it would not eat. Later, it ate so savagely that its beak cut the skin of his palm. But the boy was glad, because it was progress, and because he wanted the bird to know him, even if the bird had to consume his blood to make that happen.
He began to see that the falcon was beautiful, that its slim wings were built for speed of flight, that it was strong and swift, fierce and gentle. When it dived to the ground, it moved like light. When it learned to circle and come to his wrist, he nearly shouted with delight.
Sometimes the bird would hop onto his shoulder and put its beak in his hair. He knew his falcon loved him, and when he was certain it was not just tamed, but perfectly tamed, he went to his father and showed him what hed done, expecting him to be proud.
Instead, his father took the bird, now tame and trusting, in his hands, and broke its neck.
I told you to make it obedient, his father said and dropped the birds lifeless body to the ground. Instead, you taught it to love you. Falcons are not meant to be loving pets: They are fierce and wild, savage and cruel. This bird was not tamed, it was broken.
Later when his father left him, the boy cried over his pet, until eventually his father sent a servant to take the body of the bird and bury it.
The boy never cried again, and he never forgot what he learned: that to love is to destroy and to be loved is to be the one destroyed.
From City of Bones by Cassandra Clare.

Idiosyncratic.

Be different.

3/15/2010

Childhood

Blogging.

3/13/2010

Just average

Scissors for Leftys.

Different.

Self Knowledge

3/07/2010

Ganja Necklace

There's so much more to me.

half / way

me+rellrell

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too cool.

The boy and his falcon - One of my favourite stories.