TheOni's blog: "The Ultimate Questions Of Life,Love, And Everything Inbetween."

I Lay Here On The Dancing Grass The Stars Swirling Around The Midnight Sky The Man On The Moon Smiling At No One In Particular, I Lay Here Finding The Meaning Of Life. I Think About The Riches Then Discover, That Can't Be Right! There Never Was Economics For The Animals Around Me Only Humans Have This Need For Greed. I Wonder About Beauty Blue Skies, Green Grasses, Colorful Trees But Then I Remember The Concrete Forest We've Created The Dull, Dark, Smoggy Sky We Already Live Without The Beauties So That Can't Be The Meaning Of Life. Maybe It's Not Living At All Maybe It's The Other Way! Maybe It's The Afterlife That Makes Us Truly Happy. Does This Mean The Meaning Of Life Is Death? Then Why Do We Even Live? If That Were The True Path, We Would Be Born Dead. Then I Realize Compassion, Love! To Be Held By Another Is The Only Way To Live. People Die From Lack Of Love You Have Nothing If You Have No One. As I Stare At The Black Veil Above Me With Spinning Dots And A Glowing, Smiling Moon I Hope I'm Right, For I Am Determined! The Meaning Of Life Is Love

Let Him Wish His Life For The Sorrows Of A Stone Never Knowing The First Thread Of These Never Knowing The Pain Of Ice As Its Crystals Slowly Grow To Live Forever And Never Feel A Thing To Wait A Million Lifetimes Only To Erode And Become Sand Wish Not For The Stone But For The Fire Last Only Moments But Change Everything Oh To Be Lightning To Exist For Less Than A Moment Yet In That Moment To Expose The World To Every Open Eye Oh To Be Thunder To Clap And Ring To Rumble Into Memories Minds And Spines To Chill The Soul And Shake The Very Ground Pounding Even The Sand Into Smaller Pieces Or The Mountain Brooding, Extinct Yet Gathering For One Fatal Moment The Power To Blow The Top Clean Off The World Oh To Last The Blink Of An Eye And Leave Nothing But Nothing Unmoved Behind You Vicent Guilliano January 9, 1991

A Young Man Walking Down The Beach Observed An Old Man Picking Up Starfish That Had Washed Up On Shore. As He Got Closer, He Saw The Old Man Throwing Them Back Into The Ocean. He Approached The Man And Asked, "What Are You Doing?" The Old Man Replied, "If I Don't Throw The Starfish Back In The Water, They're Going To Die." "But There Must Be Thousands Of Beaches And Millions Of Starfish. You Can't Save Them All. Don't You Know You'll Never Make A Difference!" The Old Man Reached Down And Picked Up A Starfish And Simply Replied, "I'll Make A Difference To This One."

Stay Black- Stay Proud Stay White- Stay Proud Stay Brown- Stay Proud Stay Yellow- Stay Proud… Don't be Afraid To Be What You Are, 'Cause All You Can Be, Is You! You'll Never Be Anything Else But You, So Be The Best You, You Can Be Keep It Real- By All Means At All Times. Whether A Lawyer, A Doctor, A Football Player, A Toilet Cleaner, A Garbage Handler, A Panhandler- Keep It Real. And Still Be The Best You Can Be. Have Pride, Have Dignity, Stand! Stand Proud, Talk Proud, Act Proud, Be Proud! Don't Lay Down, Back Down, Bow Down, Run Away, Sell Out Yourself, Sell Into Criticism. Be Real And Realize That The Ones Who Criticize Best Recognize That Your Are You- Take It Or Leave It. "MMM HMM!" I Knew You'd Get It. Get What? The Stuff- The Stuff Called Pride, That Attitude, That Aura, Your Identity, Yourself, Your Pride, Peace Of Mind, Worry Free. See, I Can't Be You, But I'm A Damn Good ME! Righteous

They Say I Am Brown I Say I Am Proud They Say I Only Know how To Cook I Say I Know How To Write A Book So Don't Judge Me By The Way I Look They Say I Am Brown I Say I Am Proud They Say I'm Not The Future Of This Nation I Say Stop Giving Me Discrimination Instead I'm Gonna Use My Education To Help Build The Human Nation

