Boredom breeds Insanity...

When you get the crazy idea of jogging in the rain you might as well make sure you've got a good pair of shoes...the kind that doesn't let the water get in. The last thing you want are your socks feeling soggy and your feet squishy and wet. It's okay to try and battle it out with the elements every now and then, but with squishy feet, you haven't got a chance. So there I was, out of my mind, out in that kind of weather when even people with vehicles mostly opted to stay indoors. How bad could it be? It were all still just little droplets of water hitting me at just a denser, more painful amount than usual, but I figured it wouldn't kill me. And much to my amazement, the experience proved to be just as satisfying as I hoped it would be. I can't really put it into words, but I sure as heck won't advise anyone else to try it just to know what I'm talking about.

There are some things in life that aren't "wrong", but people wouldn't normally do them coz it just doesn't make sense to do them. Running in the rain is one of those things in my book. Well to me, sometimes, you just have to do things that don't make sense, to feel life. I'm not saying be a deviant. Living a normal life is good and all that (if anyone actually knows what normal is), all I'm saying is that it's simply not worth it-trying to look normal to everyone else if it bores the life out of you. If you want to find out things about yourself, it won't happen when you do the things your used to. It's not likely to happen in an environment you have control over(granting if we ever really have any control of the environments we are in.) You have to be in over your head, be in something bigger than you, possibly even something dangerous. It doesn't have to make sense at first. But it will, if you survive the experience. Okay, so maybe I'm not really talking about running in the rain anymore. Maybe I'm talking about wrestling with yourself. Wrestling with your limits. Somedays...you have to know. It was one of those days. Halfway around the academic oval, I'm already tired, my legs start to heat up, and I gasp for breath. It wasn't like this a few years ago, I was stronger, faster, better than this. And the thought that I allowed myself to decay quietly, unnoticed over time was more unforgiving than the fatigue that was starting to build up in my muscles. Today was not a day I was gonna be sorry for. I pushed myself harder, I ran faster and faster until my legs finally gave up on me before I did. Somehow I manage to cushion the fall, but I couldn't move a limb for what seemed an eon. In that time, I could only hear my own breathing, the pumping of my heart like a drum and the rain on my chest like a baptism. I felt no shame in those odd moments, probably because there was no one there to see me, but I probably couldn't have cared less if there were. It's been a long time since I gave something my all, and when that happens, you find out you really don't lose a thing at all. Not when in the process you find yourself...

All this silly talk...and all it really was was running in the rain.

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"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." -Albert Einstein

Just the blahs...
meaning this isn't suppose to make any sense

I don't think anyone ever really goes through their day satisfied with it. Or at least not consistently. Or is it just me? This being never satisfied with the conversations you've had, or the never being satisfied with the conversations you didn't even start. They say everyone has a certain emotional reaction to everything, and over time with consistent exposure, that reaction dwindles. Things change. I can live with that. But it's how they change that I have a problem dealing with. Is that what growing up is then? Unraveling to "a mess of sadness". Nowhere to go but down...a scary thought...but I hope not. Being negative about things hardly helps...but it sure as heck beats faking a smile.

The tock keeps ticking
The tock keeps ticking

As a kid, growing up seemed like such a wonderful thing. And it probably is, if we didn't find so many ways to mess it up. Growing up seemed like freedom. To me it meant finally knowing everything there is to know, getting to do all the things I wanted to do, going around the world, staying up late and finding out once and for all what the fuss was about with R-rated movies. Well if that's what the grown-up list is, lets just say I've covered 2 out of 5...and knowing everything there is to know isn't one of them. Truth be told, I know less of things nowadays than I ever have. Or is it I've just lost a sense of clarity, the kind that children have? Then maybe that's what they call innocence...and then maybe I can understand why it's so precious to lose. All for the sake of growing up? I think it's better to just call it growing old.

As a kid growing up, my parents tried to raise me to be as competitive as possible. To be the best that I can be, and to them that probably meant to be better than any other kid. Although I think it would be fair to mention that they mostly intended this kind of attitude in the field of academics(the others fields being sports, art competitions...actually any form of competition, debates, declamations...etc). I always had to win(which didn't happen). There's much I can say about how this really couldn't be too good for the child but I don't really intend to talk about the sins of parenting. But I do want to talk about what my mother always told me back then, that I should always have the "fighting spirit!" And she always said it with much energy, and though I was the quietest of her sons, I think I was the most receptive to her battle cry. And boy did I love a good fight(in the figurative sense of course). I lived for it. And it wasn't about achievement. It was more about desire. Knowing something to be right and true and being willing to fight for it, or towards it. There is nothing that can make you feel more alive.

However, somewhere over the course of time, I stopped hearing the words. At some point, I gave up fighting. I gave up desire. I stopped being the fighter. One day, I woke up feeling spent up and used. Without dreams, I was reduced to the walking dead. I often wonder if a crazy man would be sane enough to realize he's crazy. But I think it's a tragic truth that no matter how messed up we are, we would always have just enough intellegence to rememebr just how far we've fallen. I would weep about if I could, but there doesn't seem to be enough strength left in me to be even honest with my sorrow.

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"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."-Henry David Thoreau