Success - Haters Gonna Hate

 

The heavy hush is deafening as the professor makes his way down the rows of desks. Result after result is slowly  handed back, drawing out the painful wait. A stifled scream in the back row. A relieved sigh in the first. Some just stuff their papers into the depths of their bags and quickly hustle out. You hear his heavy footsteps before you even notice his eyes centered on you, picking you out amongst the hundreds. You watch as he places the stack of sheets on your desk, paralyzed with fear or shivering in anticipation. Is it actually bleeding red ink, or is it just you? Don’t even look him in the face, lest he lure you into a false sense of security... or impending doom. What will you do? Open it? Leave it until later? Shred it altogether? Try to ignore it, but everyone knows their Facebook Newsfeed is (even as they think) being flooded with posts of carefree consolation and outrageous outbursts. You’re going to find out some way or another. As you walk out, you overhear a classic conversation: 

 

“Oh man, that one kicked my ass.”

“Tell me about it. Gun-fellatio anyone?”

“Count me in.” 

“Oh yeah. How’d you do?”

“I’m so sick of this shit. A-, man.”

“Are you kidding me?! I barely scraped a C!”

 

What follows next is no secret. Mr. High-Achiever is mercilessly railed on for being an ungrateful git and an asshole. His friends tell him to shut his mouth and proceed to ignore anything he says for the next few minutes. Clearly, his only intention was to make them feel absolutely rotten about their marks and promote his own sense of pride and achievement. Right?

 

Wrong. Newsflash: Not everyone is equal. If that were so, I could as easily model for Sports Illustrated as Kate Upton - fortunately, bikinis just don’t do my curves justice. Each of us has a different set of standards, and we hold ourselves accountable to them. You came to school to study, to excel, and to (hopefully) do something you love. There will always be classes that you intensely dislike - even hate to the very core of your being - but are required to take nonetheless. Students face this in different ways. Either, “I’m going to do whatever it takes to knock this out of the park”, or “I’m going to do whatever it takes to pass and get it out of my way”. Whether you know it or not, you’ve adopted one of these mindsets. 

 

Some may tackle this hypothetical class aiming for the highest grade they can achieve. They may not come out of it with an A. Maybe not even a B. Whether or not this outcome was their fault is another discussion entirely, but what this proves is that people are not equal. So why should we expect them to hold themselves to the same standards? Furthermore, why should others trash them for achieving either higher - or lower - grades? 

 

On that note, I’m not vindicating these Mr. and Mrs. High-Achievers. There are definitely a fair number of them who take some sardonic delight in watching others feel miserable about their own marks, by promptlessly broadcasting their success to all those within earshot. No, this is instead a cry-out to more modest high-achievers: students who needn’t feel horrible about succeeding where others have failed. 

 

Please, for the love of curved-classes, keep your marks to yourself unless otherwise asked. Keep them quiet, because they are for you and you alone. At the same time, if you do ask someone about their grades, don’t self-righteously come out and attack them because they performed better than you. You asked for it, so move on. It’s the plague of all successful people, whether they’re ‘Good Guy Gregs’ or ‘Scumbag Steves’: Haters gonna hate.

 

Lost in Anger

A Storm rolls in, thunder n' lightning, as wrath climbs. Time is inconsequential, as all else is swept aside. Here and now are only and all. Doubt gone, reason lost and peace pointless. It escalates: all in its path is demolished; friend and foe. Blind. What before was endless enmity, gives way now to distressed dread, as fury falls to fear. As the Emotion wanes and falls beneath his horizon, Realization dawns, sheds light on the aftermath. Stagnating. Festering. The Cicatrice of Cognizance. Leaves mute Pain. Deadly Despair in the Spectral Solitude.

We Are The Generation

We are the generation.

The generation of invisibility. The youth of older thought. We are the generation of iPods and Facebook. We hide in the weavings of the world wide web, taking solace and comfort in the muted transit behind blaring headphones, watching this human existence pass us by like leaves in the autumn wind - whisking us absentmindedly towards the cold, dark winter of our lives.

We are the sons of success, the daughters of defeat: expected always to do what we cannot, thought always to be less than we are. We are the masked faces of our insecurities, clothed in compensation and swathed in self-importance. Donning designers and bearing brands so that their names may outweigh our own, in the hopes that their outer exuberance will blot our our inner inadequacy.

