sjsprWriting

I am a writer not because I write things down on paper, but because I have thoughts stories memories, opinions that are worth sharing. I am a writer because there are things out there that are waiting to be written. They are waiting for me to meet them, waiting to be told. I am a writer because I do not feel swayed by other’s opinions. I take them in, challenge them, and create something that motivates me to write. Its called inspiration.

To be a writer does not mean you have to be a great story teller. With just one idea, one pen, and one piece of paper you can create another world. It does not matter what level of grammar you use, because for me, a writer just writes things. They may be compelling, or boring, but what could be irrelevant to an individual can mean the world to another. You just have to find your voice, find your listener, find your inspiration, and you will be ready to call yourself a writer.

A "good" person is one who has good, pure intentions and demonstrates care and support towards others. What distinguishes between a good and bad person are the intentions one demonstrates and truly believes to have. You may be a person who has done something wrong but has good intentions about it. wants a good outcome (dispite the results), and could be judged as a bad person. However, I believe the are not bad people. The same goes to the opposite situation. Some people may show good actions, and one may instantly portray them as good people, but their actions may have had some mean, sublime meaning that represents their bad intentions. These could be manifested later on, once this individual has fooled everyone around them into hinking he or she was a good person.

Think of Hitler... At first he showed to be a great leader who showed concern for his own country, and later demonstrated he was filled with evil. He wanted to errase an entire crowd of poeple based on their religious background, without any vengeful purpose. These people had done nothing to him. Wanting to errase and entire population clearly shows people misjudged him, and that he is a bad person because of his intentions. 

Hate seems like the opposite of love. Love constitutes of people's good intentions, support, care that they provide towards a person or an object. Hate, on the othe hand constitutes of disrespect, of bad intentions, wishing another's failure. Like said before, love constitutes of care. But, how does one define care? Caring might mean to pay attention to something, no matter the reason. Love consists of all beautiful things, including caring. Now, when you hate someone, you are wishful of their failures. But, wishing something means you want it, means you care about it. Caring, no matter the reasons, is still implying you are yilding your energies to it. Caring is love, and love is beautiful. Hating means that you are caring, it means that even though you are having bad intentions towards someone, you are still ideally loving them. Therefore, hate is not the opposite of love. Hate is love, and love is hate.  

The young boy had woken up feeling excessively confident that morning. He felt as if he could take on the world with only one hand, so he was gonna show it. The boy decidedly pulled on his turquoise jogger shorts and his orange stretchy t-shirt. He tied his shoes on the corner of his bed and proceeded to shake his Shake Weight on the corner of his bed for about five minutes before...

"RICHARD, BREAKFAST!"

Richard smoothly ran down the steep staircase with the rail on his right hand and the Shake Weight on his left. He quickly scarfed down his breakfast too excited to wait. Today was a big day; there was no time for staying calm. Everybody had to see him.

After finishing his plate of oatmeal, the same meal he ate daily, Richard yelled out, "Mom, hurry up!" His mother was nowhere to be found. "I need to leave immediately!" Still not finding her, he decided to take the keys to her car and just drive himself to school. The car was going at 60 MPH in the Expreso when Richard's eye finally caught the exit he had to take. He wanted to be in time for school, but, little did he know, all of his effort was futile. So much enthusiasm just so he'd get called out five minutes after the beginning of first period.

"'Not William' Sinz, come here," said Mr. Ortiz with a pungent brashness in his voice.

"What now?," thought poor little Richard.

If I had a pencil and a blank sheet of paper,

I would write as small as possible

so I could fit the million ways I could think of

to tell you "I love you."

I would tell you

in every language there's ever been;

I would tell you

in doodles on the corners of the page;

I would tell you

in the hearts on all my i's;

I would tell you

in so many ways

under margins not that big a size. 

Ironic to be restricted

under 8.5x11 inches

to tell you "I love you" as much as I can

because, in real life,

our love is boundless

and it reaches the tips of my fingers

still smelling like you when you leave.

It reaches my neck

still bruised from that last hickie you gave me.

It reaches my soul

still aching from that last time I saw you.

Ironic because I can write a million ways

to show you how I love you,

but that's not enough

compared to the infinite ways

that I actually do.

Confident, assertive, ambitious:

That’s what you think I am.

