I am waiting for a time to come when I can clearly express to the average person a concise and understandable argument. As it stands, few people are capable of objectively viewing my thoughts from an open perspective, and as such it is difficult for me to clearly express myself when I feel strongly about something.

Recently my mother asked me to come with her to a family reunion and I refused claiming that her cousins all ignore me--which they do--and that they simply use me as a free babysitter. She explained to me that you can't outgrow family. We were obviously having two different arguments here.

It is obvious that I cannot adequately express myself to a broad spectrum audience, likely due to many years of debate that accustomed me to speaking to a certain sect of audience. It is certain that will have to work on this, but in the meantime, I merely hope that this is a logical argument.

Jesting about herself,
Centri

Aye, I await the Green
In the morning
As the sun robs the chill from my skin.
This warrior rising
Disturbs that which finds same
In the name
Which has hidden behind it
The secrets well known by
Him who slumbers well.
Night's embrace brings
This same Green to the Page
Who sneaks behind the backs
Of masters too blind to know
What a heart might want.
This follower seeks nothing
Yet is expected to choose course.
Ah! Green must lead yet stay.
And cruelty refuse hospitality,
And whim breed standard,
The afternoon mourns for the Green.
These three made four by my want,
There is an entanglement.
And so I wait
Unlike those possessers,
For the Green.
Because I know that Green
Stands most beautifully blue
Between shades nigh closed.
Alas, I shall remain
In this place where I watch
For that morning, noon, and night Green
Which beckons my haste
Yet calls for consideration
All things in due time.
Aye, I await the Green
Which forever may my captain be,
For flight not fight not
The Green remains.
Even as fire rages
The Green keeps my bed
And makes it out sweetly,
Lay place for this head.

Why is it that a tie
Broken is such a crisis
That a man
Will break all in his hands
To catch the frayed end
As it snaps apart
From its twin
And exert far more effort
In bringing back that fractured piece
Than he would ever
Consider putting forth
In simply connecting a new tie?
Is it such that there is
No room for replacement,
Only maintenance--as frivolous
A gesture as that stands--
Of the old, worn out pieces
That care for their handyman
Only as much
As a minnow cares for the bass?
What turns we take
In playing the role.
What a role it is.

Shall we dance the waltz
Of which our lives run?
The dream closing, the music
Of our sighs will be
Plenty enough to keep
Tempo streaming for
"A forseeable time,"
So relax, and sway
To the beat with me
Because the rythm
Shant die out any time soon.

Worry not, love, I state
No fault or failure of you
Exceeding my own pile
And the rotting, stinking mess--
So vulgar, repulsive,
And yet constant--
Has no voice to betray this;
The secret is safe,
Though there is
No whisper, tale, or fact unknown
That may lay hidden
Beneath the garbage.
Just pull me in by the hip
A little tighter.
I'll dig my claws into your shoulder.
Off we go for another round
By another name,
But the same sound,
That will continually repeat
That same sold beat
We set in our breasts,
In pulse and breaths,
And prove that in time,
Without word or rhyme,
All bleeding stops eventually.

The resounding words
Of my singsong sage
Replay themselves
Like the cries of a crow
Who, though alone by nature,
Needs to prove to the world,
Time and again,
That he stands watch--
All knowing and all seeing.
He screams to the world
He is one, perhaps to prove
To himself that he doesn't
Need anyone, though he must
Scarcely believe it or
This thought might stay
Without caw of proof.

Prudent words spoke--
To we wee simple folk--
Tell us to move
In a vain hope to soothe
The self-imposed stabs--
That seem to not scab--
Which wrongly they
Do also so pay
A tribute of self
To doubt's commonwealth,
"All bleeding stops eventually.
One way or another,
All bleeding stops eventually."

This is a unique problem, with a variety of solutions.  There's a song that tells us the way to measure a year is in love, yet no way to measure love is ever given, thus we must embark upon a quest to find not only how to measure time, but also love.

The first measurement system for the immeasurable is through the fairly simple method of vague guesstimation. For example, a child may run up with his arms spread wide and say, "I love you this much!" A friend or family member might say, "Love you lots!" We hear comparisons to try and establish the great amounts of feeling, like "I miss you more than the sun misses the flower in the winter," or, "I love you more than time itself." What we must realize is that measurments are unnecessary.

How can one quantify love? It is impossible, and even if you could, why would you? To line up the people you love in order of most to least? What we must come to terms with is that measurements are not natural of the heart, they are a trick of the mind, and unnecessary in feeling. Love someone. Show compassion. Have genuine gratitude. These are all important things, and counting amounts is just a frivolous waste of time.

The best way to quantify the immeasurable is simple, though; measure by what's missing. The idea behind this is not to feel empty, it's quite the opposite; the objective at hand is to realize a short coming and correct it. "I love you, but is it with all of my heart?" If the answer is no, find out why. "Have I been compassionate enough to others?" If the answer is anything but "absolutely, there's no way I haven't," then change yourself until the answer is unquestionable. "Did I tell them how much they mean to me?" Do it again. "Am I thankful enough?" Show your gratitude by living, return kindness always, favors whenever possible, and hatefulness never. Quantify the uncountable by filling your heart to its fullest, and knowing that there is no emptiness which needs to be measured.

May the fullest of your past be the most empty of the future,
Centri

Take not this an apology,
But rather words wrung plain.
Despite my guilt and heresy
A "sorry" I shant pain.

You've mistaken me for which
I cannot claim my name.
My anxiety doth not reach the pitch
You throw in one demented game.

I thank you for the thought
Of how you've done me wrong.
You cannot see, though, that what's wrought
Is part of life's low song.

I forgive what sins you pass
As mine you do the same.
So no apologies for wind and crass
Nor one for feelings so untame.

