God-forsaken Precipice

Maybe the world is meant to be a tangle of electricity, an uncontrollable myriad of emotions unraveled one by one. Maybe the shadows we see before we sleep are meant to be the friendliest of ghosts dressed in the black of the night, their whispers twisting in your head. Maybe home is supposed to be not where you were born, somewhere far and hidden, somewhere worth the falling rocks and rising water. Maybe the damsel in distress is meant to break the ground and save herself, disregarding the late hero who is not a hero at all. Maybe the eyes of strangers are meant to be flashing and sudden, so that curiosity can fill us. Maybe eternity is meant to be a second, a second or maybe a moment, a flash consisting of happiness – whatever happiness is to you. Maybe the sea is meant to be rough and soft, rock and roll and a mother’s lullaby. Maybe the scraped walls are meant to be left like that, founded like that, dumped like that. Maybe the sad and mad and bad words in your heart right now are meant to be stripped off and buried, but the world keeps holding and being, so it’s harder. Maybe the sound of a breaking heart isn’t a roar, but the littlest whisper, something fragile and the least audible. Maybe the heavy rope is meant to break, so you can have a long, quiet break, so you can rest.

Maybe love is meant to be imperfection – the imperfection of two people perfect for each other. Maybe love is meant to be different, in not the same colors. Maybe love isn’t meant to be trapped, but exposed and contagious. Maybe love is the naïve meeting of melting gold, delicate honey that burn and raging water, pouring heavens that flood. Maybe love is meant to jump out to you in pictures. Maybe love is admiration and adoration so strong you can’t hold back. Maybe love has no boundaries, no limits. Maybe love is supposed to be fearless and free. Maybe love is that spark, that group of fluttering butterflies, that firework show, that static electricity, that sudden intake of breath. Maybe love is meant to touch and affect. Maybe love is being dangerous and risk-taking. Maybe love is worth pain, hurt, and loneliness. Maybe love is falling in strong arms of some stranger who really isn’t a stranger. Maybe love is a pull, a tugging you feel. Love is confusing, but time will replace that “adjective” with another one, one that explains everything.

Maybe beauty isn’t immediate perfection. Maybe beauty is that gap in between two front teeth. Maybe beauty is the soul with an interesting story. Maybe beauty is tripping on the stairs and landing somewhere serene. Maybe beauty is how you develop and see. Maybe beauty is something more than models making girls feel ugly. Maybe beauty is the stopping of breath and widening of eyes of realization. And maybe it's the cause.

Just. Just maybe.

We’re stuck, but maybe we can let ourselves fall – for the experience, the thrill, the relief, and the freedom.

The Sparkle and The Glitch

Sometimes I’m just amazed with how the world works. How people live, breathe, love, act. I’ve got my headphones on and I wish I could just jump into the scenes the songs I listen to portray, so I can feel at home every time. I am alone in the room and I’m thinking of too much things again and I can feel things happening. Really. A baby gets to see the light, another doesn’t. Someone falls in love at the first sight and it’s all too scary for that person that it tears them apart. Somebody dies unprepared. Winter comes for some, winter doesn’t for others. Teenagers dance, sing, go on online, die. We’re all obsessed with something and sometimes we’re not so careful about anything anymore.

Maybe when we smile, sparks explode up above within the planets and fairies with blue blood fall in love over and over again while hiding behind stained, brown curtains. I don’t know what I’m feeling but I just want to creep into your mind and play with things I shouldn’t. Maybe that’ll make emotions stir warmer.

The elves frolicking on the Christmas tree are one of the beautiful things we cannot see and we cannot control. Unless we destroy the tree, of course. Angels fall and are abandoned from heaven. But they’re heroes to a lot who don’t even know them. Whenever a migraine is injected in you, it dumps garbage into your veins and makes you puke and convinces you’re a mess, but you truly aren’t. You’re beautiful and fascinating.

The words in my broken dictionary pile up all alone into a mountain reaching for the skies, starting from the ground I stand on. I crush the magic in between my fingers and blow them away. They litter the snowy trees from afar and shower three, curly-haired preschoolers. They cross bridges and have power over blanket forts. The frozen telescopes feature the warmth of days. I want to hold your hand.

