If there's one motto I hold close to my heart in life, besides those concerning the ideas of love, it's to always be yourself. Because when you pretend to be something you're not, you not only try to fool others, but moreso yourself; you can never be something that you are not, that much is for certain. And to fight that is to fight God him/herself, and all of what he/she stands for, which is, in fact impossible.
Consider it from this stance; if you are trying to be a hipster, and you've got all the clothes or swagger or whatever, but, deep down, you really aren't that sort of person, you find that you're personality is that of someone else who tries and wishes to be a hipster. You get what I'm saying?
I use this particular example because, when waiting in line for some free Rita's desert today (38 minute wait... ug, so not worth it), there were these high schoolers standing in front of me and my group of friends. I wasn't really paying them any mind, but my friends claimed that he was something of a poser, attempting to put on this facade as a hipster.
Now, I don't condone the concept of judging others for being or not being of some particular group (the idea kinda pisses me off actually), so the complaints of these individuals sort of brought to mind a thought that sort of changed my perspective of the idea I presented above; who's to say this individual hasn't changed, or is trying to change himself for the better? Who's to say that some life-altering event hasn't recently rocked his world and caused him to question just who he is? And who are we to judge whether someone is from one stereotype or another? Or, for that matter, why must we judge one another according to stereotypes? The whole concept, to be frank, is rather absurd, and partially frightening, for if we simply judge one another according to those standards, we are certain to miss some really amazing things that people have to offer.
Judging a Death Sentence
I'm done looking down on you
like a father on his deformed babe,
repulsed and disgusted by the thing it sees
rather than the person who dwells within,
the beautifully innocent newborn
who has yet to take his first steps,
has yet to speak for the first time,
has yet to love someone so inexplicably,
so passionately that nothing can ever change the feeling he gets
whenever he is around her, thinks of her, speaks her name.
He has yet to feel the willingness to die for her,
unquestioning, instantly if need be, and without remorse.
He has yet to experience all that the world offers.
Yet, alas, he is left out in the cold,
with the crumpled newspapers and the burning trashcans,
crushing his life before it even starts and setting it ablaze.
And why?
Because of a hateful man
who could not imagine greatness
ever coming from anything
that looked like THAT.
So misshapen,
malformed,
disgraceful,
grotesque,
a mockery of humanity.
He couldn't imagine the amazing future
this child would have had.
The future in which he became an internationally recognized scholar,
the future in which he had a wonderful wife and two fully functioning children,
the future in which he saved his own father's life-
But, the candle has been snuffed out,
the melting wax pooling on the ground of the cold streets
bright red with rage over the mishandled life
gone before it's time.
As the dogs lap at the chilled, scarlet stream,
they howl in pain and mourning,
tasting the hatred and sorrow on their tongues.
Raising their bright eyes to the sky,
tears slide through their fur,
creating a rain quite fitting
for the boy's burial
in his grim, gloomy grave.
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