Walls: Defense or Destruction?

Do walls help? Do they hurt? Are they meant for keeping things in, or keeping things out? Do all walls have gates? If a wall has a gate, will it be able to serve its purpose?

Walls. If you never ever let anything get around your defenses, then you will be safe. Or will you be? Is it safe to be inside your walls, with noone to keep you sane, save yourself? Is it possible to prevent anything from entering your haven? With physical walls, perhaps not. With mental walls though, anything is possible. There is always those who are able to penetrate even the highest defenses you throw up however. I think the only real way to ensure victory, is to also mitigate access with others. Create a barrier between your wall and others. Otherwise, even the tallest wall has a chance of being scaled.

On the flip side, if you allow everything to enter your realm, you are destined to have much more fun and pleasure-for a time. For while a wall blocks all, so does a lack of wall allow all. You will be open to all, and this includes pain. Every time you allow something in, it will bring pain. It seems to be a part of the curse of human nature. The saying 'no pain, no gain' comes to mind. While seemingly just a false bravado, the saying seems to hold much more relevance here. If I seek to gain anything from a lack of defense, I will also be subject to pain. Maybe it's worth it. Maybe not. I know nothing worse then losing what you hold dear. And yet, it happens again and again.

So what then? Should I isolate myself from all of humanity? I am obviously the problem. I am the common denominator, and as such, the weakest link. I play the part, but do I fit the role? Apparently not.

Building walls. Unlike physical walls, it is much easier to build mental walls then to tear them down. the stronger the mind, the stronger the wall, and the faster it will be rebuilt. I have lived my life as of yet with no defenses. How much more pain can I take? I do what is right, always striving to hear God's word in all I do. But I need to build. build. build. I need a wall. To let know one in. Safety. Whoever it was that said 'It is far better to love and to lose, then to never have loved before.' was probably someone who has never loved before. Because it is far worse to lose then to have never known. I now wish to possess that which I used to think a waste. Irony.

Who am I?

Me. A name. I call myself. Who am I? It is the question of the ages. Everyone desires to know who they are, what they like, what they hate, why they do what they do, why they feel what they feel, but who truly knows the answers? Everyone is different. What makes us the way we are?

I think this question is hard to answer, partially because we are always changing, but also, because deep down, we are afraid of the truth. What if we aren't who we think we are, aren't who we want to be? So then, what defines us? It is our past that defines us! What happens to us one day, changes us for the next. What someone says to us, what we dream, what we see on TV, what we say to others, even what we ate for breakfast... it all plays a part. Nobody has the same experiences, therefore, nobody is the same.

Then, there is the fact that because everyone is different, everyone's perspectives are also different. I can answer who I see myself as, but that will not be how you, or my best friend, or my parents see me as. I tend to be critical of myself, while others might not be so harsh towards me, or themselves. All I can offer, to the reader, is my personal answer to the age long question: Who am I?

I am Ben. I am the class clown, the kings best joker. I climb the highest, so I fall the furthest, I am a misfit among misfits, the pedestal of men, I am the knight in shining armour, but the inside is rusty. I am the loner in the crowd, the wild lunatic at home, I am the playdough you mold, only I never get hard. I'm an elevator, always lifting, and yet always underfoot, I'm the back of the poster, the fish out of water. I'm sweet, I'm clever, I'm pleasant, and kind. I am the the burnt out candle, the wax with no wick. I am Ben.

Now, I ask you... what is your perspective?

The Beauty Of The Beast

That great enemy that we all share. We can't live without him, and yet, we all wish we could cut our dependency off with him. He wastes our time, and yet is one of our greatest enjoyments. We give him more of our time then we give anything else, but when we need him the most, that is when he flees us. We chase him, but he runs, leaping and ducking our flailing arms. We try to leave him, and he chases us with a intensity that smothers even the boldest of defiance.     What is this monster that we flee and crave so badly? What is it that causes us to turn to that which we all wish to flee? Every waking hour is spent as far away from this beast as possible, savoring every minute of freedom, only to be swept back into his lair, just as every fly is inevitably swept into his own demise. Even in that moment where we embrace this creature, when we desire his presence the most, it is then that he starts pushing us away. Our minds will start to wander of there own accord, stirring up thoughts not thought for centuries upon centuries. It is like a game of cat and mouse, where our prey is our predator, and his entire purpose is to push us away when we want him, and to pull us in when we flee. Sometimes, he loses and pushes us too hard, and we gain a short amount of freedom from him, but alas, it was then when we needed him most, so it would be more accurate to say that he escaped us. When he loses his game, we lose as well.

So what then, my dear reader, is this beast?