The wind chimes sing the siren babies their cradlesong. The sea blue guitar is kept away in the musician’s arms. Their lip gloss smiles match their Santa hats. The lighting in their rooms makes everything look like they’re starring in a black-and-white film. The punches to the heart break down walls and build up insecurity, blocking all the fun of being naïve and just too juvenile. Her blond hair flows out of the choir room and scratches the lockers of average slackers. Her ruby nails clash with her neon green headband and claws at her boyfriend’s credit card as she dances across the underworld. The cannibal in her wants to swallow everyone her boyfriend knows. Everyone. He. Knows.

He cannot shrug the world off of his shoulders. The Medusa is his booby trap and Achilles’ heel. He’s the fragile Superman of the forgotten and dumped away. Behind his eyes are the sorrow and loneliness all locked up and tied up with overreactions. He cares but he doesn’t. He wants but he needs instead. The lockers jump out to him and swipe off the skin on his face. It’s on because everything isn’t so exciting anymore, isn’t it?

Emotion wafts in the air and into the keys. The piano gladly obliges the player’s commands and screams out the agonizing breaths. The snowflakes drop in the open ocean and spiral around, causing the cats to stretch their limbs and roar with what they’re made of. Viridian and opalescent are the kaleidoscope. The journey on the skateboard, with the steel helmet, is unsuccessful. It flies down and crashes on the cement along with the debris of something wrecked a long time ago. He is drowsy in his pair of pajamas, gorgeous and eloquent in a way nobody will ever understand because he twinkles further into space. Heart-rending.

The shoves and sneers and doubt do well in covering up his impeccability. I thought you couldn’t break what was so unbreakable. I thought it was his own world; so why can’t he control it? Viridian and opalescent, I repeat. They splatter across the map and swarm in your vision. They perform on the place of the stage where no one’s interested in. The moon howls because the wolf is weary and it's his turn.

The hammering of your head closes on your mistakes and regrets. You’re not free since a faerie ensnared you in his heart, where you belong. You’re not meant to be free alone.

His wishful thinking chains down the opportunities. He wakes up and frowns because his teal kite has gone missing along with his hopes and dreams. He is the undertow you visit during your vacation. He wants to reach you but failed miserably. His and her ballet slows down the watch snaked around your wrist. They defy gravity as they chase each other in strides too elegant to exist in the future. They skim the fortress in distress. Their speed electrocutes them. The expired biscuits painted on the walls of their kingdom are what they eat to frighten away their hunger.

They see the world as hypocritical through their fashionably old television. They take peeks and pause moments. It helps them reevaluate and theorize our ways.

The keyboard and mouse break. The monitor shakes. Connection aches.

Decipher

What I see in some parts of songs from a wondrous musical project created by this remarkable man whose name is Adam Randal Young.

Depression, please cut to the chase
And cut a long story short
Oh please be done
How much longer can this drama afford to run?

It doesn’t just cut to the chase, truthfully. You’ll have to find a way to cut it yourself or just merely wait for something else to do the job.

Drama runs as long as you let it. You can control it. You can reach out to it and dispose of it. It’s all garbage and conflicts you don’t need. It all sucks everything into nothing. Waste, waste, waste.

It turns out there’s something less complicated than therapy for depression.

Dive in and swim away
From your loneliness and miserable days

And when you wake up on your own

Look around you ‘cause you’re not alone

Let your hopes go and they’ll survive

‘Cause this is the future and you are alive

You’re headed home

You’re headed home

HOW CAN I POSSIBLY SWIM AWAY?

It just feels like I am alone. Lonely, lonely, alone.

I’m attempting to be glad that I’m alive in the future. Because it’s so difficult. Reality’s embrace is turning into a death grip. I’m searching for space to breathe in everything innocent.

I’m trying to find home, all right. I’m on it.

I’m on it.

Home is a boxcar and it’s so far

Out of reach

Hidden under umbrella beach

Where in the universe is HOME? MY STRAWBERRY MILKSHAKE, I couldn’t seem to find it before.

It takes labyrinths, sacrifices, bawling, and God knows what to arrive to this beautiful abode. It’s where you’re happy. It’s where everything is right to you. It’s where your reverie is. It’s where your dreams come true.

It is hidden somewhere unexpected and odd.

It’s far. I warn you: It will be a beastly journey.