Confused, perplexed, uncertain

is what I actually am and what you should know,

because I am still young,

and I have still more to live,

and I have still not blossomed.

My teeth scrape against each other

and my palms sweat

with the mere thought of not knowing.

It disturbs me.

It petrifies me in every way possible

and shakes my core,

because I am still young,

and I have still more to live,

and I have still not blossomed.

What has preceded me,

my successes, my failures, my experiences,

are my only guide

the only clue that heads me to my future

the only lead I can count on,

because I am still young,

and I have still more to live,

and I have still not blossomed.

I'm on crusades trying to fix what we have, but, everytime I'm so close to victory, defeat catches me off guard. I don't think any amount of sleep will suffice to eliminate this feeling of exhaustion that's always haunting me. Maybe it's time to surrender. Maybe time will take care of everything even though I thought that was up to me. Maybe we're better off without each other. 

What is your selfish need to commandeer my life?

What is my idiotic need to forgive you?

Who are you to talk over me?

Who am I to conform to it?

When did this sense of superiority hit you?

When did society decide it was correct?

Where did this oppression become a norm?

Where will it dissolve?

Why do I say, “I’m sorry,” for something I should never apologize for?

Why does society force me to?

How did I end up here?

How do I leave? 

It’s a warm afternoon at about 3 PM and I’m excited to go home. School is always a drain to my mood, but I instantly feel better the second I walk through my home’s front door. I’m anxiously looking for my mom’s white car. What I’m not looking for is the daily interview my Mom forces upon me every single day.

“How was your day?,” she curiously asks.

“Fine - the same as always, Mom,” I reply in a sarcastic tone. I don’t even know why she always asks. I understand she worries for me and wants to help me whenever possible, but, what could I possibly need help for the instant I leave school? If I ever need anything, trust me, I’ll let you know. You should know that by now. But, right now, all I need is silence or maybe some relaxing music or maybe a cold glass of water. Besides that, I don’t need anything right now.

Does my face not express my excruciating need to simply go home in peace and quiet? Is it not obvious I just need a short period of recuperation from the long, laborious day I just spent at school?

“What did you eat for lunch?”

Here we go again. She lists the item that compose her light lunch as if she were trying to flaunt her healthiness. Good for you that you’re on a diet. I’m so eager to not hear anything about it! Despite my complete indifference about her dietary plan, she still goes on about it. Her tasteless salad and small soup harshly contrast from my sugary brownie and salty arroz con habichuelas. As if I didn’t feel bad enough, now I feel like a fatass. What a great way to end my day!

Here is a list of the things I never told you out of fear of losing you and that I can say now that I did:

I hate envy your cellphone, and how you’re more attached to it than me.

I hate when we’re sitting together and talking, when your eyes glaze over, constantly in search of someone better else to dedicate your attention to.

I hate how you form friendships in seconds and they become the most important thing in your life at the moment, and how invaluable you treat those that are able to grasp your fleeting attention in the second that you decide to care.

I hate that those people take priority over me.

I hate how susceptible to bullshit you are. How you trust people you just fucking met with all your soul, and act surprised when they crumple you in the end. I hate that you never listened to me because I told you so.

I hate that you can choose to let go of me, like I’m dispensable. I hate that I can’t do the same.

I hate that I never let myself entertain the permanent thought in the back of my head that I was never your best friend, even though you were mine. I was right . Because I was scared of what it meant.

I hate that I always felt like not your second, or third, but last choice when I always made you my first. I hate that I never did anything about it.

I hate how you always forgot my birthday.

I hate how you could do have done everything that would be probable cause for me to hate you, and even still I don’t. Even still I can’t.

I hate that I knew that you didn’t feel that close to me, that I was way more attached than you ever were. I hate that I let myself ignore it.

I hate how the last time I saw you was the closest I’d ever felt to you and the time I felt you really did care.

I hate how I never replied to your “I feel like I’m not a good friend to you”. I should have said you haven’t been.

I hate how I stayed quiet because in that moment your friendship meant more than the truth.

I hate that you felt you couldn’t talk to me about everything. I would stand by you despite anything.

I hate that you’d wanted to make me leave you alone for some time now. I still care so much, I miss you and still hold hope to talk to you again.

I hate that you’re fine.

I hate that I’m not.

I hate how you never did anything wrong, but this makes you sound like a bitch.

And I hate how I’m apologizing for it.