Goodbye Columbus

Well it was bound to happen again, wasn't it? This time though I've learned from my mistakes and will not make the same errors I did previously. I think though, the more important aspect, is, for the first time ever, I've truly emotionally changed someone with my very own words. For a writer, there is nothing more assuring than knowing you can do that with your words. True, these are probably the most charged words I've ever written, but if I did that once, then surely I can do that again. And that is what will keeping me writing, the search to produce something like that another time, maybe even two more times.

She's nice but I'm not sure it will work. In my heart I hope it will because she's smart and nice and cute. But, as I learned before, there're too many unknowns, too many spanners to my plan. I don't, maybe I'm the eternal pessimist, but I hope that when I walk into that class she's there smiling at me, rubbing legs under the table while the teacher's words mean nothing to me because I'm so wrapped up in her. That's what I want.

I guess it's Goodbye Columbus for the other. It'd been good for a while, but there'd been too much between us. So that's that. What's done cannot be undone. I'm already tired of it all, the afternoons spent wiling away my time at soccer only to never touch the field. Why do I refuse to speak up? Intelligence, or cowardice? I like to think the former, but realistically, it may be the latter. I could scream and yell for more time, but what of it? It would lead me to nothing. Probably anything I do will result in nothing.

So this is the state of my life. One final word- there's never a better feeling in the world knowing someone likes you. I would chatacterize it as excessive exhiliaration. I've felt it twice so far in my life. Hopefully these will be the first two in a long line.

Again :)

you welcome :), i mean i definitely understand because it is such an intense topic, especially if you don't know how the other person feels about you


i feel a lot better now that i got that off my chest... thanks for understanding :)


no, i definitely give you props for telling me that, thank you :-) that made me feel special ;-)





well whatever... you don't know, it's tough to tell a girl that




i figured, i mean the poem kind of said it all




alright, basically i like you... there i said it



do i want to know what that is supposed to mean




it might be ;)




oh, trying to make me feel special? is that for a special reason





i hoped it would



that makes me feel really special





don't worry i won't get full of myself. you're the first person i've shown this poem to.



I just read your poem again and it made me cry- in a good way, thats how much i like it, i think you should get it published


WOW, Im definitely complimenting you too much, you might get full of yourself soon

COMMENT TO FOLLOW LATER

Who are you?

Consider two men: the first, a city-dweller, the second a man of the country. Which one lives a happier life? The city-dweller awakes each morning to the unnatural blaring monotone of his alarm clock, and, dreary eyed, pulls himself into a tight, uncomfortable suit, the only appropriate garb for the city office. He rushes (and what for?) to catch his bus, his train, his subway that will deliver him into his compressed hell. He scarves down a meal of chemicals designed to clog his arteries and cut his life short. What does he do when he reaches his office? He simply fritters the day away, for what useful occupation can be had at an office desk? Yes, he appears busy, he works himself into a frenzy to deliver the latest news, write the latest reports, please his superior, but what has he actually accomplished? In what way has he furthered himself, and, for that matter, the human race? The modern man takes himself too seriously: he fears the consequences of the artificial deadline. He believes that what he does is of the utmost import and that the world cannot do without it. He never stops to consider that millions of people around the world, from the office worker in Chicago to the merchant in Calcutta, live this same frivolous existence, plodding through life and never stopping to consider all the options that await him if he would merely pick his head up. Many people, faced by a firing squad, would rather struggle in their bondage, than passively let bullets strike them dead.
Now, enter the second man. He is a woodsman, living in the shade of the alpine forest. He is skilled in all the natural trades: swimming, shooting, fishing, wood carving. Each morning, he is awoken at first dawn by the slant of the sun upon his face. He spends his days not furthering unknown others who reside in the upper offices of London and Geneva, but rather in furthering himself. He cuts his own wood for his own fires, his catches his own trout for his own meals. He has ample time for himself, but this time is not wasted in inane pastimes. The man of the woods reads, writes, contemplates life. He realizes how fortunate his existence is, how lucky he is to see Nature in all its wild beauty. He alone sees the rain pelting the empty fields with gray clouds stretching behind the towering wooded peaks. He alone sees the early morning mist hanging low in the forest valleys, he alone tastes the icy waters of the lonely Northern lake. And at the end of the day, when he settles in his blanket and looks up at the indigo sky, worlds away from sickly orange haze that overhangs the metropolis, he can list the tasks he has accomplished that day. He is able to say, “I’ve walked nine miles, cut eight cords of wood, caught three trout, felt the wind ruffle my hair, the sun beat my back.” What has the urbanite done in one day? Confronted with the question, he will probably forget what he had for lunch! And, in time, when the woodsman lays down to die, he can smile to himself and know he’s seen and felt the World: the fierce heat of summer, the quiet after a midwinter snow, a blue jay chirping in the beechwood on an early April morning, the purple evening sky in October after a blustery afternoon. The urbanite will die like a firework, creating bright, loud sparks and dimming, but never completely extinguishing for years, before meekly bowing out leaving stones unturned, paths untrodden. Only on the point of death will he see the hills outside his hospice window and stop to consider what might have been.
It is left to debate whether the city-dweller or woodsman is ultimately the happier man. To each his own, the adage goes. The urbanite could live a completely happy life as a well-to-do dandy. The woodsman could remain a pauper, roving from village to village in the countryside never finding satisfaction. But more important is which man is honest with himself, which man knows the world for what it is, in all its glory and meanness, which man sees what humanity was and what it will come to be, which man can grasp his destiny in his palm. Some say Polaris is brighter in the countryside.