A Young Black Boy Filled With Innocence And Care, Looking For Someone, But No One Is There. His First Day Of School, The Fathers Not Around, To Comfort His Son When He's Sad And Down. Looks Up To His Brother Who Knows Money And Power, Watching His Back Every Single Hour. An Innocent Boy Is Now Twelve Years Of Age, And Finds Himself Locked Up In A Human-Sized Cage. An Innocent Young Man Is Now A Criminal Mind, Having Nightmares Of Murders Every Single Time. But This Time You'll Think This Fool Should See The Light, But He's Jumped In A Gang And They Nicknamed Him "Snipe" Kicked Out Of The House And Left In The Cold. Have You Ever Been Through This At Eleven Years Old? He Says To Himself "No One Cares For Me" Then Makes His Bed In An Old Park Tree. The Next Time A Park Bench. How Long Can It Last? Will He Forget This Dreadful, Dreadful Past! He Goes To Wilson High With A Messed-Up Trail, And Meets A Guardian Angel Named Erin Gruwell. He Learns About The Holocaust, Anne Frank And The Jews, Now The Time Comes That He Should Choose. He Meets Anna, Terri, Tommy, And Others, These Are the Innocent Boy's New Sisters and Brothers, A 0.5 Now A 2.8- Change Is Good, For Those Who Wait. He's back To Innocence, But Still Has Fear, That Death Is Upon Him And Drawing Near. But People Say It's Hard To See, This Life Of Emotions Is All About Me. All this Is True, Because I'm Not A Liar, Just A Brokenhearted Male With A Label-Freedom Writer!

I Am Dying Every day, with every breath I draw, I am closer to the end of my life. For we are born with a finite number of breaths, and each one I take edges the sunlight that is mu life toward the inevitable dusk. It is a difficult thing to remember, espically while we are in the health and strength of our youth, and yet, I have come to know that it is an important thing to keep in mind-not to complain or to make melancholy, but simply because only with the honest knowledge that one day I will die can I ever truly begin to live. Certainly I do not dwell on the reality of my own mortality, but I that a person cannot help but dwell, at least subconsciously, on that most imposing specter until he has come to understand, to truly understand and appreciate, that he will one day die. That he will one day be gone from this place, this, this consciousness and existence, to whatever it is that awaits. For only when a person completely and honestly accepts the inevitablitiy of death is he free of the fear of it. So many people, it seems, stick themselves into the same routines, going through each day's ritual with almost religious precision. They become creatures of simple habit. Part of that is the comfort afforded by familiartiy, but there is another aspect to it, a deep-rooted belief that as long as they keep everything the same, everything will remain the same. Such rituals are a way to control the world about them, but in truth, they cannot. For even if they follow the exact routine day after day after day, death will surely find them. I have seen other people paralyze their entire existence around that greatest of mysteries, shaping their every movement, their every word, in a desperate attempt to find the answers to the unanswerable. They fool themselves, either through their interpretations of ancient texts or through some obscure sign from a natural eveent, into believing that they have found the ultimate truth, and this, if they behave accordingly concerning that truth, they will surely be rewarded in the afterlife. This must be the greatest manifestation of that fear of death, the errant belief that we can curtain its windows and place its furniture in accordance with our own desperate desires. I believe them to be wrong, though in truth, I cannot know anything for certain concerning what mystery lies beyond this mortal coil. And so I, too, am but a creature of faith and hope. I hope that my friends have found eternal peace and joy, and pray with all my hear that when I cross over the threshold into the next existence, I will see them again. Perhaps the greatest evil I see in this existence is when supposedly holy men prey upon the basic fears of death of the common folk to take from them. "Give to the church!" they cry. "Only then will you find salvation!" Even more subtly are the many religions that do not directly ask for a person's money, but insits that anyone of goodly and godly heart who is destined for their particular description of heaven, would willingly give that money over. And of course, the world is ripe with "doomsdayers," people who claim that the end of the world is at hand, and cry for repentance and for almost slavish dedication. I can only look at it all and sign, for as death is the greates mystery, so it is the most personal of revelations. We will not know, none of us, until the moment it is upon us, and we cannot truly and in good conscience convince another of our beliefs. It is a road we travel alone, but a road that I no longer fear, for in accepting the inevitable, I have freed myself from it. In coming to recgonize my mortality, I have found the secret to enjoying those centuries, years, months, days, or even hours, that I have left to draw breath. This is the existence I can control, and to throw away the precious hours over fear of the inevitable is a foolish thing indeed. And to subconsciously think ouerselves immortal, and thus not appreciate those precious few hours that we all have, is equally foolish. I cannot control the truth of death, whatever my desperation. I can only make certain that those moments of my life I have remaining are as rich as they can be.

