A voice rang out, it was an odd voice, I have definitely heard it before. The words are clear, the words it seems I've heard them before. It goes out again, ringing, ringing, ringing "Naen, did you hear me?" I think it was my teacher, she never liked me It was a feeling I got as soon as I walked into the room. She looked at me like I was trouble, as if I would bring misfortune upon her, bad news, I suppose that's what I was, what I would bring. Misfortune and trouble. I sighed, and I felt a rap go through the table, and I looked up, my teacher looked at me sternly, at least that's how she tried to look. More than ever she just looked angry. I could understand why. I could understand why she was angry, it's not like I tried very hard in her class.
I didn't offer to read what she told me to read, I didn't try and write about anything worth writing about, things that I didn't want to tell anyone. Well not her anyway. She wasn't my best friend, or even a squirrel that I found in the park whom I could pour my worries out to. I need to to clear my head, and forget for a while though. And she was saying "Naen!" The entire class was looking, they were looking, they watched as if this was how things always were, how they would be for the entire year. Probably how it would end up. My friend sat next to me, tenser than anything. She was practically about to punch the teacher, her hands were balled up into fists. I didn't even know why she was my friend. It seemed she had always been my friend.
The teacher talked again, and I stayed in my fantasy world, it wasn't a nice place, but I didn't want to have to face my teacher. She sighed, she wasn't wearing a bun like you might expect, for she always looked rather sever, with a nice shirt with buttons, and a skirt or possibly some dress pants, maybe jeans, always nice impecibly kept, and a pair of glasses even though she was near sighted and didn't need them. She kept her hair down, and she always looked older or younger than she really was. "I told you to write about your thoughts on something important to you. This is to start off a new unit so please try on this assignment."
She felt like a stereotype, I always thought of how steryotypical she was. But she smiled, and said "I know you much be thinking a lot, so now would be a good time to tell us some of those thoughts." It seemed clipped, almost like she was forcing herself to be nice. But it felt good, so instead of arguing like my friend thought I would, I nodded my head, and rested my hands on my keyboard. I tried to think, about something I could write. I could write about animals, and red wolves, or even the military. But that felt...it felt like something so me that it was stupid. I didn't want to write about those things. I didn't need to tell them anything they couldn't read from any other social misfit. I hesitated, one what I could write, lifting my hands off the keyboard for a moment. But then I just wrote down my thoughts. I started, and wherever my mind took me I wrote, and it felt good. I would have to edit it to make it school appropriate of course, there was some language, but I realized just how angry I sounded. It was less like an idea and more like a rant. I realized this while I was writing, but I didn't stop. I didn't care what the teacher thought. I had all 100s in this class, and I could handle it if this teacher gave me a bad grade I couldn't care less, not when I was writing. While I writing I knew my friend was looking at me worriedly, but not talking to me. I had a determined air around me. I sighed, not exactly holding my breath or anything else, but not concious of my breathing or anything else around me. My teacher came up to me, and I think she smiled and said I was doing well, real words...real words for the first time in forever in this class. And these are the words that I wrote on my paper
I wonder, if there is anything really worth dying for. People say they would die for liberty...but do we ever really have it, people say they would die for their families, but are not their families prepared to die for them, and yet too there is the argument that one would die for their country. But is not your country only you, and losing you could not possibly make your country stronger. Only weaken the links. And what country would really ask for your death. It is like sending them to a camp of prisons that we so desperately fight. Is that honestly what we want? Is this sense of false pride that we so desperately grasp to?I don't think so. The world seems so centered on death though, if you think of it. Even Lincon's speech about the last full measure of devotion implies that death is the ultimate price to pay. But I don't think it is. Death is a small price compared to the price it makes the living pay. Whether it leaves you saddles with debt, or emotional grief, often times both.
It is really despicable how we do this to ourselves and others. And even then people will ask, would you take a bullet for me? As if the most important thing is their lives. Or some would say they would die together. But that is entirely pointless. I have nothing against poetry, but is it not tragically poetic in a way that makes it seem like there is no higher thought process. I could tell you about this higher though process, but I would rather you think it out. Did you see what I did? I'm not sure what I am doing.
Because for those who realize and understand it is infuriating to live in a world with people so fixated on these things. They see only these things, and the surroundings. Not that they pay the surroundings any attention. Sometimes it feels as if no one is out there with this thought. And I guess it could just be me. But I want people to see this thought so they can understand if not agree.
That is a higher thought process. Is it not?
It is a rhetorical question. I feel as if all of them are answering. It is not the words here though that matter. It is the thoughts that others have on these thoughts. For does not one word provoke a multitude of words, stringing together, not in perfect order as they jostle for space? Well how about you give my idea some space. Whether your mind is a shelf, or a room, or even a messy desk, make some room for everything. I have found that the mind is amazing like that. Stretching and changing to fit whatever you want in it.
I want everything here. I want to have everything, but I don't really have to be unhappy with what I have. I guess it is impossible to have both, but remember I want to. See what I did there? Right now I feel....I get lost from here. I don't want to talk about my feelings, I want to talk about my thoughts. Do you understand the difference? Emotions come from thoughts. Everything important really important is in the brain. Other things have everything else, but if my brain makes me unique....then, well. I can't say exactly.
Hmph, I feel like a ranter, like one of those raving mad lunatics that just goes on and on about nothing, and everything at once . I wonder if I went to an asylum and went on like this if they would accept me no questions asked. I know I would, I would defenitaly. No questions asked. None at all.
That's what I wrote...I got a 100 and my teacher talked to me after class. The conversation didn't seem all that important though. I remember though, I was surprised when I saw the note as it got discreetly handed back to every student. My friend had gotten a 100 too, but when she saw mine she said that none could really compare. And I knew it was real. That she wasn't just being an amazing friend.
