Exploring Morals

When I was young I remember watching 102 Dalmatians (the one with people in it rather than the cartoon) with my Granny. It had got to the ‘stressful’ part of the movie where the villain almost wins and I asked my Granny why there was “bad people” and more importantly why would they want to harm dogs. For some reason her answer always stuck with me.
“Well it wouldn’t be very interesting to watch without the baddies, don’t you think?”
I didn’t dwell too much on it at the time probably because I just wanted to watch the puppies on screen, but I was recently asked why I loved the “baddies”. The reason why I’m using the word “baddies” instead of villians is because I’m not talking about the viscous villians who have no background or character development like Gaston in Beauty and the Beast. I’m talking about Sharpay in High School Musical who just wanted to perform as the star on stage, I’m talking about Regina from Once Upon A Time who wants to always do what’s best, I’m talking about Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights who never gave up, and so many more. To be honest I never knew how much I supported baddies until I began writing that list and had to edit out so many others.
I guess the question is why? Why do I root for these characters over the ones that I am encouraged to because their moral beliefs are emphasised. Well, to begin with, I was never one for letting someone else decide how I feel about something. However, I also think it’s because I can never seem to fully relate to main characters. I loved Summer more than Marissa in The O.C., I loved Cat and Jade in Victorious more than Tori, I loved Bonnie and Catherine more than Elaina in The Vampire Diaries, Christina over Tris in Divergent, and also so many others that aren’t from teen television… hah!
Main characters always seemed too “composed” for me. A bit too flawless with not enough personality. Which, I know, is how a plot should be written. It is also partially the reason why I can never seem to finish a story.
I never love my main character enough to care about their whole story. I know it sounds silly because obviously I can write whatever I want, but it never flows as much as writing about the “side kick” or “baddies”.
These underrated characters are always under appreciated as the hero or heroine essentially makes the last move and is given credit for everything.
Simply, they never interested me enough.
My Granny was right. It wouldn’t be interesting to watch without them.

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Grave Expectations

I hate cleaning my room
Not for the dust that gathers or the socks I forgot to pick up
But for the grave yard I discover

Filled with items from hobbies that I quit faster than I blinked

Guitars and other instruments I grew bored of
Sport medals from games I hated
Dance photos and drama tickets before stage fright kicked in
Art supplies that I never properly used

Started collections of dream catchers and snow globes
All started in a moment of passion
Only to fizzle out to something I used to do

But there was always my book shelf to remain constant
Even if it wasn’t constant with the same books

The only dust to gather was at the top

Since I can remember I always loved reading
It’s a reminder that something that can change so often can still capture my attention so despite all the things I used to do is in not a comparison to the books I used to own that each took me on their own adventure only to drop me back to the shelf

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Hair

When I was young I danced
My hair was scraped back in a bun
Not a strand out of place or on my face
Specifically too tight to avoid an onstage disaster
My hair out of my face made me focus

Swimming always had my hair in a braid
When it was down it was just annoying
When it was up it was just restricting
In the sea with a plait made me feel like a mermaid
With the salt causing natural beach waves
Never causing me hassle with a volatile ocean

A few years later I attempted football
My hair was thrown back in a messy pony tail
Instead of my unsuitable bun
Explained as too easy to grab
The pony tail flicked and swayed like the sport
A team trying to keep some femininity
While covered in dirt and bruises

Hair became important as I got older
Style defined personality
But I was just self conscious
My hair was let down for me to hide in it
A side fringe just like everyone else
Who just wanted to fit in

When I was stressed I did my hair
Rather than bite my nails or clean around me
Effortlessly using heat tools to make my hands busy
Perfecting curls to distract from every thing else I didn’t have control over
When my hair was up I felt like a slob
Instead of the dancer, the swimmer, and the footballer I one was

My life has been distracted with heat tools and hair products
And one day I hope to chop it all off
Lose responsibilities without losing my originality
But today is not that day

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Yikes August

Dear August,

You were shit.
Okay that might be a bit harsh, but I was never one to always think positively, you know that. I had a bad month with you, and I’m finding that hard to accept. Endings of months have always been significant to me, where I recap and analyse all that happened within four weeks that feel like little chapters in my life. I like each chapter to have a happy ending, so I usually gloss over the dark days and embrace the good ones to even out the fuller picture. However, I can’t do that with you August.
You was my worst stats month since 2014. You know this doesn’t really mean that much to me in terms of figures because I know I didn’t work for them like I usually do. That was my problem with you. I didn’t look over drafts, I didn’t interact and I didn’t put my full effort into it like I usually try to. I put no work into it or you. I didn’t want to, to be honest. Mostly, I just didn’t feel in the mood. Don’t get me wrong August, I kept writing. I have so many first drafts that my laptop is full of storage and my brain is ready to pop. Ideas were just blurted out and copied and pasted thirty minutes before my self deadline. You’re making me reconsider that self deadline. I’m embarrassed to look over my blog for your month. It’s the first time I haven’t been proud of my writing, and I can’t say sorry enough.
Personal writing was thrown out the window in exchange for cryptic poetry with too many metaphors because I didn’t want to open up a can of worms, which would just leave more rambles, like what is happening now. August, you just left me feeling like I was being pulled from all sides without anyone actually wanting anything from me. Helpless almost. I’m a bit worn out from you, but I’d like to think I will welcome you back next year.
I don’t know why it is your month that broke me. Nothing too harsh happened. The problem was a lot happened. Looking back, you’re kind of a blur. Then again, that could just be my mind trying to get over you. I’m sorry things didn’t go well this time August. I’m not sure what my next move is, but I couldn’t handle playing cryptic games any more like we used to do. You deserve better. We deserve better.
I don’t know why I wrote a letter to you August.
I guess I just wanted someone else to take the blame for me.

