This is about as serious as I get, I can’t even think of anything witty at this point in time… Even the title is short and fitting.
Sometimes I wonder why people read me at all. I’ve gotten before because I challenge points of view, but is that in a good way? Because my head turns it into a self defeatist spiel of, people must take pity on me then, which is a really dumb and arrogant thing to think considering this is the Internet.
I wrote a post a few months ago stating I was sick of being viewed as cute, small and useless. Something must of happened to my face or something because people get the fuck out of my way now. My mum is also worrying that my brain has snapped and I may go on a murder spree because I bought a bow (you know, the archery kind, not the murder kind).
It’s ok, I get that what I just wrote is really not funny. The reason I got a bow is because I’ve always been in to archery. I may have sucked at sport but I’ve always been accurate, I love darts for the same reason.
I guess that I’m so easily influenced by what every person says or feels at the time, that I’m questioning my own principals again…
Believe me when I say I do try every day to see the beauty in the world, and most of the time I do now. I’m far from dead inside, in fact, quite the opposite. My internal flame is burning so strong that I’m being destroyed from the inside out.
My grandmothers are like chalk and cheese. My fathers mother will be forever remembered as a Saint, a living, breathing, Saint, as dubbed by the church. Not one but 8 priests showed up to her funeral to pay their respects, they travelled from all over the country. The church was filled with people, the service wasn’t long enough for everybody who wanted to speak about her.
She was a saint because she martyred herself everyday for the sake of others. She grew up in a harder time, where at 6 she was forced to do chores like chop wood for her father. Because of doing such hard labour from a young age it pre-disposed her to arthritis, osteo and rheumatoid. Her life has been spent in pain, though she would never let you know the state of the agony, as she got older though the harder it was to hide how much pain she was in. She would invite junkies off the street, at risk of her own life, because they needed somewhere to go. She would speak with everyone she met, she would pray for you because she cared about you. It was endearing the amount of her emotional state she would give away for the sake of letting others have a voice.
She lived to serve God, and in my opinion, she was the exact definition of a Saint. There was no hell in her mind, only heaven, only forgiveness.
My mothers mother on the other hand, was a bitter, twisted old woman, who used the bible to mould her hateful, ignorant world views. She destroyed lives, she lived to judge and condemn.
I know there’s a fine line I’m walking in my head, everyday I channel them both. One, to remind me of my ability to make a difference in this world, and two, to remind me to regularly check the chains holding the beast within myself.