Fairer skin I shall not find--
Nor softer heart, nor quicker mind--
Than in that person so intwined
With someone who might so hastily bind
Herself to a stranger in state.

Oh labor on without a thought
Of me, though you may still claim not
To have a feeling in you caught
At the desire for she who bought
Herself out of the debate.

Contentedness I cannot claim
Though you I have in body and name,
For your mind still plays that troubled game
Which you try on to hide in shame,
But still you call "us" fate.

A blind eye I cannot turn,
But neither can I let this burn,
And I know you might not learn
To take that old emotion and spurn
That sickly, hurtful hate.

All the same, with you I'll stay,
Oh boy of men, and I will play
The ignorance game which will pay
The wage for the love look that gives way
To blinding my heart from its gate.

I will sigh to see and hope to hear
The end of all my senseless fear;
That you no longer hold her dear
And never again will shed a tear
On my shoulder, this I await.

Every person has an audience, whether intentional or not, and most of us will play to it at some point (as I addressed in an earlier blog Thespian Sapien), however the true call of an audience is in two parts: the literal and the hypothetical.

My literal audience consists of whomever happens to be around at the given moment.  People I know, or don't.  People I may never see again or people who know me intimately.  This is the audience which we all play to.  Sitting quietly in a coffee shop reading a book or getting a group of friends together to go bowl, both are just a way to play for this audience.  A way to say what you want to about yourself.  For instance, getting a large group together to go somewhere says that you're a friendly person out looking for fun, whereas solitarily reading suggests you perceive yourself as a carefree intellectual who doesn't need other people.  Both are a means of performance.  That's not to say it's the only motivation, but that book can be equally read inside the home, and adventures need not include large parties.  Bottom line is that we all put on a show, even if it's only for our own amusement.

Now the second kind of audience is a bit different.  This is the perceived audience.  The auidence you're attempting to grasp or the people your assume will be watching.  This is the audience you think of when you look at yourself in the mirror and say, "Oh this outfit looks silly," or, "I look fat in these pants."  These are things that you assume people will notice, and those assumed people are that secondary audience.  This audience often controls us whereas we attempt to control the former audience.  The power it holds is generally based on a function of society that is perceived as most important (ie body weight, style, etc.), and the effective means of controlling it is partly giving in to it (such as: "I don't care what anyone thinks, this looks good!") as it makes a unanimous decision as to what you are telling the audience, however, it is still done with the audience wholeheartedly in mind.

It is not to say that either of these is problematic, or that anyone is the worse person for playing a bit to these audiences, because that's part of life.  What is important is to remain ever aware of the audiences, as all audiences have a time and a place.  Finding the audience that is most important to you matters highly, but it will generally come naturally.

In the end, dance like no one's watching, even though you assume someone is.
Sing like you can't be heard, even though you'll tune it so it sounds good.
And laugh so hard you fall to the floor and lay there breathless for minutes on end, because you conduct your life, and it may as well be a comedy over a tragedy.

"God writes a lot of comedy... the trouble is, he's stuck with so many bad actors who don't know how to play funny."
Centri

The secret of a screen name unravels here...

As some may know, I use the screen name EndOfDreamsWaltz on several different services, and this is the perfect place to explain the meaning.

When I waken, it is in stages.  The alarm goes off, if I have one set for that day, then the blinds are cracked just wide enough to let the sunlight bounce off my nose as the peeps through the window.  I roll over and kiss my friend good morning when the sun reaches eye level, and we laze about for several minutes, just enjoying the silence and the stillness of the morning (we are both huge fans of serenity).

After a little while, we get up, and one person starts breakfast--be it coffee, cereal, eggs, or whatever we feel like that day--and the other takes a shower, then the trade off.  After eating and bathing, we lounge on the couch for several minutes before heading off to work and school and the switch off.

This is my morning waltz.  It begins with the lightheaded pleasure of my eyes flickering open to that lovely breath of morning and ends with a secretive smile passed between friends.  A smooth transition from wonderland to book (or tool) land.  The end of dreams waltz.

I can think of no way in the world I would prefer to awaken.

Der weckende Traumer,
Centri

I fell off the edge of the Earth today
And down I went, past the grim and the grey.
I dropped through the color spectrum--black, white,
And reality gone; the world began.
Kaleidoscopic simplicity shone
A sepian lifetime, wordless memoirs;
How quickly it seemed to all pass me by.
Then I asked, "Where am I? Why did I fall?"
And was answered in earnest, "You did not."
A voice out of nowhere?  Perhaps my mind
Jests, for surely Israfel has a form.
"You jumped," the voice accused, "you've will to die."
"No," I recalled, "I had to get away.
Flying is freedom, and free I must stay."

Emotions are an odd thing: everyone has them, but everyone practices them differently.  I am a seemingly very callous person, but this is only because I must logically rationalize before acting.  Some of the closest people to me envy this; more of them simply cannot understand it.

I do not believe that expressing yourself by crying, whispering, hugging, or whatever you wish to do shows weakness.  Not at all.  However when I see it in myself, it puts me in a position I am not ready to face, thus I attempt to avoid it as much as possible.  Whenever something sad happens, rather than crying, I poke through the entire situation and continue to break it down until I find some little inkling of humor in the situation, then I break everything else down around that.

The only plus side to my approach to emotion is that I have very little stress issues.  When I can logically state the facts of an issue, it is easier for me to mentally process it and then let it go.  Often when I tell stories about myself it is in third person, and this is for the same reason; it is easier to state facts than to say "and I" or "to me".

I do not often express strong emotions.  Usually my emotional expressions are minimal and I always try to pull humor into whatever else it may be.  This is no claim to betterment, simply what I do.

Laughing herself to death,
Centri