*facepalm*
So everyone's on Summer break (even though technically we're below the equator so it's Winter break, but it doesn't matter cause the weather's the same anyway) and therefore too lazy to post anything. SO I decided to post something kinda different today.
It's a poem.
God, I know. Trust me I'm not trying to be one of those deep, sentimental, touchy-feely types that sit in dark corners and contemplates the meaning of the universe. I just like working concepts and ideas out and my major way of doing that is through writing, so this time I thought I'd try and do it through poetry instead.
There's not too much rhyming (it's a bit inconsistent and don't even try to ask what kind of poem it is) so it's not too reminiscent of Dr. Seuss, thankfully. Cause' for some reason my rhyming-poems tend to lean to the children's-picture-book side of things. Don't ask me why -- I dunno. But it's inconvenient, that's for sure. I mean, you don't really want to sound like a book talking about cats and hats when writing a poem about, say, child abuse. (This actually happened. 9th Grade English class. Yeah.)
Anyway I'm blabbering. Here's the poem I guess.
If you think about the chances,
the statistical probability of us being alive,
here,
now,
today,
you would find that each life is an improbability.
Cause' seven billion is still tiny,
puny,
insignificant,
no matter what environmentalists say,
compared to everything else.
Think of me, of you.
We are just a speck in our country,
which is a spot in our world,
which is an ant in our galaxy,
a piece of lint in the universe.
So if you take into consideration
all the little things that could go wrong,
all the things that had to happen
all the way back from when the planet-galaxy-universe was created,
(don't strain yourself)
to make sure that you exist,
and the fact that there is only one you,
one individual, unique you,
in a universe of uncountable, limitless possibility,
you could argue that each person,
each life,
is their own little miracle-child.
There was no you before you existed--
there are no expectations fitted to you.
Nothing you are going through has ever happened before.
Not this way. Not like this.
So no one can judge you.
No one can say they know you,
your problems, your fears.
Or anything about you--
the reason you shed tears.
No one can know how you feel,
cause' each person's unique.
No one can know what's fake or real,
lies or truths both speak.
Each person is a mystery,
a case never to be solved,
an unprecedented situation,
one of a kind, of a different mind.
Define yourself, and live by that definition,
Let yourself be tame, loving, rebellious, wild--
Be your inner miracle-child.
Okay so it's a little touchy-feely, isn't it? Ehh.
I just didn't want this blog to turn into a wasteland of forgotten dreams over the June/July holidays. Chichi and Boris (and Jenny, who's currently in L.A.) will thank me when summer ends and the blog still has stuff going on.
But to clarify, probably the only reason I'm writing here and no one else is is because they're all traveling and I'm stuck at home with a bunch of lessons with nothing else to do but read, write, internet and work on my friend's birthday presents, not able to socialize CAUSE' EVERYONE ELSE IS TRAVELING.
Grr.
I feel so alone.
If you happen to find that the next few posts are angst-y poems or song lyrics about loneliness (All by my se-eelf. Don't wanna be, all by my self, any-moo-oore.), you know why. If there are no most posts by me this summer, I have either found something else to focus my sorrow filled days on, or I dug around in my dusty closet and found a social life. One is less likely than the other.
Goodbye, cruel cruel world.
