I screamed at you to get off me but you couldn’t hear my fears through your murmurs, attempting to reassure me that everything’s going to be all right. Maybe I screamed so loud, no sound came out except for a light please… no… Maybe I screamed so loud, I didn’t hear you comforting me so maybe that’s why your reassurance was blurry to my ears. Maybe I didn’t even scream intruder so how would you even know you weren’t invited.
Maybe I left the key visible, knowing you are a thief. I had sent my guards for a pot of tea since the chilly air brought on the eerie feeling that something was about to happen and I needed the extra warmth.
By warmth, I hadn’t meant the hot salty tears mixed with the burn of the water as I tried to wither myself down the drain. By warmth, I hadn’t meant the thick wool blankets stacked on top of my body warming me to sleep away my conscience. By warmth, I hadn’t meant the hot flush of my face whenever the thought of you flashed across my mind. By warmth, I hadn’t meant the drowning in intoxicating poison until my heart became too numb to feel cold. But that lack of warmth has left me in endless shivers. Standing in the dessert and the curls of feet are yearning for the blanket of the sun. Standing in front of the sun midday has me arms raised hugging, pleading, for the sun to share with me its precious heat.
I screamed at you to let me go. Or maybe my eyes just flashed and you mistook it for want. I screamed at myself for coming to you. Maybe it … It was my fault for being there. It was my fault for giving you the keys to my secret garden; my fault for mapping out the hidden roses; my fault for watching you pick the rose petals and crumble them between your fingers and my fault for convincing myself it’s okay they’ll bloom again next season; it’s my fault for pretending not to notice you silently watching you watch me in silent aggressive desire; my fault for not turning away; my fault for ignoring my instinct warnings; my fault for giving in. It’s my fault for being guilty, for feeling guilty, my fault for remembering.
I screamed at you to get off of me, but all you did was laugh.
Many people have this misconception that intelligence is based on what’s rare in their culture or community that is of great rank. For example, in some societies, being a mathematician would equal intelligence, being an big time athletic could indicate intelligence, being knowledgeable in a certain subject could certain subject could symbolize intelligence (the specific one could lead to the discussion between the difference of intelligence and wisdom. I’d be inclined to ask if the difference is based on the fact that wisdom is not genetic, but I could debate that intelligence isn’t always genetic either, in fact I wonder if being wise would also mean being intelligent because a wise person may learn from past mistakes and teach those life lessons to others. If a person is intelligent would the intelligence of that person mean the same thing, would it still mean that the person is intelligent or only has intelligent moments? So as I think about it, could intelligence come and go or is it a lasting attribute? If intelligence could be taught, then the lesson learned would be gained wisdom (but maybe only if they use that intelligence in the real world because most people mean knowledgeable about life when referring to one being wise). Lastly, the question could lead to another question: could being knowledgeable about a particular subject also lead to being intelligent? And that question leads us back to our list of possible connotations behind the word intelligent.
I finished reading the chocolate war by Robert Cormier yesterday. I heard about it before when I was younger but I never had the chance to read it.
Now that I read it; WOW!!! This book is definitely now on my forever book list.
It is haunting, disturbing, brutal, and very realistic!
The book is about a boy attending a religious private school who refuses to participate in a school tradition (selling chocolates) which leads to psychological mayhem. This book isn’t about the fundraiser. It is about the power of an individual, it’s about peer pressure, conformity, rules, evil, and good.
The book is depressing and doesn’t give you hope as if saying Evil will win but always try to do the good thing even if you know you’ll lose.
Jerry’s thoughts at the end are heartbreaking, “They tell you to do your thing but they don’t mean it. They don’t want you to do your thing, not unless it happens to be their thing, too. It’s a laugh, Goober, a fake. Don’t disturb the universe, Goober, no matter what the posters say.”
In the third grade, I was asked by a fellow classmate how much money my father made. I looked at the girl in disbelief and by the look of her face; I immediately knew that no answer would satisfy her. These kids were made of money, grew up with money, and grew up with an ideology that my parents worked hard to prevent me from falling into. My face deepened with unnecessary shame and I stuttered to try to find an answer and I ended up saying that that my father was rich even though that money-wise, we weren’t rich at all. That night, when my father came home from work, I told him what the girl had asked me and he looked me in the eye and said “We may not be rich but that doesn’t matter because your heart is made of gold”.