Dearest Daughter,

I never was a good father. It all started on that sandy land, where I first met your mother. I could have sworn she was an angel. Her beauty outshone even the loveliest of queens. Which, coincidentally, was another interesting point- she herself WAS a queen. But I wouldn't know that until later, much later. That was the first meeting. I was very young at the time, but even in my youth, I managed to impress her greatly, when I single handedly saved her life, as well as the lives of her loyal subjects. But that is a story for another time.
I didn't see much of her in the years to come, as between her political aspirations and my own personal training, there was not much time for personal enjoyment, not to mention we lived a good distance apart. Finally, a good ten years later, we met again, this time under different circumstances. She was now an ambassador, and I was given the assignment to protect her-after an attempt was made on her life, that is- and so we went to her homeland to hide from whoever it was that wanted her dead.
I have already gone slightly into detail about how beautiful your mother was. Needless to say, she had an amazing heart for her people, as well as a good head on her shoulders, and I was very, very attracted to her. I wasn't exactly a goody-two-shoes, but she still seemed to like me. At first, she resisted my approaches, but eventually, I got to her, and we were secretly married. It was the happiest day of my life. Unfortunately, about nine months later, it was ended when I mercilessly murdered her. Yep that's right, if you don't believe me, go back and read the first sentence. Now you understand?
I didn't do it on purpose. I was just angry, and rightly so mind you, at her for disobeying my wishes. I strictly forbid her from following me to work, because I knew she wouldn't like what she saw. Did she listen? No, she had to see for herself. Not only that, but she also decided to bring the person who would probably be the most upset, and try to kill me. Basically hired a freaking assassin, and then brought him to my front door!!! You would have killed her too, trust me.
Before she died, however, she did give birth to our children, twins, but her assassin friend got to them before I could. They were hidden away, before I could even see there faces or utter there names. To be honest, I wasn't even aware of your presence(for you were one of the children) until much much later. You never knew your brother-another safety precaution to prevent me from finding either of you- as they kept you both isolated. You followed after your mother, and were adopted into royalty. Your brother was a poor farmer. After many many years of waiting, I finally met you, and because I was so excited, and at the same time, afraid to lose you again, I had you thrown into one of my holding cells. You were not very talkative however, and I SO wanted to hear your lovely voice-the voice of my daughter- that I ordered them to make you talk, by any means possible. It was more screaming then talking, but for a lonely and depressed father, it was music to my ears. I even had your home destroyed in an effort to keep you talking.
As it worked out, I met my son, your brother, when my enemies learned of your location, and decided to land a crippling blow by taking my daughter away from me. He was in the rescue team, although he didn't know who you were, let alone me. I let him get away, out of love, and instead did him a favor by slicing open the old man he was traveling with, who was not only slowing him down, but just so happened to be the same assassin that my wife had hired to kill me... pretty much saved his life! And what thanks do I get? He comes back, this time with the intent to kill, yes KILL, me, his own father, his flesh and blood. Me, being the kind father that I was, not only let him live, but did him ANOTHER favor. I cut off his right hand. How is this a favor? Just think about it... with this age of technology, he could easily get a replacement, much like I did back in the day, a replacement that would be ten times better then his hand!!! A hand with features, man, features!!! And not to mention how easy it is for a handsome crippled war hero to pick up the ladies...
Well, he didn't take the hint. I don't know where he got his pessimism from, but he takes it all wrong, and decides to come back AGAIN, only this time, my master is here. My son finally sees the light, and together, we pwn my master. Only problem, is that in the process of betraying my master, I get a huge surge of electricity to flow through me, and it paralyzes me, and sends me into a coma. Your brother, a son after my own heart, does me a favor (although I think he had different motives, the traitor) and burns me alive.  How am I writing this letter then? Well, he only killed my body, but he can never slay my spirit!

So, in conclusion, my dear daughter, I guess I am trying to apologize... apologize for the fact that I am simply not sorry for any of this.

V

P.S. Do something with your hair, it makes me hungry every time I see it. Donate it to some charity, before i throw up again!

Lifeless life

What is the point? What is life? Why are we here? I can obtain all the money, wealth, fame, and honor in the world, but in the end I am nothing. Nobody will benefit from my existence, or even from my non-existence. My life is without purpose, reason, or goals. The only thing I have ever done of worth is serve as a scape goat for others. I take the blunt of every swing and am the bottom of the dog pile. I could rot to death in a corner, and the only change in the world would be a few a few people would need to find some other way of feeling manly, some other goat to take the blows. The world has struck its toll on me and I will never be the same.

Pessimism triumphs

Pessimism. It is a wonderful creation. With it by your side, you are bound to have nothing but pleasant surprises!! Nothing will upset you, because its either what you were expecting, or it is good news! For those of us who easily get emotional, Pessimism can be the perfect security blanket! However, sometimes, the Optimistic ways creep in on even the most solid supporters of Pessimism. When this happens, the results are bound to be catastrophic. One who is used to the bottom of the pit, suddenly soars to the top, believing that something too good to be true might happen. And then, just as suddenly, if not even more sudden then the initial soar, the Optimistic Pessimist will find that his hopes were silly dreams of a reality that is not his. For what could a pit dweller possibly know of the clouds? Pit dwellers belong in pits, and birds belong in the sky. That is how it is and always will be. And now, the Pit dweller is back in the pit, only now he has tasted the sky, and fallen oh so far back down.

The joyless walk.

He was walking. Forward, always forward, although he did glance back from time to time. The path was made of dirt, and had tall trees on either side, masking his view of anything else. From time to time, his path would come into contact with another path, either where both paths turned towards each other, and the trees thinned, or occasionally another path would even cross his. He had been walking for a long long time, almost 21 years to be exact, and still he walked.  He often thought back to the first 14 years of his journey, where his path had often traveled right next to many others. There was less paths back then, as people tended to share paths, and so not as many were needed. All was fun back then, even if his path didn't have as many people as other paths did, and he sorely missed it. Then his closest family members and himself had decided to switch paths. It wasn't uncommon to switch paths, in fact, it happened quite a lot. Some people stayed on the same path all their lives, but many switched. Some even went back the way they had come, although this was very few. So after about 14 years traveling on the same path, his family switched. The next 5 years went by quickly, and he actually enjoyed them more then his first 14 years. There were less paths in this area of the woods, but they all were wound more closely together. He played with his siblings, and worked with his parents. He laughed, ran, and read. But he quickly grew tired of it, and so on his 18th year as a walker, he switched paths yet again. This time, he would walk alone. The area of the woods he moved to, had many more paths, but very few found themselves near his path for long. The few that did turned away quickly. And yet, he continued to walk. He continued this way for a full two years, the weight of his solitaire confinement bearing on his shoulders, weighing him down. But still, he pushed on. At times, the weights were unbearable, and he was forced to rest. Occasionally, he would have help lifting his weights. But for the most part, he was alone. Utterly alone.