Your Acceleration Makes My Heart Race

It’s not too often that I get proud over this island state of ours, but this, I have to say, invokes a quiet sense of pride and general kickassness for my imagined community:

We Shoot Bullets of Misguided Love and Affection, Blindfolded

Alright babies. I’m home for the only day of the officiated “vacation week”.
I’ve slept, eaten, and watched my regimented episode of “Deadliest Catch” (personally, I root for the Time Bandit boys).
These are all signs that good things happen in occasional spurts, and it’s alright to be happy with doing absolutely _nothing_.
In other news, I’ve got 6 assignments due; 2 songs I’m picking up; and several stories to finish up on (one in particular, involving an interpretive utilization of expressionist mechanisms > of which I’m getting all fuzzy and painfully excited over). Besides this, I’ve to deal with all the drama hooha with HT writing and DERC and abstract submissions.
But hey! You know what!
Life’s too short to be fussing about Getting Things Done.
Productivity is _so_ overrated.
Nua-ing is the new work ethic siah.

It’s a Strange

“A Black Man Runs. And a Nation is Behind Him.”

It’s a strange thing – that the people who proclaim themselves as “idealists” often say it with a tinge of embarrassment and regret. Apologetic Idealists. And the critics harp on it. They call us the dreamers, the make-believers, and the festoons of fantasies that go nowhere. They shake their heads and walk away. The facts! The reality! We must face it! We cannot dream! We cannot hope! You’re an Idealist! Shame on your impracticalities and imaginations! We cannot follow false prophets!

Alas we forget. That the most remembered of peoples in our history books, the most inspiring of martyrs, and the most stirring of words and deeds acted upon – they’ve sprung forth from the deep vicissitudes of people who have hoped, who have dreamed. What’s wrong with being an idealist? John Lennon, Muhammad Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr.. You say they’ve all been killed. What good does that serve? To hope, to dream, to love. I say they’re dead. And that is true. But sooner or later, we shall meet the same fate as these men and women as well. No. What matters is not that they have died. What matters is what they have died for. It is their ideas. Their ideas, their faith in humankind, their hope for the better, that will outlive us, that will outstrip us – beyond a time when our bitter ashes have been washed away by firelight and by misting seas. Their words and deeds will outlast any barrage of cannon fodder, any tarnish of napalm bombardment, any misinformed critique of “the dreamers”. No. Their dreams will inspire us forever. To hope. For that is the greatest gift a man may receive.

What’s wrong with being an idealist? Nothing. Idealists have helped change this gross, ugly, and godless world for the greater amount of time that we as a species have come to occupy it. Idealists have shaped our ideas on how to live for the better, and hope against the worst of realities. Idealists, have stuck it to the Man. In defiance of all that is wrongful, oppressive, and just plain lacklustre bullshit, idealists have stood firmly on their ground, waved their crayoned protest flags, sung their chorus of songs, and lifted an unwavering middle finger to all-that-is-fucked-up.

In today’s world of poverty, of hunger, of endless war and eternal suffering, it’s easy to let go. It’s easy to say, “Let’s deal with reality, man”. Cynicism is bred, its seeds of resentment pollinate our hearts, and we question all that is good and promised. You know what, you’re right. It’s hard. It’s as hard as shit, to climb that mountain of hope, of dreams. To see the better side of things. It ain’t easy. I ain’t gonna lie to you. It’s not just flowers and singing shalala. No. But idealists are born to fight. We fight. We fight, we charge uphill, we boldly strive on. We preach our words, we spread our thoughts, and we tell you “Because if you give up on hope, then, there’s nothing else to fight for”. Many times, we lose the battle. Our backs are broken, our spirits are daunted. But you know what? Even if we’ve been smashed to smithereens? Even if we’ve been hung, buried, and left out to dry? We get up again.

And sometimes, that makes all the difference.