We are the generation of wasted potential, of admitted defeat and of the road often traveled.

We cling to the pillars of the past, seeking comfort in their established security, though we look desperately forward. Our gaze fall slowly to the ground, for these thoughts of a future within our grasp are left unfulfilled. These thoughts are birds without wings, fish without fins, fires without heat and waters without wet. They may have dreams and hopes, but they haven't the force or drive to bring them there. This is our defeat. This is our end. This is our downfall.

Rise up. Rise against the forces of self-defeat and indecision. Do not doubt our power. Do not simply fall into mutual silence, quiet against the deafening storm of the present - for the future is ours, and it comes immediately after. If we are not ready, it shall slip from our grasp, and we will have no one to blame but ourselves.

We are the generation of hidden stories, lost livelihood and buried burdens. The elders of juvenile ideas. We are the generation of political activism and societal revival. We stand proud before our culture of anonymity and empowered-differences.

I am not only me, but one part of we. We are the generation, and we must stand together.

The Written Word

The written word is freedom. Where this world has limits, it has none: it can be anything and everything. From a field of endless possibilities to a sea of unchartered waters, it revises, refines and reshapes into anything it needs to; adjusting, adapting and altering its very being to achieve its end.


It is strong, it is fearless and it is proud. It knows what it wants, it knows what it needs and it asks for nothing.

It is unselfish and ungrudging, offering only life and light for those who will hear its voice. Never forget it, and it will never forget you. It will serve you with undying loyalty through the good and the bad, the light and the darkness with all the passion and devotion it can afford. 


It is an ally to be loved and an enemy to be feared. Learn it, love it, live it and you will know true immortality.


It is a friend of the truest kind, and it is beautiful beyond the boundless reaches of the imagination.

Powerless

The colours faded,
Their luster gone.
No darkness nor light,
The twilight's eager dawn.

Our heart's hollow,
Our mind astray.
Senses clouded,
As the heavy fog's Grey.

We seek, search, forage,
For something hidden and lost,
Yearn to feel its comfort hold,
No matter what the cost.

But it's no item, no useless trinket,
That belies our aching mind.
Like a summer breeze t'will come,
To its will; resigned.

No power, nor say,
To forego its seamless right.
Veiled; your soul it seeps,
For all the endless night.

Question your heart, your longing lust
And all you that hold dear.
So then you see, what you want
Is really not so clear.

That thing worth finding,
S'not to be found at all.
Til we cease the search,
And heed it's timely call.

Coming Home

When I was almost three years old, my parents took me to Disneyland Paris. A family trip to get away from Britain - and go to France (don't ask me what they were thinking). For someone that young, I remember it quite well. Rides, characters and shows, it was a real riot!

However, looking back, one ride I could never seem to stomach was that monstrous It's A Small World... What's so cute about an army of disturbing dancing dolls singing the same set of lyrics until it's coming out your ears? Not to mention those terrifying, constant grins painted on their faces. And it didn't matter how happy go-lucky the damn music was, or how many different sets of clothes they were dressed up in or how it was that the untouched native-american dolls could speak and sing in flawless english - you still left without some small part of your soul. And here's the best part: when you'd had enough, when you'd come to your senses, when you'd realized that you might not leave with your sanity intact, you would turn to leave and - whoops. That's right, you're in a goddamn rickety boat stuck in a little horror-moat (the rhyme fits the scene).



It takes a sick mind to devise such a house-of-horrors for poor, innocent children. Damn you, Walt Disney. Stick to caricatures of talking mice, ducks and dog-creatures (what the hell is Goofy anyway?), and leave the real world depictions to Michael Moore (no.... wait).



In any case, I went to DisneyWorld about a year ago now, much older and wiser in the ways of the 'small world' (at least, compared to my two-year-old self). And, waywardly wandering around the Magic Kingdom, I came across none other than the same damned ride. We each stared the other down, circling around like some mexican standoff (except we were in Florida, and I was the only one moving). Finally, I swallowed my fear, summoned my courage and bravely walked in.

Though they may have stopped the ride midway because my brave war-cry was drowning out the dolls' satanic chanting, I damned-well made that ride my bitch. Walking (or escorted) out with my head held high, I bought myself a victory-popsicle from the hairy vendor across the road. However, while sitting down and thoroughly enjoying the sight of a fat Cinderella trying to make it up the castle steps, I could think only of that ride. Is it really such a small world?

