What do you want to do with your life?

Ever since I have known that an evening sky exists, has been the time since I have known about my passion for the stars. As a young girl, I used to lie out in the backyard and gaze out into the everlasting evening sky. I was in awe over their beauty and radiance. On my seventh birthday, my parents had bought me a collection of astronomy books packed with what I knew would help me discover what I loved. Every night me and my dad would sit down together and read thoroughly about a new planet’s characteristics. Within a few short weeks, I had finished the volumes. When Christmas came around, my parents bought me a telescope. I was ecstatic. My father and I dressed ourselves in winter coats and set my telescope out on the driveway. The moon was half full which, like the books had indicated, is an ideal time to view its craters. We spent well over two hours admiring the moon that night. The reflections of the craters which my telescope provided were spectacular. For that particular moment in time, I felt like I was on the moon; I felt complete; I felt a joy that I had not known exist.

As I grew older, I had a chance to speak to many people who were also once passionate about astronomy. Many told me about the schooling requirements: four to ten years of university studies, followed by ten to fifteen years as a lab assistant, and ten more years as an astronomer assistant. Once you had completed all the necessary necessities you than become a certified astronomer. My dreams seemed to have vanished within seconds. Crushed, utterly discouraged. I did not want to be forty years old by the time I achieved what I desired. In turn, I took my dream ambition and locked it in a box; I put it on hold. I told myself that I would not be an astronomer. I would keep astronomy as a hobby.

To this day I have done just that. My life career choice is now to be a pediatrician. Though the two passions may seem oddly extreme to one another, they are both heartfelt fascinations which I long for.

Children are exceptionally innocent. I have always adored them. When I am having a tough day, a child’s innocent laugh and gaze always makes my lips want to sway into the form of a smile. I do not want a child to ever loose its love of life. Because of this reason, I want to be a pediatrician to help them express and know love even in times of health illness’. Even though I may not follow my initial ambition, it is not a passion that I ever plan to abandon. I do not feel any hesitation to pursue the medical field, as I feel no regret to let astronomy be my second best. Either as a hobby or as a minor in post secondary education, astronomy will always be one of my most sought out dreams. In the meanwhile, the children down in the pediatrics wing will keep my heart everlastingly loving and my passions thriving

A secret she had

She was four or five at most,
When her innocents was stolen from her.
Her childlike mind did now know
Of such harmful thoughts;
Nor did she know that
They would ever be done upon her.
He laid a hand where no other hand,
Had ever explored;
He touched her,
Where no one should have touched.
Her kissed her,
Where no kiss should have been given.
He desired her,
When no taste should have been sought.
She did not know,
Of what was being done.
Discomfort and displeasure,
Was all that she felt.
When the clock struck five.
He knew he had little time
Before her mother would be arriving
To pick her up and bring her home.
He hurriedly fetched
What he knew no child could refuse.
Her eyes lit up when he presented her
With the sweet chocolate and the paper money.
“This will be our little secret,”
The man deceivingly alleged.
As she reached out for her new found gifts,
The man knew this was a promise
She would keep.
Thus began a cycle which saw no soon end.
Everyday the young girl made her way
To her babysitters house,
Everyday this man would
Do onto her the malicious deeds
He did the previous day.
It never crossed her mind,
That any of this was wrong.
As the days passed,
The man’s and the girl’s bond grew strong.
Soon he would tell her,
All the hopes any women,
Would dream.
I love you, he’d say.
And he’d demand
A response which the girl gave.
She did not know,
But slowly he was inducing her mind,
To only know of what he wanted
And to know want of what he gave.
Soon a year passed,
And the girl was finding herself,
At this mans house more often.
Soon the man demanded more of her,
Which her induced mind allowed.
More years passed;
As the child grew older,
So did her mind.
Soon she realized
What this man was doing
Was not right.
She tried many times
To reveal it to her mother.
But this man and her mother,
Were bingo partners.
The girl thought that
Her mother wouldn’t believe her,
Or worse more,
That her mother would not care.
For years she let the torment go on.
For years she cried as her mother,
Went off to bingo with this man.
For years the gifts the man kept giving her,
Kept her silent.
But, her heart was not silent,
Her mind knew different.
Soon it was her elementary
Graduation day.
Her mother urged her to go over,
To this mans house to give him a hug.
And so she went.
As usual the man tried to have his way,
But it was no longer a young girl,
He was trying to induce;
She was now a woman,
And as she shouted a firm no,
She slammed the door behind her,
And her pace quickened.
Soon she found herself in her room,
Where her breath was gasping for air.
She was now free of the physical torment,
But what she did not realize was
That the psychological anguish was about to begin.