The very sound of the word invokes a sense of gravity and solemnity. Tradition. Suuz'chok in the drow language, and there,, too, as in every language that I have heard, the word rolls off of one's tongue with tremendous weight and power. Tradition. It is the root of who we are, the link to our heritage, the reminder that we as a people, if not individually, will span the ages. To many people and many societies, tradition is the source of structure and of law, the abiding fact of identity that denies the contrary claims of the outlaw, or the misbehavior of the rogue. It is that echoing sound deep in our hearts and out minds and our souls that reminds us of who we are by reinforcing who we were. To many it is even more than the law; it is the religion, guiding faith as it guides morality and society. To many, tradition is a god itself, the ancient rituals and holy texts, scribbled on unreadable parchments yellowed with age or chiseled into eternal rocks. To many, tradition is all. Personally, I view it as a double-edged sword, and one that can cut even more deeply in the way of error. I saw workings of tradition in Menzoberranzan, the ritualistic sacrifice of the third male child, the working of the three drow schools. Tradition justified my sister's advances toward me in the graduation of Melee Magthere, and denied me any claims against that wretched ceremony. Tradition holds the Matrons in power, limiting the ascent of any males. Even the vicious wars of Menzoberranzan, house against house, are rooted in tradition, are justified because that is the way it has always been. Such failings are not exclusive to the drow. Often I sit on the northern face of Kelvin's Cairn looking out over the empty tundra and the twinkling lights of the campfires in the vast barbarian encampments. There, too, is a people wholly consumed by tradition, a people clinging to ancient codes and ways that once allowed them to survive as a society in an inhospitable land, but that now hinder them as much as, or more than, helps them. The barbarians of Icewind Dale follow the caribou herd from one end of the dale to the other. In days long past that was the only way they could have survived up here, but how much easier might their existence be now if they only traded with the folk of Ten-Towns, offering pelts and good meat in exchange for stronger materials brought up from the south so they might construct more permanent homes for themselves? In days long past, before any real civilization crept this far to the north, the barbarians refused to speak with, or even to accept anyone else within Icewind Dale, the various tribes often joining for the sole purpose of driving out any intruders. In those past times any newcomers would inevitably become rivals for the meager food and other scarce supplies, and so such xenophobia was necessary for basic survival. The folk of Ten-Towns, with their advanced fishing techniques, and their rich trade with Luskan, are not rivals of the barbarians--most have never even eaten venison, I would guess. And yet, tradition demands of the barbarians that they do not make friends with those folk, and indeed, often war upon them. Tradition. What gravity indeed does that word impart! What power it wields! As it roots us and grounds us and gives us hope for who we are because of who we were, so it also wreaks destruction and denies change. I would never pretend to understand another people well enough to demand that they change their traditions, yet how foolish it seems it seems to me to hold fast and unyieldingly to those mores and ways without regard for any changes that have taken place in the world about us. For that world is a changing place, moved by advancements in technology and magic, by the rise and fall of populations, even by the blending of races, as in the half-elf communities. The world is not static, and if the roots of our perceptions, traditions, hold static, then we are doomed, I say, into destructive dogma. The we fall upon the darker blade of that double0edged sword.

I'm sure that I will always be A lonely number like root three The three is all that's good and right, Why must my three keep out of sight Beneath the vicious square root sign, I wish instead I were a nine For nine could thwart this evil trick, with just some quick arithmetic I know I'll never see the sun, as 1.7321 Such is my reality, a sad irrationality When hark! What is this I see, Another square root of a three As quietly co-waltzing by, Together now we multiply To form a number we prefer, Rejoicing as an integer We break free from our mortal bonds With the wave of magic wands Our square root signs become unglued Your love for me has been renewed Harold and Kumar:Escape From Guantanamo Bay