I feel like I’m falling

So darling, don’t let me go

Falling. For me, it’s not the kind of “Ohmygosh, I think I love you” falling. I never have that kind of falling. It’s more of a “Oh crap no, why the heck is the depression back?” falling. Yep. So familiar.

I could (most of the time) honestly feel my grip on happiness failing. My palms start to become sweaty and WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH–

I was about to surely fall into a sea of starving sharks and hospital needles until this darling – this dear – comes in and becomes my hero, gripping onto my wrist and wiping all my cold tears off my cheeks.

If the bombs go off
The sun will still be shining
Because we've heard it said that every mushroom cloud
Has a silver lining

Bombs will go off. Nobody has a life that doesn’t blow up even just a few times.

But, hey, the sun still seems to be hanging up there. Hi, sun.

Optimism just squeezes itself out of the letters of these words. I can hear it. It gives me this kind of blazing hope, and it proves, at the same time, that there is always that place in life where you can see all the good and the warmth and the certainty of something way brighter than some stinking, gloomy hellhole.

                                                                                     

Deep inside of you, there’s a ruby glow
And it gets brighter than you and I will ever know

This musician knows how to assure.

People had called me “smart,” “wise,” and “intelligent.” Please don’t think I’m boasting here. I had just stated the words people in different ages have described me. They gave me definition, labeled me, had given me a name tag, scribbled onto my head what they see in me, pointed in my direction.

I can’t see it. Blind. I can’t see myself. It actually takes a lot to.

But I don’t see why they do call me those adjectives. Maybe they just wanted to make me smile. Maybe they just want me to think positive. Because I am a bit pessimistic.

But sometimes, I do see something when I’m happy and warm and all fuzzy inside. I feel as if there’s this inexplicable glow inside of me, somewhere right there.

And, sometimes, I believe that only I can see how bright it truly is.

Maybe I'll write
To save my life

Writing. Dear goodness, I love the feeling of picking up a functional pen and proceeding to spill out all my thoughts and all my soul on paper, in the form of illegible, loose handwriting. Even through my mother’s ex-laptop, I have the ability and access to type like a maniac, to push on the keys, to exclaim.

Writing has helped me in those moments wherein it’s Doomsday for me. Apocalypse. It is maybe my second favorite thing next to Music. I write poetically; you’ll have to carefully decipher my emotions through my cursive handwriting plus the baffling metaphors to get to what I wanted to deliver.

Words move me, whether they are in a song or not, they do. They know how to push me to my knees and contract my chest.

They know how to heal the open cuts and kiss the sorrow few by few.

I've been longing for daisies to push through the floor
I've never really felt like this before
And I wish plant life would grow all around me
So I won't feel dead anymore
So I won't feel dead anymore

The feeling of death. Emotional death, to be more specific. Well, it’s not really the death of my emotions. Maybe I’d rather say “the almost impossible downward tumble of my feelings.”

Being a teenager is hard; depression strikes. It isn’t permanent. Teenagers are moody. But it’s depression, nonetheless.

And, yes, it is depressing. It is PAINFUL. Of course, duh.

Feeling dead and numb is sad, and it won’t stop the tears from escaping. No way. It will just worsen everything. And I just have to wait there for everything to be sunny and bright again. I’ll have to wait for happy, shining life to creep back into me. It isn’t automatic. It is never automatic. Like I said, I’ll have to wait. I will long for it. Even if it takes more than usual.

If we dissolve without a trace
Will the real world even care?

I always wonder about it: If I just disappear, how will people react? I am ignored in class because of my nature, because I would rather be quiet than gossip, because of my obscurity in being social, simply because of my introversion – my shell. And I’m curious about the future, if I do float away into nothingness. They probably will not notice my absence if all they used were their ears. I’d be flushed down into oblivion; they are oblivious and inattentive.

I am afraid of being too unimportant to people who know me.

I'll travel the sub-zero tundra
I'll break glaciers and frozen lakes
And that's just the tip of the iceberg
I'll do whatever it takes to change

Personality and attitude these days of teenagers who holler and skip about have been deemed to be, well, ugly.

And some of us, it may not be a very noticeable percentage of adolescents or even the teeny bit noticeable, have been trying to improve or change.

Change is hard.

But I think I have been on its road for a while already.