When I moved to North America 10 years ago, I hated it and refused to accept it. But this summer, I left my house in Canada, my friends, books and car, hopping a plane bound for Europe. I've traveled for the better part of my life, moved ten times, attended eight different schools, and lived in four different countries on three different continents. And yet, for the first time in memory - I didn't want to leave. Why?



Now I sit here in Germany, having just come back from the pub with an old friend. He fished up that old memory when, after our food had been set down, he turned to me and said:

"So, Alex. You've moved so many times, and you've a German passport, but vhere is home for you?" (in his thick German accent)

I was about to reply, but I paused suddenly - I couldn't answer. Nothing came to mind immediately, as it used to. Instead, I sat there pondering, racking my brains for an answer. An answer, and not to his question, but to why my usual one no longer felt right. A few moments went by, and he could tell I was having a little trouble. He took a swig from his mug of Hefe-Weissbier, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and said:

"Ah, mein freund." he chuckled "Now zis becomes an entirely different question. Vhat exactly is a home for you?"

I took a sip of my beer and shook myself awake. What is home? I quote Jack Sparrow:
"That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and hull and a deck and sails. That's what a ship needs. But what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom."




In the same way, a home isn't just a roof and ceilings, a floor and doors. That's what a home may need, but a home is... what it REALLY is... is something else entirely.


"Home is where I hang my hat", "Home is the place where it feels right to walk around without shoes", "Home is where you can scratch where it itches". But we're all so different, and such a vital things means something so different to each of us that it becomes difficult to find an all-consuming, universal, flexible and adaptive definition - Yeah, way to go, Captain Obvious.



But then we get back to the demon-ride. This world isn't so small when you think about it. Yeah, toss aside the internet, the telephones, fax machines and computers and what do you have? A magnificently colossal world, ripe with unknown places and adventures. I'm not saying toss me a fedora, a whip, a fear of snakes and start calling me Indiana Jones (although I sure as hell wouldn't mind) - but I am trying to say that in this giant world, home is something to be valued and understood.
There are so many great thoughts, ideas and opinions on what Home truly is.


"Home is not where you live, but where they understand you" - Christian Morganstern
"Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to" - John Ed Pearce
"Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in" - Robert Frost

We all need to have our own definitions of home. So as I sat there, running my fingers through my hair, my friend looked at me and said:

"Alex, I don't know about you, but no matter vhere I travel in ze verld, I see my home as some-sing I can come back to. And zis vun sing to come back to, is ze place vhere I have somevun vaiting for me. Somevun who matters a lot." he smiled, holding his mug out to me. I grinned, picked up mine, knocked it against his and we drained them both.

Yeah, I've traveled for the better part of my life. I haven't felt at home since I left the U.K. over ten years ago, and I now understand why it felt so odd leaving Canada this summer. A passport, a piece of paper, cannot tell me (or anybody) where home is.



I've unconsciously made that frozen wasteland my home, through its frigid winters, its sweltering summers and its endless political-correctness. I am by no means Canadian, but neither am I entirely German, South-African or British. I am a world citizen, and my home is in the "true north, strong and free". Why? Because of the people I've come to love and miss.

"A house is made of walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams." - English proverb



My home is where there are people waiting for me, people who mean something, something strong and often indescribable - and though my travels have only just begun, I'll be back home before long.

Quietus and Freedom

To break free of these mortal bonds, Man has embarked upon quest after quest. Delving into the mystic and ages old books of yore, seeking out the legends and myths kept alive by scholars, passed down by peasants and nobles alike: to drink from the Holy Grail… to bathe in the Fountain of Youth… to sip the Elixir of the Philosopher’s Stone… Many names, for one quest.

One might say it is in our nature to focus only on what we can achieve, what could be… and not what is. So absorbed in our own selfish core, we don’t dare look upon our lives, fearing disappointment and the pangs of guilt. Why? Because, again, it’s our nature.

True as that may be, nature can be overcome: “That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this” (Hamlet). With patience and the practice of true virtues, we can achieve the end of selfishness and banish it from our minds. From practice, into habits and finally to custom: we can conquer our own nature. How else does one face their fears? Heights, spiders, enclosed spaces or another Rebecca Black single, it’s all the same. Go sky-diving, subscribe to The Fear Factor, move into an elevator or learn to tie a hangman’s noose (let’s face it, there’s no other way).

