On Cooked Carrots

I was eating dinner today, and contemplating a cooked carrot. It occured to me that cooked carrots are like ambitions: They are good when you first get them and they're still hot, but when they get cold they get slimy and disgusting. Which isn't to say that they can't be reheated. They can. But when they're cold they are revolting, and nothing good can come of going for them. You'll just make yourself sick.

The Fairies' Siege

I have been given my charge to keep-- Well have I kept the same! Playing with strife for the most of my life, But this is a different game. I'll not fight against swords unseen, Or spears that I cannot view-- Hand him the keys of the place on your knees-- 'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true! Ask him his terms and accept them at once. Quick, ere we anger him, go! Never before have I flinched from the guns, But this is a different show. I'll not fight with the Herald of God (I know what his Master can do!) Open the gate, he must enter in state, 'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true! I'd not give way for an Emperor, I'd hold my road for a King-- To the Triple Crown I would not bow down-- But this is a different thing. I'll not fight with the Powers of Air, Sentry, pass him through! Drawbridge let fall, 'tis the Lord of us all, The Dreamer whose dreams come true!

Journey or Destination?

"'Tis not the destination you arrive at, but the journey you take to get there."

The journey determines the destination. But why would you be pursuing a destination if the journey were all that mattered? Do you need a destination to have a journey? I believe you do. Physically you may. Unless you kept walking. But, like in religion, the journey towards heaven doesn't compare with the perfection that is heaven. But that's sort of hypothetical. But at the moment all one has is the journey I suppose. So it's a quote for someone who hasn't finished the journey yet. But what if it wasn't? Well, it depends on the journey. True. If one were to walk to the store to get that great ice cream, but they were to meet a lot of people on the way and have fun, then the journey was more important. Or hiking up Flattop or whatever. But, say, biking Resurrection Pass Trail was miserable, and the destination was the part I wanted. The journey made me better; I got in better shape, and I got more experience mountain biking, but I definitely didn't enjoy the journey. So the experience of the destination is subjective, because that could be the real reward for someone. Is the quote meant to be taken literally? I.e. the journey is nicer or better than the destination; more enjoyable? Or is it meant to mean that, while the destination is the desirable part, the journey makes you better? What is the journey even? I guess it's an oxymoron wrapped in an enigma.

The Power of the Majority

"You are free to think differently from me, and to retain your life, your property, and all that you possess; but if such be your determination, you are henceforth an alien among your people. You may retain your civil rights, but they will be useless to you, for you will never be chosen by your fellow-citizens if you solicit their suffrages; and they will affect to scorn you, if you solicit their esteem. You will remain among men, but you will be deprived of the rights of mankind. Your fellow-creatures will shun you like an impure being; and those who are most persuaded of your innocence will abandon you too, lest they should be shunned in their turn. Go in peace! I have given you your life, but it is an existence incomparably worse than death." -Alexis de Tocqueville

This is the power that the majority exercizes over America...frightening.

A Poem in C Minor

“Play a song in C minor.”
The black piano jeers.
“I’ll bet you can’t do it.”
I feel close to tears.

Instead I sit silent,
And stare at my fingers.
While the piano waits,
It’s mocking still lingers.

I reach out a hand,
But stop short of the note.
I can’t play three flats;
With only one I’m a joke.

So I sit still silent,
And try not to cry.
To keep back warm tears,
That leap to my eyes.

I contemplate my life,
A stupid thing to ponder,
When I meant to play piano,
But I let my thoughts wander.

I’ve never understood,
Why life is so tough.
Like playing in C minor,
Melancholy, rough.

I think about my friends,
Then wonder if they’re real.
I’ve never felt quite like,
I think having friends should feel.

I’m so damn insecure,
I’m an introvert, I’m me.
And I’m stuck inside my head,
Only the piano for company.

The one time I had friends,
Who were real, solid, there.
Was when I couldn’t keep them,
Was when I really cared.

The personified piano,
Can see my very thoughts.
“They’ll leave you like the others.
“How can you think they’ll not?”

I refuse to answer,
But I know it’s right.
Already they’re drifting away,
No longer in my sight.

At first we all just clicked,
It seemed we were friends on the spot,
And now we are scattered,
And I miss them all a lot.

Perhaps in the future,
I’ll see them again.
But it seems unlikely,
I lament the loss of my friends.

And then again inside my thoughts,
The piano barges in,
“You’ve brought it on yourself.
“You’ve failed life again.”

I ask it what it means,
And rub my tired eyes.
“You’re imperfect and flawed.
“Your ‘friends’ were just being nice.”

“You’ll never understand.
“The finer points of interaction,
“You’ve failed again, my dear.”
Then it waits for my reaction.

I close my eyes and sigh,
I try to ignore its taunts,
But they’re the unfortunate truth,
No matter what I want.

I’m just an outcast,
I’m ostracized, I’m me.
I’m the one who doesn’t get it,
The one no one wants to be.

“You finally realize,
“That you’ll always lose.
“That you’ll never succeed,
“That you have no choice to choose.”

“You’ll always be alone,
“Well, not alone; you still have me.
“I’ll be in your head forever,
“I’ll show you all your faults, you see.”

I shake my aching head,
And try to close my ears,
Insecurity and imperfection,
Are my two greatest fears.

I sit a little longer,
And then purely out of spite,
I play a minor C chord,
My touch uncertain and light.

I play a little louder,
And a melody appears.
It’s a little shaky,
But soon enough it clears.

I play with my emotions,
Automatically my fingers move,
Though not included in the process,
My insulted mind approves.

And then I make a mistake,
And then again and then again.
The song in C minor,
Has died in the end.

I’ve failed myself again,
And proven it right.
The gloating piano,
I want it out of my sight.

But I’ve found I cannot move,
I just stare at my reflection,
In the piano’s shiny black surface;
Imperfection in perfection.