I am not my own

For I have been made new

Please don’t let me go

I desperately need You

It. Is. Hard. To. Believe.

I’m trying harder.

If my heart was a house, you’d be home

Not a romantic sentence for me.

But it is the most TOUCHING, HEARTSTRING-TUGGING, LONGING, TEAR-BRINGING sentence that had ever been put into a song and had brought shivers to my spine and goose bumps to my skin.

I know where home is. I know where home is. I know where home is.

Welcome Danger

So tragic.

The slash of one’s sword on concrete, scratching the snowy road, spirits using their inaudible vocal chords to reach the haunted realms of the heavens. What just happened?

Glitter in the air, sparkly, slow and soothing. Sweet on the taste buds. Breathe in, breathe out.

She is reticent, great with shocking optimism yet her façade is exhausted. Flesh scarred with fresh wounds, her bones stutter and ache within every move she constructs, threatening to crack and shatter like glass.

Her fingertips – kissed by the hard-hearted weather, waiting to be put together. Freezing her to her ribcage. Breathe in, breathe out – ouch.

Her shoulders high, no time for stooping. Stay awake, stay awake. Breathe in, breathe out – ouch.

She is dying. I’m dying, I’m dying. She is dying. She is dying. I’m dying.

Am I not?

But it stops there.

Her alive, beating, beautiful heart, warm and thumping with adrenaline, is caged – locked – like a wild animal in the only thing that keeps her moving. The only thing that keeps her breathing like she should. The only place where she can really find her strength:

Hope. It is a dangerous thing.

It echoes inside her emptiness, bringing contentment. Her wild, wide, crazed, open eyes glow with it – hope. Her lips are dry yet firm with the word – hope. Her ears are deaf with the wails of it – hope. She can’t stop thinking about it –

hope.

She’s back in the game.

WORD, Microsoft

hi. Hello. um, let’s see what I can find here… oh! My full name is rain amber Javier carmona. Ya can call me amber. My birthday is on the 3^rd of December. Uh… I am young, and obviously naïve especially since I got shy and introverted written on my face. I fangirl too much and spazzing plus hyperventilating is my thing especially when it comes to seeing flames pond on youtube… I eat oreos and I hate veggies. I like ice cream and fictional characters. I know myself as socially awkward and far from outgoing cuz that’s what I think people see. I am attracted to nothing but zombies and this Minnesotan boy called owl city. Hah. Have u heard of him? Very dorky. I like to examine pictures of space and galaxies: pretty stuff, ya should know. i wear owl city ballers. Ya know, I own adam young pictures. They’re breathtaking, heh. Um I also like Windsor airlift and port blue cuz they’re this big explosion of coolness. I’m a concertgoer. I enjoy the weekends yet I am pessimistic about what comes next pfffft. Tumblr is awesome. Er I have zombie apocalypse and owl city dreams. Owl city owl city owl city. OMGSH YES. Um, Christmas is near and it’s exciting. No winter here for us. My brothah, adam, who is an alert almost seven year old boy, haz a pet bird named loki. It’s partner, skittles, died months ago. Huhu sad, I tell ya. I uh clearly like listening to music and oh yes singing is a hobby. I enjoy writing so so so very very very much. Not religious, yet I have beliefs like ya do. This is real this is me. um um… um… I believe in fairies. Very peter pan. If I ever get abducted by aliens, its adam young’s fault. Ya need to know that kind of info for the future, peep. Ehhh I’m random. I dislike typos. So if ya a typo, I no likey ya. I cheer on for those fangirls who are jealous of that blond girl adam young is hugging in the teaser of the youtopia by armin van buuren ft. adam young (duh) music video. Can’t wait. Let’s hyperventilate d00d…….. Breanne duren is a sunflower from plants vs zombies, don’t ya know such thing? Cute. Adorbs. Nyanhagnaha. I haz headphones, ya wanna borrow? I don’t think ya wanna borrow that cuz it’s mine grr. I haz a crush on owls. Very relevant, ya must be aware of. My physical reflection scares me. aha, truth brothah. My mom haz this likey for owl city’s beard. It isn’t always present. HAHA too bad for her. I haz two dawgs called vanny and chowder. Vanny is sometimes stupid (ok maybe always) and chowder is happy and fun yeah. I ship kataang from avatar: the last airbender and klaine from glee hihi. Emotional me hihi huhu HIHI huhu…

so tell meh darling d0 ya wIsh wed fall in love ? ?

ol da tyme.