Really, really.

Like a friend of mine would say, I'm internally fucked-the-hell-up. Really, really.

So much so that I have to share my rants and thoughts with another person, one on one, to make my load feel a little lighter on my shoulders. So much so that I don't know how much they've affected me. So much so that I have nightmares, atleast twice a week, which in turn lead to crying, for hours on end. So much so that sometimes it even scares me. So much so that I try not to zone out anymore, or else I'll get caught up in these thoughts of fucked-the-hell-up me.

I'm going to see a psychiatrist. Really, really. Me. A psychiatrist. Someone to whom I will reveal all these, fucked-the-hell-up emotions of mine and thoughts, and rants. Then, when I feel comfortable enough, I might tell him the real reason I'm there, eventually.

Perhaps

Appearances are deceptive.

As of late you’ll find me in two of the emotion states: Having an expressionless face or having a luminously beautiful smiling face. Ironically, both emotions are tied within the same constituent.

I zone out a lot. In fact, I zone out seventy five percent of the time. Actually, I’d really zone out more if I could, but I have to work and this so happens to be twenty five percent of the time.

When I smile genuinely from the heart it is because I am in a trance state zone, and I am reminiscing over memories that have happened or an event I hope to have happen. When I force a smile, it is because I am working, and I try to greet every single one of my customers with a beautiful smile, which, in that moment in time, may not be as authentic as it could be. However, it is not fully forced, there is still contentment behind the smile, it is just that I was not ready to deliver a smile in that moment in time. I just don’t see why I should be a peppy at work smiling none stop and singing about how life is just so awesome; though it is; I prefer to keep my happiness sheltered until I have a full deal of time to fully appreciate.

I know now that I am satisfied with where I am at. I know this because; I truly smile at the moments that are happening to me right now. I smile because I know that there is so much worth smiling for. There is not one trace of regret or hesitation behind the fine lines which form and frame my well curved smile. There is only happiness, which in turn you all provide, that make my lips want to sway into the form of a smile, more and more with each growing day.

I know that once I get used to this new wind of bliss, I will then transfer it unto others. But for now, I think that I will be a little selfish and keep it to myself. Nevertheless, if you happen to see my blue eyes light up with exhilaration while my lips softly part and my cheeks plump up, know that you may be the reason behind my expressional smile.

Fear is stronger than love.

I had known Jason for 13 years. He was my brother Chad’s best friend. They met back in preschool some 16 years ago. They grew up together. They spent almost everyday at Jason’s house, or at ours. I remember once I hit my early 10’s I had developed a crush on him. That passed as I matured because I viewed him more as a brother figure then as my brother’s best friend. We all had great fun together. I remember my brother and Jason used to tie me up in the backyard when it was summertime, and they would take turns practicing cartwheels over me; which sometimes they missed and in turn fell on me, hard. I remember they taught me how to play video games, and they helped me beat the bosses when I struggled. They were both my heroes.

Through the years they shared toys, books, stories, comments, laughter, hope, and friendship. They even decided to get an apartment together last year, and be roommates. Among all the things they shared, Jason wasn’t up for sharing his new girlfriend.

Jason had been dating Jennifer for a few weeks after Chad and he had moved in together. Everything was going well. Chad worked days whilst Jason worked nights. Jenn spent most her time at their place, and slept over many nights of the week. Because Chad had nights off, he and Jenn began speaking to each other a lot. They realized, after a significant time had passed, that there was love spurring between them.

When Jason came home the next morning, Jennifer told him how she didn’t want to be with him anymore. When he inquired as to why, her only response was that she had been with Chad the previous night and wanted him now, no longer Jason. Furious as to how his best friend could betray him and sleep with his girlfriend, infuriated with Jenn for doing so, Jason packed up and left.

When Jason forced my brother to pick him and all their friends over her, my brother followed his heart and went with Jennifer. That struck the end of a 16 year friendship.

Today, I saw Jason at the same city bus stop as me, downtown. We got on the same bus, and got to talking. In every question that I inquired, he did not want to reply. I didn’t realize why he was being reluctant to tell me, until he randomly pointed at me and said:

“Did I mention I hate your brother?”
“No, but I know that you do. Does that mean you also hate me now too?”
“No, of course not.”
“So why is it that you won’t answer my questions, then?”
“I’d rather keep Chad 100% out of my business from now on. By telling you how I’m doing, and what I’m up to, where I’m working and what I’m going to study at school in the fall, you may tell Chad, and that may come back to bite me in the ass.”

