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Sunday, September 16, 2012

Trouble in Paradise

http://siliconangle.com/files/2011/09/Utopia.jpg

Utopia? What is it? Another perfect society filled with people and empty of strife? What makes this paradise any different than dystopia? I have come to realize that the difference is solely in the name. There is no difference besides a few trivial letters. The thing about these societies is that they are a dream. As simple and singular as that. But I have found that they are more nightmarish than beautiful. Dreams motivate people to obtain them; they whisper our names from just out of reach. But when a desire for a number of people, no matter how small, is not shared, there is such danger. Dreams make people go further than they think that they can go and do more than they think possible. When such a thing is appealing to an individual in a group, they trample the others to achieve success. There is no true life without choice. To end war and famine, where do you stop? If you must kill and starve people for the greater good, will you? The problem with utopia is that it is absolute. Very little in this life is good in a complete and overwhelming amount. In order to gain harmony, conflict must end. And in order to end conflict, opinions must be destroyed. And to destroy opinions, emotions must be abolished. In the end, you must ask yourself, What have I accomplished? Is this what I really want? These are empty dreams. After all, what makes life life? Memories, thoughts, feelings. The Good and the Bad. Life does not simply consist of what is easy. It is full. Full of the crazy and irrational. Full of love and feeling. Full of everything high, low, light, dark, right, wrong, welcoming, hostile, difficult, facile. Life is total. It is said that we are the sum of our experiences. The bitter makes the sweet so much sweeter.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Patchwork Heart


I think our hearts are really not formed of muscle at all. We have been lied to our whole lives because no one wants to admit how the beating mess in our chest actually works. But if you slipped under my skin and crawled through my ribcage you would find something that looks more like a quilt than an organ. My heart is really made up of hundreds of scraps and pieces, sewn together with dreams. In some places it leaks tears where the stiches are torn, but that is natural; every heart has its more than fair share of scrapes and bruises. You may think that your life-pumping mess is simply your own, but the truth is that it is hardly yours. By almost twenty years of living, you almost certainly have only a scrap left. Where did my heart go? you may be wondering, I was sure it was here the last time I looked. Did you not feel the tearing as you brushed up against her heart? It rips every time you come in contact with a person you let close enough to touch your heart. My heart is not my own, but it is composed of the fabric of all my loved ones hearts. Every friend, family member, significant other, person you felt for on TV, crush, acquaintance. Every . . . Single . . . Love. That is why love hurts so much; it steals your heart and leaves it with those you have loved. A piece of you goes with them. But is it not worth Loving anyways? A quilt of many beautiful fabrics is much more beautiful that a blanket of a single cloth.