Some writing

[randomh3r0]

Notes, criticisms accepted. Editing this for a writing competition.

 

Our examination begins as the opiate masses consistently attempt to assign cause and effect to the random happenstance in life. The constant search for meaning in moments and reason in entropy leaves the existential bystanders puzzling the past while true protagonists lead the lives analyzed by others. Their journey is one of despair, intrigue, dedication, perseverance, affliction and romance. The onlooker is but a specter, the hero’s life is the one tried, failed, accomplished and eventually succeeded.

 

If the danger surrounding a life well lived is potentially greater than the benefit of it’s events, then what forces us all to continue seizing these moments? If to walk is to potentially stumble and to run is to potentially fall, then what drives the individual to press ever onward? Is the motivation to be remembered and loved enough to force us beyond mediocrity, or is the ability to live completely inborn and simply battled internally by the fear of regret and rejection? Do we hold ourselves back from absolution, or do we struggle just to gain each precious inch?

 

Everyone will awaken occasionally to stare into the mirror and regard an image preferably forgotten. Within that reflection we’re all reminded of our greatest successes and our most catastrophic failures. The mirror, the one true enemy of self love, like a constant reminder of how far there is left to go, may also be our greatest motivation: For the mirror shows only the image, and our interpretation of this rendition can reveal our most abysmal lows or our most breathtaking heights.

 

The heart, recognized throughout the ages as the center of the human, is the embodiment of what can’t be seen outwardly. The focal point for our emotion, ambition, character and grace cannot be seen in superficial reflections. So why, weary traveler, do we continue to justify others and our own selves based on the one measure of humanity that truly holds no bearing on the person within? This superficial presence staring back at us through that reflective windowpane mocks our inner beauty by displaying our outward insecurities.

 

Those with the empty hearts plot behind closed doors, blinded by the few flickers of candle light in their dark rooms, watching shadows of stationary objects dancing along the walls as shining profiles teasing their peripheral vision, then facing each other with accusing eyes and expecting pain and disappointment, and being rewarded by receiving what they expect. The journey of the empty heart never takes the first step outside, afraid to stumble and refusing to engage in the actions that demand consequence.

 

The dangers of this life cannot be quantified scientifically. Pain is relative, the result of an individual reaction to consequence or chance. The heart is only metaphorically the center of self, a focal point for the concept of a soul or internal being that transcends the flesh it’s housed within. It’s our nature to assign such supernatural concepts more easily understood symbols, as our mind comprehends what we can see much easier than what we must take on faith.

 

No longer afflicted by pitfalls and perils, those with the intrepid hearts see that first lens flare of sunlight, like glowing orbs tracing their vision, and know themselves to be forever flawed; but always approaching and growing closer to the subjective perfection we all seek to find for ourselves. For within our flaws lay our beauty, our lives made increasingly precious by their decreasing longevity.

 

Hope is the ideal human condition. Whether it be hope for a better day, the hope that we’re not alone or the hope that being alone no longer negates existence. We perpetuate our species based on hope alone, desiring to be remembered for our actions and loved for our love. It’s this constant pursuit of the intangible that we find this simple truth: the journey IS the destination. The motivated heart only reaches one ideal to discover the next move. Never content or apathetic, travel yields accomplishment while complacency infects like a plague.

 

Still, the curious heart questions the very criteria we measure ourselves against. Throughout our history, minstrels have canonized the most noble and laudable aspects of our heroes, focusing on beauty amidst destruction and sanity within chaos. The soundtrack to our existence is one of honor and praise, overcoming the odds stacked against mankind to prevail over the forces of evil. Enter curiosity, demanding explanation and definition of evil. Every anti-hero, antagonist and perpetuator of destruction held fast to hope and faith that their deeds were indeed for the betterment of the collective, however misguided. Does the man who does wrong in the name of hope and faith deserve to be vilified? Unquestionably: However, how much more at fault are those empty hearts that refuse to act at all?

 

We trade one evil for five others, faceless and unknown, yet recognizable if the persistent heart is made aware. Inaction, the bringer of nothing, unremarkable in every way is the first symptom that the heart afflicted has ceased all progress. Apathy, a friend who can comfort us in the face of unbridled and chaotic change, begs us to stay indoors and dance with our own shadows, slowly corroding the intrepid heart to a pile of dust. Envy, the bitter relative of ambition, shows us everything we want and then tells us we cannot attain such, and for that which we can’t have we covet. Fear, the human shield, is a valuable ally against true foes too powerful to battle alone, yet must be discarded quickly upon victory or it’s weight will crush the body and heart, leaving us paralyzed against all others.

 

Hopelessness, every bit as powerful as hope itself, whispers in our ear that there’s no reason to continue, the journey isn’t worth beginning because it can’t be completed. Be not deceived; hopelessness is indeed quiet, the soft breathe in your ear reaffirming your worst fears. Despair, a byproduct of hopelessness, is indeed the fearful heart’s reaction to the confirmation of hopelessness and the apathy to improve.

 

But those who would continue on, advancing in the face of obscurity and opposition shall never do so alone. For there is indeed and ebb and flow, the opposing swing of the pendulum which grants us the comrades our heart requires.

 

Hope, to battle hopelessness, does not proceed subtly. It’s the hand held out when we’ve fallen, the light beams breaking through the winter clouds, the counterstroke of our mind against our heart’s foes, to reach onward until our last breath. Joy, the elation in any moment waiting to be discovered, is the parry to despair’s swing, allowing the brave heart to continue the fight. Determination, the piece of the damaged heart that takes hope’s hand and gets up to continue on. Finally, love. Immortalized in every work of fact or fiction in human history, this single attribute of the human experience is indeed why we are here, where we are going, where we’ve come from and the means to meaning.