My brother figure, my hero, didn’t have enough respect to trust that I was being genuine in my questions. Even after 13 years of knowing each other, he still viewed me as Chad’s sister, and not his own. That will probably be the last time I see him. The last time that I want to see him.

Time is a great healer.

I was recently having a conversation with a friend on the subject of a blog that she wrote. She used a broken vase as a metaphoric representative object to describe that of a fractured life. Her blog went into detail about how a vase that had been broken and glued back together still had missing, tiny little pieces, which in turn made that the vase was no longer the same original one. However, even though this vase was now structurally weak, it once again stood still. For the reason that even though it is now weak, it still has a role of being beautiful. She later explained to me that it was about the fulfillment of a person’s role. Even as the vase is broken, or even when a person is fractured, they all still have purposes and expectations to deliver.

She brilliantly wrote the passage beautifully. Once she explained it to me in detail, I understood clearly of what she was speaking.

I started asking her questions about her entry, such as: if you are comparing the broken vase to that of the life of an emotionally distressed person, why would the vase be weaker then before. She in turned asked me if a vase could be unbroken. It is obvious that a vase cannot be unbroken, and that it cannot be the perfect original vase it once was. However, I didn’t feel that the vase was the best representative object to describe that of the life of a fractured person. As much as you could try to compare the two, there are very unmistakable differences.

A broken bone can be fixed. A heart can recover from a lovers ache. Hair will grow back. Wounds will heal.

Nonetheless, can mental wounds heal. She asked, what about soldiers who never forget the horrors of war. Can they be fixed?

Ignoring the fact that they can now surgically remove the part of the brain that would make you lose the memories of those you wish to forget; I believe that someone who has gone through a lot of painful events, and that has a lot of mental anguish, can be healed.

Of course it’s not an overnight deal. They definitely have to be willing to be healed. They first have to accept that the events which they took place in, are real, and, as easy as it may sound, they have to accept this.

Memories should not be suppressed. Especially those which an individual find are unpleasant. Whatever happened to them, to make them tormented, was awful. People often feel responsible in owing these individuals sympathy and pity. Trust these words: they do not need your sympathy; they have had their share full of it. They do not need to be pitied. They need understanding, and guidance on healing themselves over time.

We all owe it to ourselves to be happy. To forget the burdens of our souls and focus on the good there was and that is still to come for us. That being said, we cannot blind ourselves from the apparent truths of this world. We cannot defend ourselves from past or from future events that we know are going to happen.

We need only to realize that within ourselves is the radiant beauty to heal, the magnificent power to overcome, and the laughter to relive.

All that glitters is not gold.

If you own or are ever planning to own a store in which you would produce every week sales flyers, give your employees the best gift you could ever give them. Don’t make a whole, 2 week sales flyer, "packed with 175 coupons in more then 500$ in savings!”.

Why the heck not, you’re probably asking. It’s good publicity; it seems it would attract a lot of buyers. What’s wrong with a store sales coupon flyer?

I’ll tell you all what’s wrong with it.

I’m a cashier. I work anywhere from 4 to 10 hour shifts a day. We don’t need incompetent shoppers coming to our register with over 20 items that are anywhere from 1$ to 20$ off with the display of their coupons for the according items, and expecting to get the sales prices without the damn coupons!

I had many people today, who came to my register and bought a bunch of items, once I rang them all through and gave them their final total amount, they look at me like I’m stupid. That I should have seen the 7 crumpled up coupons they had in their hands, and made it out to ask them if in fact they had any coupons for their purchases today.

After noticing that a lot of people weren’t carrying the coupons they needed to get the sales prices off the items I knew were on sale, I was kind enough to ask if they did in fact have the corresponding coupons for them. Many didn’t, obviously, for the fact that they think it’s our job to flip through the many flyer books we have on our register tables and find THEIR coupon for ALL the items that THEY want.

I even had one man tell me that “No, I don’t have a coupon; you’re supposed to give it to me!” So I muttered under my breath and picked up a flyer book and flipped through it to find his 6.50$ off Tylenol coupon, so that he could get his sales price of 8,49$ opposed to the regular price of 14.99$.