We take for granted what we have, blind to our own blessings. Is not everything far more beautiful when we are mortal? One thing is sure in your life: that you will die. Whether its of old age or sickness, we are all doomed, and it is THIS doom that makes everything we experience in this life so valuable. The end will come, you may know of it, you may not, but it is there… waiting. But do not fear it, embrace it. Accept it. THAT is how we conquer death. It is in fearing it that we give ourselves up to it, that we lay down our arms and surrender.

The quest for mythical objects is a fool’s errand. It is BECAUSE our time on earth is limited that every moment becomes precious. It is BECAUSE we are doomed that we are so fortunate. Immortality is a curse, nothing holds meaning or significance. Carpe Diem... for it comes only once. And it will not come again. Therein lies it's value.

Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift, and that is why it is called the present. Cherish it.

Kaleidoscope

Like it or not, when all else dissolves and melds together into something we cannot understand, the wisest thing to do is to extricate ourselves from it and get back to basics. We broaden our views, we reevaluate our values, our beliefs, our ideas. We ponder what matters most and what we can do without. Purge ourselves of the things that cause only pain. When all's said and done, we can look at ourselves and be happy. Why? Because we've managed to isolate what makes us happy and we've gone for it; full steam ahead. What else is there to life, than to be happy? To enjoy it? To rejoice in every smile and revel in each moment we are with those we care about?

But we are only human, and as such, we are prone to such fits of rational thinking that we forget what makes us happy, and debate it instead. Things are no longer so simple as: "That makes me hella happy." No, now it's become: "Does it really make me happy?" Why follow in Hamlet's footsteps? LOOK where it got him. Life is not without risks, to try and avoid every single speed bump, every tight turn and every shady corner, would be to lose sight of what life is really about. It's about the rush we get from sheer and utter bliss. It's not about the breaths we take, rather the moments that take our breath away (Cheesy? yes. Wrong? No.)

Life is a Kaleidoscope; a barrage of ideas fired at us in quick succession. What we make of them, is up to us and us alone. NEVER for others to tell us how, why and what to see in them. Take what you see and make it your own! That's your right. Your inalienable right to a choice. A choice to live life the way YOU want to, not the way you THINK you should live it.

Purge. Recapture. Live.

We see what we want to, and to others it may be completely different. One man's treasure is another's trash. The most brilliant diamond; a piece of dirt. The most delicate bloom; a loathsome weed. It goes on, and on, and on. Once lost, we forget the ties we held and we see things in a new eye, sometimes better, sometimes worse than we saw them before. WE must do what's right by us. It's a fool's errand to do otherwise.

The past is not the present, nor will it be the future unless YOU allow it to. Those who live in the past, allow it to transcend to the present, live beyond its time and (without due action) become the future that awaits all of us. Lose yourself, and you find what you are REALLY made of. Lose all the preconceived facts that you THINK make up who you are, and you get to the nitty-gritty, cold, hard beauty that is YOU. From there, you write your own person, your own choices, your own beliefs, your own fate. Look in the mirror, everything you are is a result of your choices. You are the artist of your own life: a painting of epic proportions, a mosaic of untold beauty, a sculpture of the utmost detail and a piece of music the likes of which the world has NEVER heard, nor will it ever again.

Metamorphosis

“I don’t want to be anything or anyone I wasn’t meant to be. I am who I am, and to be anything different isn’t being true to myself.”

It’s these words that bring me out of my half-dazed state in Rutherford Lounge. I shake my head, what does that even mean?

Tell me, when did humanity become so static? When did timeless Change suddenly decide that human nature was exempt? Since when were we just one person? One set of invariable and inert characteristics? Never.

I turn to my friend, drawing her gaze until I have her attention.

From the time we’re conceived, brought kicking and screaming into this world, we change. Time changes everything, second by second, day by day and year by year. To be so naive and self-consumed that we are one, stable being and character unaffected by Time’s eternal and inescapable grasp is a fool’s notion and is better abandoned than strived for.

She sighs, unconvinced, we are only as capable as the world around us allows us to be, operating within a set of limitations and boundaries. I shake my head.

