You Believe.

We all believe. Anyone who denies this is either in a stubborn state of denial or simply has not examined the thought enough. Even an agnostic believes; even atheists believe. The question is, firstly: What do you believe? Secondly, why? Many atheists believe in science as the final and ultimate authority. They believe science was the source of our origin and will be that of our end. They herald the message of science. Even praise the work of science. Therefore, they do not only believe in science instead of God but actually believe in science as God (in a manner of speaking). Is it not so?

Don’t believers in God believe the same principles? That God is the originator of all things; don’t they praise His work? Atheist believe the same foundational concepts but ascribe the credit to a different figure. A figure with no mind, consciousness or sentience–yet somehow it randomly formed beings who have all these attributes which the originator itself did not. Given this truth, consider the second tenet of your (yes, your) belief: Why do you believe what you believe? One can list all of the common aspects of their belief systems but that is often not the only true reason why an individual believes as they do. Especially beliefs that claim no belief. People tend to believe certain things not because it has proven itself absolutely true but because it aligns with what they want in life. How they want to live, who they want to be around, how they want to be perceived by society. Do such inclinations as these influence your beliefs? If so, you will never have the vision and clarity of judgment to differentiate truth from lie until you rid yourself of these prejudicial stances. If it makes you comfortable to believe that there is no such thing as gravity, or that none of your loved ones will die in your life time, does it mean that you can float? Or that you will certainly never see any of your loved ones pass away? Obviously not. In the same way, holding to a belief because it makes you more comfortable with a certain way of life does not make the belief true.

If you honestly do not believe in God, how do you explain living things? The universe? The near-infinite dimensions of space? Did it actually come from nothing? Do you know the answer to the equation 0+0? … Spoiler alert: (whispering) It’s zero. Nothing plus nothing = (wait for it………) nothing. Literally. No. Thing. Something cannot come from nothing. Some thing cannot come from no-thing. Therefore, everything definitely can’t come from nothing. That’s the simple way of explaining it.

You might have noticed earlier that i said “near-infinite dimensions of space.” Some maintain that the universe is actually infinite and never needed a creator. Impossible. The second law of thermodynamics proves that this absolutely cannot be true. Basically it is the explanation for the widely known scientific fact that the universe is constantly running out of energy. If the universe is infinite how can it be running out of energy? The universe is not infinite. (It is ironic that people would be willing to attribute infinite power to a non-conscious, insentient, “something” known as the universe but not the same infinite power to a conscious living being, namely God.) The universe had to be created by something greater than itself with more power than itself. A baby cannot reproduce an adult. Neither can a lesser power in oblivion create a far, far, greater reality in the existence of the universe itself.

Free Dumb

Do you have a clue of how many toxic chemicals we take in through the standard American diet? If not, you should look it up because there are literally thousands of publications about it. But what about the standard American diet of media? Do you have any idea how much toxic, polluting content we absorb? This recent election cycle gave us a glimpse. Through a plethora of media outlets we can be controlled and literally programmed. People develop trained reactions and thought processes by way of media influences. We love what we love because the media has told us to. We hate what we hate because the media has ingrained in our psyches to do so. We proclaim freedom but enslave our minds to a literal onslaught of stimulation and distraction.

We give up the power to think for self because we let the voices in the media tell us what to think. We then repeat exactly what they say. For instance, if the media, along with the majority of society, says a certain person or idea is hateful, the average person will adopt the same perspective and spread that point of view about the person. Even without researching anything in-depth about the person or their views!

We even tend to buy what we buy—not because the products are the best quality—because instructions have been drilled into our psyches to get said products. While there is probably someone making a better product out of a local shop or their own home.

Have you ever just sat by and observed a person who’s been watching television for hours? Have you seen that hypnotized gaze? The dazed, catatonic-like state of apparent powerlessness? It’s not always a news source that is pounding the chisel on the mind. The volition is deadened by repetitious advertisements, buffoonery, even highly stimulating plots, images and creative stories can dull the human spirit. When we give up our own imagination to replace it with, essentially, the work of someone else’s we do a grave injustice. Think about this being done over the course of days and years and decades. What happens to the individual?