The book I was looking at I had been using all day to pick out the store coupons many people didn’t give me. Many of the coupons were now missing from the book. The Tylenol one was one of them. So after going through the flyer 2 or 3 times to make sure that I hadn’t missed it, the man has the common decency to shout at me “What, you haven’t found my damn coupon yet?” Well, holy shit, I nearly slapped him in the face.

So employers, remember, don’t make coupon books for your store. And if you’re optimistic enough too, then make sure you give your pessimistic employees a nice cold, J&B on the rocks. Because they'll need it after a shift in hell.

A fool and his money are soon parted.

Yesterday, after my gym workout, I walked to the bus stop outside of the gym and waited according for the 25 upper Wentworth bus to come down the road and pick me up.

It came alright. And it went. Zoomed right by; didn’t even slow down for me; didn’t pick me up. It wasn’t even full! What a jackass.

So then, I walked another block and waited accordingly for the 21 upper Fennel bus to come down the street and pick me up. They both go to the same location, so it’s not a big loss. What pissed me off the most is that it was Sunday. And on Sundays the buses run once every 30 minutes, opposed to the regular week schedule of 15 minutes.

So I waited.

Once on the bus, I took my seat. Look around the bus and observed the people, like always. After a few more stops went by, a man got on the bus. Medium build, average height, brown hair, dressed fairy wealthy. He seemed pretty normal to me, except he held a hundred dollar bill on his nose. It was positioned like those nasal strips for snoring that they sell, right across the nose. He was smelling it! He was rubbing it all over his face!

This didn’t last for a few seconds, oh no. He put the hundred back in his black computer bag case and proceeded to take out a fifty dollar bill, and did the same ritual.

And then with an American hundred, fifty, and two Canadian five dollar bills.

So I thought to myself, this man has got a money fetish in more then one way. Seriously though, this man probably sleeps with money and continuously rubs himself with it all day long. And so, he did this for the whole 25 minute ride downtown. Five minutes before we arrived he reached into his bag and pulled out stacks upon stacks of hundred dollar bills. He must have had at least twenty thousands dollars in his bag.

Was it counterfeit? Most likely. He did seem awfully suspicious to flaunt that much money around, especially on a city bus, where anyone could ring the bell and grab it from his hands and walk off the bus before he had time to react to the situation. Another girl and I were both watching him, and we kept smirking at his insanity and creepiness for money.

I told my coworkers the story and we all shivered in disgust, because we’re cashiers and we handle money all day. Now we all have this mental image that we’re touching this man’s face money and rubbing multiple items before being able to wash our hands.

How disgusting!

It takes two to tango.

Why does the negative aspect to things always claim superiority over the positive one?

Even when the positive state is immensely in the lead, one negative comment can immediately plunge the person’s emotions right back in the hole. Sometimes, even further down then where they ever were to begin with.

Often, people rely on me for moral support. I am comfortable with that. I am thrilled that they view me as capable and intellectual enough to provide them with significantly suitable advice to fulfill their curiosities.

On the other hand, there is my best friend who, in all good intension, views me some wonderful, flawless being, and because of that, He wants to or rather he think that he has to better himself…for me.

For me?!?! Ugh.

He has this perception that I’m at a level he isn't at, and because of this he feels he must better himself to be able to amount to my standard.

What is that?

I really don’t understand were he took the idea that I’m some perfect, shallow person who won’t let you near me if you don’t possess certain qualities. Because I’m not, I’m not vain, and I would never think that of myself. Even more so, he does possess the qualities he mentions in me that he would like to achieve. He’s just blinded by all the negative that anyone has ever told him. He doesn’t want to see the potential good in himself. He can’t and won’t be able to see it until he realizes that He’s this beautiful person that has all this wonderful, exceptional, amazing beauty of the soul.

I try to liberate that blindness from his perception so that he too can see this person, this truly magnificent person, that I see and that I love.

You’d be astounded at how slow it is to build up someone’s self confidence. But, it does build up, gradually; they’ll begin to see themselves in this day, and not the person that was ridiculed years ago. The outcome is beautiful. Confidence is a strikingly radiant effect on ones soul. Once it surfaces, happiness then follows.

And so, now this person has new self confidence.

But now, wait, someone new, or someone from their past, will see this new confidence and either:
a) See it as a threat.
b) Be jealous of it.
c) They to, like they viewed me, make them their motivation to better themselves.