All my affection,
Eimear.

P.S. I’m moving out tomorrow.

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Viewing a Self Destruction

Scientists believe that we will have functional robots by 2020. This means that after years of prototyping and difficult algorithms trying to be so exactly precisely correct, there will be a final product. To build a this final project, you need equipments, materials, and labourers. If a robot is built incorrectly, it will be discarded or recycled to make a new one. If a robot cannot be fixed, then someone will try to make it again.
However, there’s also the possibility of a faulty robot. Perfectly perfect until one day a crash, bang, beep, or boop happens.
The robot begins to shut itself down. The blinking lights and everything else are still on show, slowly fading. The walking gets slower, the commands get slower and the insides are self destructing.
There is no pain.
No vomiting.
No change of colour.
No change of mood.
No sudden damage.
Engineers are on autopilot when a faulty robot occurs. They are almost so used to it that it almost has no effect on them anymore. There are so many variations of the same problem to them, but it can usually be narrowed down to a specific fault. Engineers fix what they can, and hope the problem doesn’t get worse. They can only help as much as possible.
They don’t have the magic to make it better.
When I think about this I envy the robots. We don’t have a solution when a fault occurs.
We just have to watch the slow decline of a body shutting down.

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Waving hello again

The only time I ever experienced peace
Was in the sun and the rain
At the darkest night and the brightest morning
In a haven large enough to share with the world
That I took advantage of
Until it took advantage of me

A toxic relationship is an easy comparison
With all my trust over all my years
Broken in one decision making me feel empty
Creating a panic inside me if I dare to think too much
Breath In Breath Out
Control that I never appreciated before

The feeling of betrayal is haunting
Making me second guess
Everything
If I was just lucky all those years
If I was just lied to
If I was the one who was wrong

However I’m always lured back
By happy memories
Familiar feelings
My broken heart is finally beginning to mend
The excitement of the sea now brings a rush
I think I’m ready to go back

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The First August

This is the first August in five years that I’m not going to spend in Continental Europe

The first August I’m not packing my bags
The first August I’m not getting my camera ready
The first August I’m not excited to see everyone
The first August I’m not flying to the sun
The first August I’m not going to feel the warm air hit
The first August I’m not arriving in a new place
The first August I’m not reading by the pool
The first August I’m not discovering new cuisine
The first August I’m not drinking by the campfire
The first August I’m not having midnight barbecues
The first August I’m not begging for anyone to pose for pictures
The first August I’m not arguing over who does the washing up
The first August I’m not sending postcards
The first August I’m not sharing stories
The first August I’m not laughing until I can’t breathe
The first August I’m not coming back with new stories

The first August I’m not with him

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Sinking Ship

The worst kind of feeling is the sinking stomach
As if the weight of the world has crashed in
Flushed face, tensed body
Horrible
I got this feeling recently and for a split second I remembered everything that ever made me feel this way
This time I said something to someone
It wasn’t bad what I said – it was the fact I said anything at all
It wasn’t my fault I got an awful response – it wasn’t replying directly to me to be a personal hit
It was part of something much bigger that neither of us was apart of
Nevertheless on obligatory opposite sides
But it still hurt
And for that spilt second the sinking feeling hurt internally more than what the reply actually said
It’s embarrassment
It’s shame
It’s guilt
It’s humiliation
It’s over thinking
It’s everything I want to avoid
For that split second I blamed everyone else
After that I calmed myself down
It wasn’t anyone’s fault except for the person who replied to me
Who probably thinks they’re being loyal
I don’t want to dwell but I forget how naive I am
It brought me back to the 14 year old me who tried to fit in and was inevitably crushed
14 year old me learned how to filter out people who crushed me
I take this experience as a lesson
To appreciate my friends and family
If I took it negatively, they’d win

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Searching for the Sun

 

Joy found herself in a slump but, not in the usual way.
Everyone has their down days, and this isn’t something she’s alien to.
This time it was different.
It wasn’t the usual sad cry over a puppy or worrying about something blown out of proportion. For those situations Joy is prepared. She has her happy playlist of songs. She has saved videos on YouTube that inspire her. She has her creativity as an outlet. She has people to share with and support. Joy is completely aware of all these things.
Yet, this time it was different for Joy.
It was different because she didn’t want to listen to the songs or watch the videos or talk to anyone. She wanted to remain sad, which scared her.
She did the opposite of what she usually does. She listened to sad music and watched sad videos, stopped engaging online and faded out of her social groups.
She doesn’t know why.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know what has caused the different hormones and stress levels and chemicals to react the way they have to create someone I don’t recognise.
I’m scared that I’ll remain this way.
But I’m even more scared that I’ll want to remain this way.
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