Granted, we are small beings, but with immeasurable power over our own lives and others, our smallest actions reverberate through a world connected through emotions and feelings, thoughts and ideas. Not only do our own actions change others, but in so doing, change ourselves as well.

She rolls her eyes: it’s the fight for our beliefs against the accepted dogma that allow us to preserve ourselves. I nod: but does that fight not define you? Make you stronger? Make you more confident?

Why not embrace it and let it change you? Change can be beautiful too - you just have to change yourself to see it, accept it with new eyes. We build who we are over time, build character, integrity, courage, honour, trust, temperance, fortitude, prudence and justice. Trying to avoid it is futile; it is natural, it is all-consuming, it is beautiful. It takes so many diverse forms that we cannot even begin to understand how far it stretches, over boundaries, both physical and psychological. From the beat of the smallest butterfly in India, to the chaos of the largest hurricane in Mexico. From the most insignificant, fleeting wink, to the three most powerful words on the planet.

She raises an eyebrow and begins to actively listen, as I grin and continue.

We grow. We learn. We live. We love. We take risks, make choices, lay it on the line. All of these things change. Yeah, each choice is based on the way we think, but each choice in-turn changes how we think thereafter, influencing future decisions for years to come. Change is not biased, nor is it limited. It can act microscopically and macroscopically, changing everything and anything. The more we try to avoid it, the more we become slaves to it, letting it control our actions regardless; all done in a fruitless and barren attempt to keep it from touching us.

She taps her fingers unconsciously on the worn plastic table before us: But I’m no quantum physicist, Alex. I could sure as hell try, but I’d be a useless wreck. That’s who I am. I chuckle awkwardly, yeah alright, but there’s a difference between ability or potential and enjoyment. You might not be in place to enjoy quantum physics right now, maybe never, but who says you can’t do it?

People often say that they can't help who they are, that they can't escape it. It's your bloody choice to walk away and accept difficulty, to give in, to submit. Don't try. It's just an intention to fail. You choose from the very beginning to be overwhelmed. The human mind is capable of more than many of us can dream. It was once unthinkable to amass $1,000,000,000. Enter John D. Rockefeller. Human flight was a fairy tale. Thank the Wright Brothers. The very idea of a black president was a joke not even worth mentioning over dinner. Barack Obama challenged it. ALL of it has changed. Why? Because people believed that things could change. People can be selfish, can be cruel, can be wicked. But they can also be selfless, good and benevolent.

Blinking repeatedly, she ponders what I’ve said and the recognition shows in her sea green eyes.

You can sit on your ass and blame the world for your predicament, but quite frankly, it’s on you to change. It’s nobody’s fault but our own that we find ourselves where we are. A good friend of mine has managed to turn full-circle: 360-bloody-degrees. From a life he despised, from a past he was once ashamed of and from a future he saw as nothing but bleak and hopeless - he found change. He found choice and he realized it. He found happiness and he hangs onto it, clinging on to it with everything that he is; because he knows he deserves it.

I pat the same on the shoulder as he chokes on an Italian BLT, swearing at me through a mouthful of lettuce.

We trade youth for wisdom, opening our eyes and seeing a world we only strolled through and couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t understand. It’s these individual changes that shape us, mould us, make us. You never lose sight of who you are, nor do you become someone else. You’re still you, just more so with time. Time changes, and so do you.

So who are you? You decide. You don’t find yourself. You create yourself. You don’t know yourself. You understand yourself. Your very choices -from when to get up each morning, to which drug to take from a shady black guy with bad teeth and a wicked leather coat - shape who you are.

Every choice sets off another completely different set of decisions you can make, the lineup changing with each and every subsequent choice you make... each “encounter could create a time paradox, the result of which could cause a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space-time continuum and destroy the entire universe!... Granted that’s a worst case scenario.”

And though every choice is immortal, it's effect isn't. You choose to act on it, change it or keep it.

The table goes silent. Done with his sandwich, my friend’s eyes dart from person to person before decidedly ninja-ing the white-macadamia nut cookie sitting in front of me. Shoveling it down hungrily, he looks to each of us. What? I was hungry. You weren’t hungry enough. Cookie’s mine. So sue me.

Funny, I can’t remember him being such a goddamn fat-ass.

Everything begins with Choice.

Welcome to Evolution at its best, at its most microscopic and detailed level.

Welcome to Metamorphosis.