Option C hardly ever happens. A & B, all the time. These people will insult Him. They will make up lies and say terrible things to him.

Once this happens, even though he knows what this person is saying isn’t true, will become emotionally distressed. Depressed. For the reason that they were once victims of the ridicule and verbal abuse, they are easily thrown back into the well of depression.

This, however, does never intimidate me. I love the people who matter most to me, I will not let them suffer from negativity others are out to show them. Thus, I will prevail in my doings to re-appreciate themselves.

I just hate the fact that, in all the positive you show them, and you make them see in themselves, they’ll still be thrown off by a few insignificant comments someone, who they don’t care about, says to them.

Great minds think a box.

Metaphorically speaking, every man has a shoebox.

The shoebox, it turns out, contains high school photos with “little more then friends” doodles on the back and somewhat types of love letters passed to each other during class. And pages upon pages of lined paper filled with his name, and hers enclosed by a heart, and a little “We’ll always be together”, message. All based around a woman he lost some six years ago and isn't quite over, though he claims he is.

Do not hate him for the shoebox. He keeps it until you show yourself better than her. Which, so long as you don't plan to pull out his heart with pliers, you already are. He'll figure this out. Eventually.

Promised.

Truth is, he'd rather spend hours talking to you, and hours upon hours trying to make you happy. He'd rather be in love; he’d rather spend one day with you then a lifetime without you. He'd rather let the shoebox go. But he's not sure he can.

The shoebox is about something long gone, but it's hard to let that nonsense go. Especially when he’ll reread phrases like "I'll always love you; I know you think this will all be over one day, but I promise it won't". But you have to understand that it’s done and over with and he won’t go back to her. He’s with you now. He’ll let the shoebox go, but give him time. Don't hate him. He'll get there.

He wants to be in love again, and he is, with you. Honestly. But it's so hard to trust it. It’s so hard to trust that you won’t hurt him again like he’s been hurt. And it isn’t you he needs to trust, he does trust you, it’s himself he needs to trust. Trust that he can let you love him without foreseeing a cause of pain that you don’t plan, in your worst nightmares, to do upon him. So, the next time he is acting weird around you, remember he has a shoebox somewhere. He'd love to start a new one with you, and burn the old one, but he needs a little encouragement.

Give it to him. He’s worth it. He’s worth so much, because to you, your love is priceless and the value of that could never be determined for it is far too precious. He deserves to be given the chance to see how wonderful you are. Because after all, he's the kind of guy who keeps a shoebox, and soon, you will need more then a shoebox to enclose the memories of your love.

Mary had a little lion, no really, she did.

If I am exclusively identified as something within space & time, as an aspect of the world of phenomena, as a fragment, then time easily becomes an enemy. My enemy. Within its grasp I will fall within the pits of this timely world. Eventually, within all reason, within all doubt and self righteousness, I will find myself unable to go on. Unable, after years of exposure to unkindness I show others, and within harms way, Karma will definitely meet up with me. No matter, the spite I am motivated by or the memories I feel should be opportune for the reason. When this time comes, I will not be prepared. When this time comes, I will, however, knowingly face up to harms that I have committed unto others and realize to my astonishment, me: The queen bitch. The outmost hypocrite.

On another note, we got our new car today. A Rav4. Used. 2004. It looks super nice, however it's still not my favorite pick; I liked the Dodge Caliber more. And black? Of all of the colours they could have picked. Black. Not that it's bad or anything, it's just “safe”. My dad says its "conservative", I just think that's a big word for "Not having the balls to buy a more courageous coloured vehicle". Also, they totally over paid for it, by a few thousand. I guess this is what we're stuck with for another 10 years. Or rather what THEY’RE stuck with for another 10 years. Once I’m done with university I’m getting my own damn car! Muhaha!

Best part of the day? They let me drive! Wow, it was smooth, and light, and just plain beautiful. It turns on a dime. So, without further ado: voila.

Gonna, wrap you in a great big bow

Saudade: a Portuguese word considered untranslatable.

A yearning so intense for those who are missing, or for vanished times or places, that their absence is the most profound presence in one's life. A state of being, rather than merely a sentiment.

Saudade; the most perfect thing I’ve read in a long time. A word I found that defines how I move through the world, still existing, but ultimately, indescribably lacking. Truly, no one is really totally satisfied; accordingly, this word definitely describes and applies to everyone. If you think it doesn't relate to you, then, reflect upon it, and if you still don’t think it does, you're wrong, it does.