How can you become free of such programming? Limit how much TV you watch. I say mute the TV or change the channel when the commercials come on. Turn off the radio sometimes and just listen to your surroundings. Sounds maddening at first but over time your mind will adapt and become more calm. Find something to do with your own mind. Something creative, relaxing or actively fun. Be careful what music you listen to, especially when it’s just playing in the background. And especially look up information about the topics and issues you are interested in. Be objective and don’t just listen to everything you’re told through the media. Live like a human. Not a humanoid robot.

Letter to Self

Dear You,

Me. Many years ago. There are many things I wish I could’ve told you. So I am telling you. (You always liked irony didn’t you?) I think you already know this but you have wasted much time in your life already. You have wasted countless hours and far, far too many days. You don’t know the true magnitude and extent of your abilities. You truly have the talent to become an Olympic medalist. You never knew it did you? You are a natural athlete, a born gymnast! But how could you know when you were only scolded, tormented scorned since a child. I know the trauma you’ve witnessed in your life, and the abject despair you’ve constantly felt. But that does not have to influence your life at all. Do not waste anymore time in your life. Reach and race for opportunities placed in your path. You’ve thrown away so much by following the street life. The drugs, alcohol, weapons, violence and conflicts; all of it seemed fun didn’t it? It seemed noble, somehow. It was all. For. Nothing. A complete waste. When you turn twenty and live through that period of your life you must know that you are still incredibly young. Despite your mother always saying you’re old and that you’re a lost cause and so on. You are incredibly young still! You will meet a lady who works for a company named Primerica, when you tell her you are twenty years old she will grunt in a gasping, shocked manner and say, “Uh! You’re a baby.” Shaking her head in a sentiment seeming to express her wishes to return to the same age. You won’t fully believe her, but you must. You simply must. You’ll think she’s just saying that because she’s probably in her forties, but she is telling the truth. You still have so, SO much potential in you. So much vigor. So much power. Don’t let college life just drain it out of you, maximize it. I know you never thought you’d ever even get into college, but you will. And you will graduate. Thanks to God.

If there is one absolutely, penultimate, critical thing I can tell you, it is this—and please heed—: Never, EVER… E V E R … get into a relatoinship. It will be the worst thing to happen in your life if you do. Even more damaging than the trauma from your childhood. More damaging than the pressures of surviving the inner-city streets. Even more than the drugs! All those things you will have overcome (through Christ) by the time you’re an adult but this tragedy will be one to break you down to your lowest scintilla. It will change you. It will destroy you.

I know you love music. You love writing. You’re also a natural born artist. You should go to school for music with a sub-major, at least, in art. Also consider studying writing, especially creative writing. You have no idea how far you can go. If you do not listen to me, you may find yourself 30 years old writing a letter to your younger self.

Character Development Freewrite pt. 1

My name is Theodrine. I am 26 years old, I have just moved America from the UK, Liverpool. Some people say that the way I talk is funny but “kind of cool.” I don’t think i talk funny, I think the way they talk is funny. I come from a pretty good upbringing in Liverpool, most other people in the area grew up poor. My parents are relatives of British royalty. I did not grow up extravagantly rich, however. I have come to New York City, an area called Manhattan. There are a lot of big buildings and billboards here. There are even more people. Even more than back home. So many people. I sometimes wonder if any of them know anyone else. How can so many people be in one place so often? The traffic here is rather busy, to say the least. I mostly use the underground subway system to get around. It can be hard to figure out how to get to some far away places. Switching trains, knowing what stops to get off at then knowing where to walk from there. It is all quite new to me, but I am adjusting well. I have been here for two months now. I haven’t made any real friends yet but there are nice people in the apartment building where I live. There is one lovely girl named Anastasia. She is a Latin woman. Very kind with long blonde hair and a beautiful smile. Somehow she reminds me of my mum. I think it is because she always asks me how I am doing today in a way that seems genuine and caring. I would like to talk to her more but I do not know if we share any common interests. Perhaps I can ask about that the next time I see her.