 

Love, this all-encompassing force that demands eternal sacrifices, is not simply a benevolent, noble ideal. Love rewards and punishes mankind with the same stroke, granting you all of the weary heart’s desires and then inserts the knife, showing that this great elation is what makes this great pain possible.

 

Throughout the centuries poets and philosophers, scholars and theologians have contemplated whether or not this characteristic of imperfect nature is deserving of our time and emotion. The power love possesses over every heart is absolute. Love can place a leash around the collar of the brave heart and lead it where it best not be found. It can be the motivation finally found by the fearful heart to attain the courage required to step out of the front door. Love can silence the minstrel’s song or give him words to sing.

 

So, dear traveler, what reaction does love deserve when it presents itself directly in our path? Do we shy, run and hide? Do we confront and contain this force? Do the courageous ones allow themselves to be led, assuming the guidance provided would cause pain and yet yield infinitely valuable experience?

 

The heart that has never known love cannot claim it is complete. Likewise, the heart that has known no pain cannot claim it is strong. It is the imperfections within us that define us, as the face of a cliff in the sun displays its imperfections and within them the route to master it. A small piece of broken glass, opaque and flawed, still becomes beautiful once used in the completion of a stained glass window, shining the light through it’s pieces and revealing the master artwork greater than the sum of its parts.

 

It’s within remembrance that the empty heart can progress and be filled, within memory and progress that the intrepid heart can achieve balance and tranquility. The past, like an old friend from long ago, can instantly remind the traveler where they have been. Memory is subjective, painfully reliving trying times or fondly recalling moments of bliss, in the end this old friend is objectively neutral: Neither positive nor negative, wherever the reminiscent heart has been has made it into the masterpiece it truly is. Joy fades with time and all wounds heal, but the scars tell the story.

 

What the melancholy heart sometimes fails to see is that the scars formed following pain of payment form, in the end, a road map for those who would look with the right set of eyes. These markings of imperfection are not what they seem at face value: a laundry list of failures. The wound that kills you never heals, and even if the entire body is covered with scars and bruises, every one of those is indeed a victory; a trial survived, a snare escaped, a life lived in fact. The body heals with a scar the same way the heart heals pain with memory: Nothing ever goes away, but after the pain leaves the wound we are left with a reminder of what we have overcome. The intrepid heart is a heart thoroughly wounded and damaged, with flaws on the outside for all to see, but is the heart that continues on not only in spite of failure, but because of it.

 

So what conclusion can be drawn, traveler? Only one: The intrepid heart is the culmination of all the other conditions mentioned; it has been empty, it has been melancholy. The Intrepid heart has been hopeless, weary, brave, motivated and it has questioned it’s own merit. It is the station we have all achieved or will one day acquire. Whether or not there is anything bigger than this life, this life is as big as we choose to make it. Your path behind grows as you travel, your heart scars as you fall, but every failure is a success in the making, and every step taken makes the journey into a story worth telling. As you journey ever onwards to your own intrepid heart, dear traveler, remember: love is the journey and the destination.

[LilyElizabeth]

Very nice.

 

Do you know about the Writer's board in the ACW Social Group? You could have this critiqued by other writers, if you like.

[lolguy26]

very nice and wise words

 

:D

[randomh3r0]

Very nice.

 

Do you know about the Writer's board in the ACW Social Group? You could have this critiqued by other writers, if you like.

I don't, actually. Only a member of two SGs currently. Taking my time with expansions :) But thanks, I might check that out.

 

very nice and wise words

 

:D

Thanks lolguy.

 

Anyone with criticisms or anything?

[Verbal32]

Anyone with criticisms or anything?

 

tl;dr?

 

(j/k, you walked right into that one)

[randomh3r0]

Anyone with criticisms or anything?

 

tl;dr?

 

(j/k, you walked right into that one)

I suppose I did... now if I only had any idea of what that means... :)

[Niel an' Tyomn]

Hehe , I've seen this before .... Deja Vu? Either way still AWESOME

[Nynaeve]

I cannot process such a lengthy post. I'm sure it's A-okay!

 

 

 

Nyn

[Kathleen]

If you truly want a critique there is a Private board in the acw guild sg where writers give in depth critiques. Let me know if your interested. It would get real feedback there.

[Roxinos]

Criticism? It's a long, boring, rambling rant filled with purple prose on a topic that's been done to death countless times before and will be done countless times after. It doesn't say anything unique about anything, and doesn't say anything in any unique way which would forgive it for its unoriginality.

 

But your grammar and mechanics are solid. You just need to work on style and substance.

[randomh3r0]

Well, it doesn't get more critical than that. Still, thanks Rox

[Roxinos]

No problem, man. :)

[Nynaeve]

lol There's the charm I missed! (well, not really lol)

 

 

Nyn

[ThorkinBarrimore]

Very nice.

 

Do you know about the Writer's board in the ACW Social Group? You could have this critiqued by other writers, if you like.

I don't, actually. Only a member of two SGs currently. Taking my time with expansions :) But thanks, I might check that out.

 

very nice and wise words

 

:D

Thanks lolguy.

 

Anyone with criticisms or anything?

 

Yes, this is very good and please do consider a trip to the ACW Guild and look around as it's a very awesome

place for good talent and constuctive advice. I'm a crafter. :P