andyprue
What really is essential in life? We are all going to return to dust, anyway. Of course, the desire for love and human companionship is undeniable; but then again, our loved ones are definitely going down too, and there is no guarantee that our offsprings will continue on for very long. And if even love is that useless a thing, then even more worthless is money. Material things. Why are certain combinations of particles be more valued than any other? It's all a human construct, because to nature - to the universe - we mean nothing.
Announcement: An act to spread out information to a large group of people.
An announcement for a salary raise. An upgrade in the computer system. Changes in personnel.
Invitation to a wedding. Or for that matter, a funeral. The coming, and surely, going, of lovers.
The outbreak of an epidemic. The passing of our Great Leader. New archeological discoveries. Alleged alien sightings.
We do these announcements because we suppose the intended audience care about what we have to say.
But very often, they don't.
When I was young, there is a ritual every morning. When I woke up at (the ungodly hour of) 6 a.m. to prepare for school, the first thing I would do is sit down and let my mother tie my hair up into a braid. There was nothing romantic or soft about the act: She would run the comb through my hair with practical and hard yanks to sort out the unruly strands; and by the time she was finished, the pain would have chased away the last of my sleepiness. But the locks would be woven tightly and perfectly in place for the rest of the day.
His pepper-sprayed strands speak so much more than the bland, common silky black hair locks on a younger head. They speak of the past, full of adventure and mishaps, of joy, and of pain. They speak of the future, of human's inevitable mortality that is only starting to show itself. They speak of a life lived.
In memory of the great national hero that finally died after (literally) a century of selfless service, the street erupts with festive joy.
They are not ungrateful; only they thought whatever scraps of gratitude there are serve better when drown in drinks and torn to confetti. Front doors are trapped with tacky lights that blink wild and blind. Trees are strangled in banners that scream and praise. In the middle of the street, drums resound and deafen to the rhythm of people dancing and singing tunes of death. Traffic stops, the outside world barred from entering this sacred ritual.
Why weep for the dead while you can laugh instead?
You exchange insults with me, as natural as breathing, just like the catapults of old. The very machines of brutality and death that we ourselves once stood manning. We throw verbal boulders at each other with the intent to kill. And as always, both survive to hurl another day.
'For the hundredth time, Wright, the colour of my suit is "magenta", not "pink"!'
'I'm only calling it as I see it, Edgeworth. And it isn't like pink isn't a nice shade, anyway. Real men wear pink, don't they?'
'Then, by all means, dye your suit pink - and I mean the true pink colour - and wear it next time you go to court. Although I fear without your trademark blue you would be next to impossible to recognise.'
The BBC - The British Broadcasting Company has been under some flak recently. I know it's not a perfect organisation - was there ever? - but I can't help but think of it very fondly still.
When all the facade that is our clothes, our makeup, our skin, our bones, are all stripped off, lay only our soul.
I very seldomly use shorthands, especially in circumstances where most of my peers would have used words like 'u' for 'you' or suchlike. I just like to spell the words out in its complete and nice entirety. Of course one is allowed certain leeway when one is taking notes in class, for example, but my writing is so much more legible than most.
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