I am considering taking up a new hobby within some sort of social context, this should also serve as a way of meeting new people. I used to like to paint, there is an art school a few blocks away from me. I have thought about taking up a painting class there, just for fun. There is also an art museum across the street from the school. Maybe I will start frequenting the museum, looking around to get inspired. And to get acquainted with others as well. I would like to get involved in physical fitness though–sports. There is a gym near me but every time i pass by I only see an army of people running in place like they’re jogging into battle. I am not a huge proponent of fitness simply for fitness’ sake. I like to have fun. Back home I loved to play cricket; oh how i miss playing cricket. It does not seem to be a popular sport over here in the States. I can’t even find a game on any television program. What kind of country has professional sports without a major cricket league?! Sometimes I don’t quite understand Americans. I will though. They are a fine bunch. I like Americans. I hope to be an American within the next few years, myself.

Picasso Picaresque

Welcome to the picaresque, pick a risk then pick a rest. Make sure it is picturesque. Flick the pest, the child who’ll grow to live off trysts and slit her wrist. The usual for the unusual, victims of the few who shall use you all. View a child atop the hugest wall. We used to bawl for him to come to a stall, now we call for him to make a move and fall. Stay there, son. A weird son, aware some. Beware scum, he’s fearsome. So veer from the glossed frost on the dross. See the tears run from the pail tossed. Speak of your fears none while we await the pale horse. Run your frail course, walk the trail lost and hail costs. Still, it’s to no avail, boss.

Loss.

This is … a verbal Picasso, an herbal antipasto, a historian’s emporium showcasing ancient fossils in a Costco. The VIP is reserved for the lost souls… who know they’re lost souls. There’s a red carpet with a tar pit leading to the flying car market. Prospects get a starter kit if they can test drive and park it on target. Watch out for the Barkets, zombified studs and starlets who’ve lost wits—walk into Target, get a guitar pick to shave their armpits and use a hair to floss with. Mark it; don’t forget or ignore this flawless gauntlet—you could call it an ornate orchid—designed to sting like hornets and upset and offset from the onset. This is … a director on set, an astronaut prepared and all set—just hasn’t launched yet. A gambler who never lost bets or brought debts. A fish who’s caught nets, a hostage who spoke threats, a treasure in a closed chest on a tall crest above a forest.

No rest.

A small test against the zest of this poet’s. I’ll pass the test then pass the test to the next. At a desk impress, confess or jest your best. Dress the mess in less and less duress. Address the text, your stress prevents success. Press, don’t guess—think steps ahead like chess.

Yes.

I used to ride through cities on Shadowfax, now I ride through on shadows’ backs. With a daunting scepter, haunting specters with shallow laughs that strike like a jagged axe. A gaze that stuns, and burns like a graze from the sun. Yeah, a scowl from beneath a cowl, as I growl, howl and prowl on a brazen run. On a mission to save the sons, and save the daughters—the sacred ones. I am the likes of Vader’s son. Sent by the Ancient One (not Doctor Strange’s one), I came tamed, unchained, trained with a light saber and a laser gun. Steel teeth, quasar gums and a razor tongue. Peering where the Savior hung. Praising with a raging lung. Fist raised with a flaming thumb. Dangling from an aging rung. There is nothing another man can save me from.

You got something to add? …

Save me sum.

The 400

Four hundred words.

An army equipped for battle.

An arsenal fit for war.

But alas,

That is not what the power of words is for.

Confusion and mayhem are the devil’s doing,

The same are the Lord’s eschewing.

Yet, for what cause are we using?

As words broil above the bent brow,

An acrid substance is sent down

And spewed from the mouth to destroy.
To destroy.

To destroy.
If words could sprout wings

Would a dove soar from your garden,

Or would a dragon roar from your dark den?