An Escapist's Flight

“Do you miss them?”

The crickets sung with the twinkling of the stars, pushing away any silence left. The cold air gripped on my skin, licked the strands of dry hair away from my eyes. I could feel the ocean under my fingertips, conducting the waves the moon didn’t pull anymore. The ignition of contentment burst through me and dared to tickle the corners of my mouth. I didn’t feel lonely because the violet sky was there. The magic was there. The happiness was there. I could taste the glitter on my tongue so pronouncedly.

“Miss who?” I inhaled a tank of air through my nostrils, savoring the infectious smell of heavenly butterfly wings and wet bamboo, doing my best to remember. I cherished the sound of wind chimes below me, under the roof. The shadows projected on the tress buzzed aloud with the lively lullabies of the night, caring only for the sad, torturous hymns of the faraway lands. I still felt the cold tears screeching down my face. Haunting, fresh, little openings carelessly cut open.

An escapist’s dream come true was the never-ending loneliness a lifetime could bring. Reality wasn’t life for me; it was a trap I recklessly fell in. Lured by the curiosity eating my vision, I tested my survival in the social beings of earthly minds, synchronizing all their bare wants and aspirations. My eyes were red with the cruelty of things unseen. Unseen by society, puzzled and misunderstood and excoriated perhaps.

Nothing will ever be better than an escape for an escapist.

“Friends. Family.” Again, the ocean waves tugged under my toughened fingertips, but like a flame they burned through the horizons I have seen from afar. The days have been submersed for too long and are almost unfamiliar even through the transparency of the water.

It felt like I just woke up.

“No,” I whispered, hugging myself, scratching my sides, “I don’t.”

“Why not?” The thunderous boom quaked and convulsed, stunning my ribs and flicking on the sad electricity in my eyes, whispering all the hundreds of echoes of reminiscence to my eardrums. The shrill feeling of being yanked back into the state I would rather not be in traumatized all I was.

I shouted back, “This is where I belong!” Strong and sure. Nervous, I laughed. Curse nightmares, curse nightmares, curse nightmares, curse…

“Is it, really?” Shivering. “Wake up now.”

“No.” Wails.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

“No.” No, no, no. No.

“Awake.”

“No!” Please.

“AWAKE!”

“NO!”

Darkness.

Being a dreamer wasn’t always easy. The dawn of physical consciousness to the reality of “life” was like the breaking of glass at a bank. Unwanted screaming and adrenaline, shock, fear. I missed the beginning of dozing off and the unrealistic pictures of fantasy. It was gone too soon and too fast. Not being connected to home was being dead.

“Wake up.” The nightlight was on, and mother tried to pull me out of bed.

The Dreamer and The Angel

wake up, wake up, wake up


I rub the sparkly dust off of my eyes, stretching myself across the mattress. I could feel the vibration of the bed, and I feel funny.

I open my eyes to the unreal scene before me. This doesn’t look like my room; the walls are painted white, but colored with flashing strobe lights that look like unnatural lightning. I see vines climbing up the tall walls, crawling to cover the ceiling. And now I see monkeys outside from my spot on the bed, through the huge window at one side of the room.

I still feel funny. Everything feels funny. I can even taste something funny. I cough, and out goes blue glitter from my system.

Up above my head, the vines separate, and they give me access to watch the running sky. Blue, indigo, red, purple, black. A star falls on my upper lip. I lick it off. I could taste something like the combination of sweet, sweet caramel and ink-spoiled blood.

I am sitting already when the hospital blanket wraps around me like a fierce snake, hinting to suffocate with a short twist. I’m afraid. Panicking, I struggle with fear as the blanket won’t drop dead, and instead curl around my alarmed body like it was my cocoon. The strobe lights stop flashing. They suddenly bring in the amber glow. I'm dying, so I lie back on my bed… and close my eyes.

Next thing I know when my eyelids get unscrewed is that I’m not at the same place. Fireflies dress me from head to toe in my pajama wear. I scream, but it’s too late. They dissolve into my skin. My scalp, my fingernails, my joints. I collapse to the ground on my knees, gripping the damp grass underneath me. It starts raining, and I shriek as the ice cold drops kiss the back of my neck and trail to my lips, freezing there like they want me to stop emitting noise. I press my palms onto the grass and tear it away from the wet soil. I dig my nails into the ground. I glow.

