Maturity

It was recently implied by a friend of mine that I am more or less stuck in an immature state. Unfortunately, this got me thinking. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know I'm often light hearted to the point of exasperation; however, it's been a long time since I've thought of myself as, overall, immature.

Firstly, what is considered 'maturity' anyways? I know it's the completion of the developmental cycle, which won't be complete until about twenty one years of age...from there we pretty much just start our decline, physically speaking...and eventually mentally. Aside from the dictionary definition, what leads to the conclusion that one is immature? Does it consist of pulling girls' pigtails and giggling? Making jokes about fecal matter? The inability to rationalize properly? Having no desire for a life worth pursuing? I'm still not entirely sure.

I know it's common to joke around and insist that we're all so immature, even though we, for the most part, are not. Most of the people I talk to and consider friends have an exceptional ability to distinguish what is important and what is not, and are able to react rationally as the situation requires. This is, essentially, what I consider to be mature.

Even though I try not to take myself seriously and rarely offer a stern word to most people, there are still those occasions where I must rid myself of this fun-loving facade and become real. Times like staying up on the phone for hours upon hours from sunset to sunrise, begging my friend to not commit suicide, only to fall asleep from exhaustion without realizing it. Times like having a friend hang up after discussing why they shouldn't end their life, and knowing that they aren't fully convinced. Times like listening to my friend mournfully sing O Happy Day when told they only have a few months left due to cancer. Times where I've just been there for a friend when I found out she'd been raped...because what else is there to do? Times where the word 'empathy' just doesn't do it justice.

I believe that these are marks of maturity: owning up to your responsibilities and mistakes, being a friend, and realizing that a life worth living is a life dedicated to ensuring others' lives are worth living. I know there are times when I fail at these goals of mine...these marks of maturity, and honestly, I have no excuses for that nor do I care to have them.

I know my friend will probably never read this, but I do wish they would realize I'm not as bad as all that.

A New Typewriter

Firstly, forgive typos in this post, because my keyboard sucks and will occasionally not register a keystroke.

Now, I was on my way back from lunch with a good friend of mine, when I passed by this thrift store I had been meaning to check out. Of course, by "passed by" I really mean "stopped and checked it out". I purchased two things during their Friday Sale (25% off): Roots (the book) and an old typewriter. Sexy, right?

This is before electricity, before the auto-return feature once you hit the end of the line. There's a ding when you're nearing the end, then it cuts you off, you have to push it back, then hit the arm on the side to lift it up a line. Yeah. On a scale of one to ten for rockingness, this is definitely pushing a twelve and a half. I'm still playing with it, learning all about it and stuff, since I've only toyed with older typewriters, not actually used them, but I think it's coming along really well. Surprisingly, it really does induce creativity. I'm used to using an electric typewriter, and honestly, I just stare at a blank page when I use it. This time, however, I typed up this little piece (I'll transpose it exactly as typed):

First of all I hadly kow whee to begin. I was once
so alive ut now I can hardl y breathe for all the
confusion in my head. It haunt me day in and day o
out. It s like a monster creeping into my very exis
tence, waiting to catch me off guard, focused on th
frivoloti es in life i nstead of the monster buried
inside of me, eating me away.
The life that Ionce
lived I ca n not stand to even sense it nearby. Its
existence offends me in the deepest, most intimate
sense. The wort part is is that I know that th at
is the real me, the monster that would have my mind
for a midnight snack whil it feasts on my fleshly
desires. I no more desire who I am , but do I have
a choice? I wish to God in the twilight of my
existence that I could reach for the light even
though I know that that is wha t truly offends
me. It is that which reveals wh o I am that I can
not stand...that which reveals how utterly black with
mire. It is the light that repulses me.
So I lay here at night -- always at night -- wishin
for relief from the light so that I can continue b
being the disgusting person that I am. The light
is what truly offends me, I suppose. The darkness is
more than just a blanket of comfort for my despicab
le self. I am the black. It is me. I am who I fea
r the most.


Yeah, it can be a little tricky to follow, but in my defense, the keys are hard to press and when two keys catch each other, it can distract me from my sentence.

So yeah, that's about it for now.

The Island [Part IV]

Richard Davis was in no mood for another animal creeping around. One time a squirrel had managed to get in the museum and he had chased it for two hours. He finally managed to get it out of there. Unfortunately, it was only after two old vases had been smashed and a display containing an assortment of memorabilia from the Civil War had been scattered. From the sounds of it, another squirrel had sneaked in the building. Dang squirrels. He heard a rattle down the hall, towards the front entrance.

“Beat it! G’on! Git!”

Of course, he couldn’t really complain too much. The only thing he really had to deal with anymore was an occasional squirrel. Gone were the days of fools trying to rob museums. It was nearly impossible with all of the new security devices installed. Why, at this very moment, I’m liable to be on camera, Richard thought. He was tempted to do a little jig for the unseen camera, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was a stupid video of that nature being posted all over the internet.

“Meow!”

David looked down to see what had invaded his thoughts. Oliver, the resident cat, had apparently arisen from his slumber, which was unusual considering there wasn’t any food out. He bent over to scratch the cat behind his ear. Oliver replied with a purr and continued on to explore the mysterious depths of the museum. David chuckled. Over the past four years, he had grown close to that cat. Ever since Terri had died of cancer, he had been found himself getting lonelier during the night shifts. Then one day Oliver had slipped into the building and into David’s heart. On many occasions, David had held Oliver, trembling at the onslaught of memories. It wasn’t easy being as old as David and alone. He had to entertain himself, which was unfortunate in light of his seemingly mundane personality. Of course, the fact that he was an old museum security guard probably didn’t help his image.

Oliver was probably the only person in the world that even bothered to get to know him. The amazing thing was, even after knowing David, Oliver still loved him. David sighed, wishing there were more people on this planet like Oliver the cat.

The unmistakable sound of a vase hitting the ground shook him from his thoughts. He walked briskly down the hall, ready to confront that squirrel from hell for the last time. That was his intention, anyway. That all changed around the same time he was knocked unconscious.

Two guys and a girl. How romantic. Of course, this was hardly an occasion for romance; at least, romance in the conventional sense. Oh, this was true romance: desperate people romancing their true selves. They hardly even knew who they really were yet. Yes, they had a better understanding than most. But what were they being compared to? The Freaks. The people of this world hardly made a worthy standard of comparison.

“Enough!” he muttered. Thinking too much bothered him. Putting thought into action, on the other hand, was quite joyous. Affluent people sat at the top of their corporate ladder, looking down and thinking that they have done a good job. They think they have power. The problem is that all they do is think. Then you have the polar opposite. These people are at the bottom, doing mindless actions all day. These people have no power, either. True power is when you think, and act upon those thoughts. Thoughts without actions are dead.

He carefully finished writing the last note. Somehow things were always more personal when it was written by hand. It brought a whole new level of depth that was needed for a project of this magnitude. He slipped the note into the envelope and sealed it. He was almost finished with the opening round.