Words could set free, if you hearken;

But would you condemn men, or give pardon?

And if you doubt the depth of this which I write,

Recall the tale of Edmond Dantès’ plight.

If you knew words could mold hearts like clay…

What would you say?

Your words can frame a day;

To deplore

Or to enjoy.
To enjoy.
So rare, yet so common.

No other creature on Earth wields words,

While we waste so many so often.

We become hardened,

While our mental fortitude is softened

To the likes of cotton.

Feeding from the bottom,

Surfeiting on forbidden fruit gone rotten.

In a radioactive wasteland

Where toxins blossom.

We harvest poison petals to season food that tastes bland.

With withering, quivering, hand

We feed our neighbor.

We don’t sense the flavor,

But still savor.

A cyclical process,

Implementing the secret of conquest:

To desensitize.

Because, all the while, we do not realize

We are blindfolded.
Blindfolded.

Blindfolded.
A spring spouting tainted waters

Sits amidst our town.

We gather around

And guzzle pounds

Till we nearly drown.

You can hear the sound

Of the concoction roiling

In the aching bellies

As people lay sprawled and toiling.

Survive today,

You may.

And thrive nevermore.
Thrive nevermore.

Nevermore.
Begin again,

My friend.

Examine your quiver,

Is your bow for a hero

Or for a killer?

I beseech you,

Enter the palace

And drink of the chalice.

Learn to live in a world

Of goodness and balance.

And forget not,

A word spoken

Set the worlds in motion.

Do you still doubt the power of words?

Whence come your society’s norms?

Or know you not how created things gained their forms? …

If you persist to deny,

If you refuse to be swayed

About the power of words

You will yet believe,

When you’ve felt its blade.
When you’ve felt its blade.

Its blade.

#My500Words

Check it, to all my real emcees … ha, no just being silly. This post is about me doing something I want to do yet do not want to do. I am committing to write something every single day for 31 days straight. Not just writing something but writing 500 words each day. It is a plan/method devised by Jeff Goins, I have joined this plan today. This is the prompt for day 1: Commit. Specifically, do so by announcing it. Hence … I have no clue what I’m going to write about. I try to write poetry every day (keyword “try” … *cue Yoda quote*) but it doesn’t always happen. I may try to apply this [attempted] habit to this plan or I might just write randomness. I am thinking about writing parts of a story, as that is something I want to do someday. Write a dope story, as an actual book. Straight up dope creative fiction. I figure this will be a good way to start brainstorming. Yet at the same time I feeel like it might be a waste of such a useful time period of developing this crucial habit. I suppose the mere practice of applying the effort and skill prevents it from being a waste in itself. As I am writing this I am realizing how much five hundred words is. Sheesh. You might have noticed I have stopped using contractions, I have also begun writing out numbers instead of using numerals (e.g. “five hundred” instead of 500). I have also begun inserting parentheticals somewhat unnecessarily (see previous sentence). (Then see precious sentence… again. As in the sentence before this one.) I might also invoke the tendency to use extensive and logorrheic language… wait that’s more letters, not words—useless. I forgot to eliminate the use of contractions in that last sentence, but it is ok because it has served to work out better as I am now explaining that mistake. I sure hope the thirty-one day’s does not go like this because if it does… boy, what a drudgery. I still have so much left to write. Perhaps this is because I am significantly hungry, and tired. My brain feels weary. I am pretty sure this was not supposed to be a free write. I do not even have any kind of paragraph structure or anything in this. If someone is actually reading through this whole thing, I sincerely apologize for what you are witnessing and experiencing. I hope you are a fan of random musings about random musings being writtenly randomly. I know one thing, if I go the route of getting up early everyday for this I better come up with some better material than this. (Note the dual uses of the same word in previous sentence. Actually I am kind of just trying to get to five hundred words faster. Not use of words for number instead of numerals.) Have you ever heard the one about the guy at work, on the tablet… —Oh! Five hundred words.