The glow is a yellow green. And it enters the earth. I think I’m going back to normal, but no. I just keep glowing brighter and brighter along with the world in my eyes. Everything, except for the sky, is now drenched in the color of starlight. It almost looks permanent.

I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired. But I’m also being driven by a power that won’t leave me no matter what I want. I cry tears of the evening stars. It’s still pouring.

I don’t know anything else. But I do know that I get sucked into the ground.

God help me. I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m faaAAAAAAAAaaalling. Butterflies try to catch me, but I’m too heavy for their stitched-up wings to carry. The sound of violins and thunderstorms flow into my ears. I let out another high-pitch shriek, feeling my stomach fold into the smallest origami to be ever made. It’s useless flailing my arms towards every direction when there’s nothing to stop gravity as it works.

But then, of course, I stop falling. The unexpected always happens.

Someone is drying my closed eyelids with their smooth hands, carrying me with the softest feathers ever. I whimper when I feel hard cement under me. Safety, does that mean?

I open my eyes. I’m introduced to the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. So shy. So violet. So bright. So wondrous. Those eyes tell the story of life. And maybe, if I could stare into it more, I could see the future in them. I want to see the future in them. I want to see my future in them.

I’m being too hopeful again. I’m wanting too much again. Because the angel steps back and shoots up to the sky. A few of its milky white feathers leave in its wake. Dreamy. It hurts. It hurts perniciously.

When I wake up, everything is normal. Too normal.

And I wish I was dreaming again instead.

A Look

Hiiiiiiii.

Tomorrow, classes will resume. Today is the last day of my school’s semestral break, and I’m trying hard for it not to let it bring down my spirits. I’m not so optimistic, and I find it hard to enjoy going to school. This also has something to do with my introverted ways because I really prefer being alone most of the time. There are a big number of students in my class. And that fact right there doesn’t brighten up anything.

But I gotta say I’m excited for this week in some other way.

It’s my dad’s birthday this Thursday, November 10^th, 2011. He’s not so old. I got most of my natural craziness from him, which I don’t regret having born with. Cuz I wuz born dis waY!

And, also, this Wednesday, November 9^th, and for other parts of the world (time zone, people): Tuesday, November 8^th, Glee will be airing their third season's fifth episode titled The First Time. It is confirmed that this episode will focus on the relationship of two couples: Finchel and Klaine. This made a majority of the Gleeks go psycho, and I can tell you that you haven’t seen or heard anything yet till you create a Tumblr account and follow Finchel/Klaine shippers. We, shippers, are rabid dogs. We are avid.

I can’t say much about Finchel because they’re just like any other fictional, heterosexual pair in the world. What’s got me shrieking on the inside is, of course, Klaine. I, an introverted, quiet teen, ship two openly gay characters together. I don’t ship them because I’m gay (I’m not. And I think it’s too early to find out if I am.). I also don’t ship them because it’s what’s everyone is AJSKADHDKJUEHQAS-ing about. I ship them because they’re happy, besides the fact that they’re adorable…

And don’t you know that this episode is also a step towards acceptance? Homosexuals aren’t accepted in society because of WHO THEY ARE and WHO THEY LOVE. I can tell you my point of view. I don’t think it’s immoral to love who you truly do. Okay – what if your religion doesn’t approve of any of it? This isn’t about your religion. You don’t need to support them or even think they’re right if you don’t want to. Just please don’t voice your opinions because they can hurt people. Nobody is forcing you to fight.

I can’t really fight. But I want to support and defend. The reason why The First Time is a big step to acceptance because it will feature two couples. One is straight, and the other is obviously gay. Both pairs are so in love that they want to go all the way. And they’re probably going to do it in the same episode. I look at this as an opportunity for the world – humans – to see that a man can love a man, and it’s the same with women. Homosexuals can love like heterosexuals can.

It’s simple to accept it that way, and see the world through someone else’s perspective. I know that the world has many distinct principles. I respect that, but I plead you not to judge others like you’re the most exalted being to ever live.
Here's a question: Why even bother to join in the world's problems? I'm juvenile. And ridiculously little. I'm a naif. But maybe, possibly, miraculously, I could somehow change the world around me.
Through a blog.

