There were rockets like a flight of scintillating birds singing with sweet voices. There were green trees with trunks of dark smoke: there leaves opened like a whole spring unfolding in a moment, and their shining branches dropped glowing flowers down upon the astonished hobbits, disappearing with a sweet scent just before they touched their upturned faces. There were fountains of butterflies that flew glittering into the trees; there were pillars of coloured fires that rose and turned into eagles, or sailing ships, or a phalanx of flying swans; there was a red thunderstorm and a shower of yellow rain; there was a forest of silver spears that sprang suddenly into the air with a yell like an embattled army, and came down again into the Water with a hiss like a hundred hot snakes.
-Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
a bird flew in front of my bike today
and I thought of you
I hate birds
and I hate that I care
you didn’t do much wrong
because you didn’t do much at all
only wanted to be your friend
and I can’t see how that was so hard
you’re a coward for cutting me out
I was never going to fall for you
your ego tells you lies
you’re a sheep in a monkey’s suit
A true idealist is not someone who can’t see negativity and believes it doesn’t exist.
An idealist is someone who is internally affected more heavily by that negativity than most.
When a true idealist lets the staunch nature of reality set in, instead of accepting it, like the realist (who sees it, maybe even predicts it, and is able to move on with their day)
an idealist feels it
to their core
to the point of tears
to the point of deep, deep sadness.
And that sensitivity is an embarrassment.
That sensitivity is perceived by many as a weakness.
An idealist is not someone who doesn’t see the negative.
A true idealist is not ignorant.
An idealist sees the world in the most positive light and bases their actions on that view not necessarily because they believe it to be the reality,
but because they know if they let reality into their soul, the crippling sadness that will come over them will cease their will to live.
They see the world in a positive light because it’s the only way they can fight their extreme sensitivity to humans not acting kindly to one another.
Unwavering idealism does not spin from the idealist’s perceptions,
it spins from their emotions.
And from the need to protect their fragile hearts at all costs.
one black wolf
howls in the night
he wags his tail
and runs out of sight
one grey dolphin
swims far and wide
making deals with fish
with no one by his side
one blue whale
dives to the deep
calling out to her friends
already fast asleep
an owl looks over
and hopes for the end
for a girl who breaks
more than she bends
I love real, paper back books. I love holding them, I love the feeling of them, I love folding down the corners of pages to remind myself of a really great passage, I love writing in them. . .
I get it.
I love real books.
But I’ve always thought the electronic book hate opinion to be pretentious. Kindles and such are so amazing; the quality of the story is not affected and you can bring so many stories with you, anywhere in the world, easily. E-book hate is pretentious.
But today I picked up my worn out copy of LOTR Fellowship of the Ring and started my umpteenth reread of the novel
and I think I became pretentious.
I was reading it all day; started in the morning, continued on the train to school, then on the train back home. . . and nothing unusual hit me.
Then I drank a bunch of wine and champagne while watching the debate. After it was over, I continued reading, kinda tipsy, and the scent of the pages hit me.
Oh man, they smelt so good.
That musty, worn scent came over me and reminded me of all the times I had picked up my Lord of the Rings novels to escape what was going on in my real life. The emotions associated with the brilliant fantasy of the story but also, the emotions associated with the physical act of picking up my worn out Tolkien book, came right to the forefront of my soul.
I’ve lost/left behind so many books over the years, not worrying about it, knowing that the stories are out there for me to access whenever I please.
Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’m growing up. Maybe I’m becoming pretentious. But personal, physical copies of books ARE THE BEST. end of story.