Please, wherever you are, step with us as we try to recruit others to accept.

The Magic of Owl City

Hi.

Last Wednesday, October 26, 2011, my father and I had attended a concert. And not just any concert. An Owl City concert.

It’s the All Things Bright and Beautiful Tour, baby.

Of course, I was pretty much stoked about the whole thing. I was going to watch Adam Young perform. And not to mention the beautiful band members (for the tour). We were already lined up when a woman started shouting out questions about Adam, and whoever answered them correctly would get a backstage pass. Now, guess what. I didn’t get a backstage pass. Seriously. I began to feel depressed about it as the line moved slowly. I almost freaking met Adam. It’s one of the reasons why I have Post Concert Depression right now.

Well, so, we entered the tent after several minutes. My father and I were able to stand at the left side of the stage, right in front. Two boys beside me (who were younger than me) were talking on about meeting Adam and getting him to sign stuff like a poster and their copy of the ATBAB album. I was vexed at myself by the time they were boasting about it to this girl (who I thought was also younger than me, but my father said she was older and just shorter), showing her their stuff-signed-by-Adam-Young stuff. I couldn’t help but be so envious about the fact that they had met him.

Eventually, the concert had officially started. I can’t express how magnificent it was. Adam started drumming, and Breanne Düren was basically in front of us. And, shoot, the lights! They flashed everywhere. I jumped almost the whole time, and flailed my arms everywhere. The people on stage were so alive and energetic that you could feel pangs of their energy bouncing off to you. I didn’t care that my eardrums felt like they were shattering and that my feet were aching from all the standing. I loved it when Adam would interact with the crowd. All were enjoying.

At the end, Adam sang If My Heart Was a House.

And everything felt perfect. I had tears streaming down my cheeks right when he sang the first line. Owl City has this positive impact on your life. If you have depression, I recommend you listen to Owl City. It’s a home. When no one is there, Owl City will most likely be. Life is a rollercoaster, true. Owl City is what keeps me hanging on. I wish Adam knew that he was my best friend.

Amber

Exposure to The World

I’ve missed blogging. I wasn’t in any reach of superb inspiration until it hit me right in the face this morning while watching a few episodes of Glee Season 2.

Watching TV.

Teenagers, like me, actually have access to the media. We’ve got the Internet, television, film. Whether parents or guardians realize it or not, we are exposed to what we stumble upon while surfing the Web, or switching from channel to channel. We are able to catch and get information from the media without us really expecting to. And who brought in the Wi-Fi in the house? Our parents, or someone older than us, of course. They don’t want us to learn about things or get into other people’s cultures. But who stopped us from watching our favorite TV shows?

Yesterday, I and Caleb* somehow leaped into a conversation about rallies. And homosexuality. I had told him that one day I’d like to join at least one rally for the rights of people – gay people. Caleb shook his head at the idea. He said that “homosexual people are abominations. They aren’t accepted by society because God created Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Eve and gay.” I’m completely heterosexual, but hearing this from Caleb hurt. Are we even Christians anymore? Who still goes to Church among us? Who?

But let’s go back to the real subject here. This morning, I encountered Caleb again while focusing on the TV in front of me. He was watching a few scenes of an episode from Glee Season 2 with me while he was having a mad conversation on the phone with someone. I was aware that he had seen Brittany carrying Artie to a bed, and Karofsky forcefully kissing Kurt. The first thing he said as he ended the convo and put down the phone was something like this: “I don’t like you watching that show. That’s American culture. That show showcases sex, and gay....” I confess I wasn’t paying too much attention to what he was saying, but some short sentences like the ones previously said stuck to me.

Culture does get passed on. I’m not American, and I know little about American culture. But this isn’t about anyone’s culture. This is about a TV show showing their viewers about sex and homosexuality. TV shows aren’t the only things in media that expose these “mature content” to young people. This kind of media is everywhere: the mall, the local playground, the neighborhood, and even school. There are songs about sex. Other teens even joke about sex. Gay people are coming out anywhere. And how can you prevent your teenager from hearing or seeing these?

Sometimes, your kid knows more than you think they do.

* Caleb is a pseudonym.