The Social Issues Tattler
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Most of us can read the writing on the wall; we just assume it's addressed to someone else.
If I asked about the person you disliked, or liked, in Social Issues, you could give me the skinny on everything they ever did or said. Pick your arch enemy, and think for a moment. You know a lot about them, I'm sure. Their work, or lack thereof, criticisms, political posturing, secret sex life, health, poverty, wealth, and you could name every ghost in their closet as if you were intimate friends with them. But you could never tell me what it's like to be them. You've never lived their life, or taken the time to understand why they do the things they do. If I asked you why you hated them, you would give me a syllabus of what henious crimes they committed against you to cause you the winter of your discontentment. You might even have pictures to go along with the story too. But you couldn't tell me what it's like to wake up as them, and you can never tell me what it's like to be truly happy, because such hate is void of true joy. If I asked you about the war, you could entertain me with a bevy of fictional and non-fictional facts interspersed with anecdotal evidence that is stuffed with incomprehensibleness. You've never been to the Sistine Chapel, seen Stonehenge, walked the halls of the Louvre, or the path of the Great Wall. Yet never a moment's hesitation to disparage that which you know nothing about. You can't tell me what the Louvre smells like, or what the sound of your shoes against aged stones resembles, or to look up and see the genius of man depicting God with brush and paint. You will never know pain until you watch the one you love, draw their last breath, while looking to you for help. You will never know love, until you love someone more than you could ever possibly love yourself. You've never know you could rescue someone from grief with words.
You presume to know so much about them, but what you know are assumptions, based on words, in a tiny corner of an ever-growing smaller world. You are not intelligent confident adults, but boys and girls. Nobody could possibly understand your pain, your reasons for hate, your reasons for crutches, yet you assume to know so much about others. You have listened for a few minutes in a day, and you know everything.
You shout liar when unflattering comments fall upon you, and sing praises when you're drowning in glorious lime light. Old and tattered arguments are kept alive to keep you in the role you have chosen for yourself. You are named the fool and complain of the title, never understanding that without your permission for them to put the colored hat upon your head, they have nothing. You open a room to identify your goodness, and then complain about the job you have chosen for yourself, when it's simply an act of self-importance and control on your part.
As Prince Charming said: If the shoe fits, wear it.
The True Ten Commandments of Social Issues.
1) If you hate Social Issues stay away, and if you can't stay away, don't bitch and complain. X marks the spot.
2) No one on a computer is afraid of you. False bravado is like false modesty, neither work.
3) The pack mentality says more about you, then them.
4) The first sign of maturity is accepting responsibility
5) To belittle children or minorities is the purest form of hate.
6) Allow others their thoughts, it's the true gift of maturity.
7) You can't un-ring a bell
8) If you dislike another, allow them to pass freely without comment.
9) Life is short, happiness shorter, stop wasting both.
10) Fight you bastards, I hate peace.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Most of us can read the writing on the wall; we just assume it's addressed to someone else.
If I asked about the person you disliked, or liked, in Social Issues, you could give me the skinny on everything they ever did or said. Pick your arch enemy, and think for a moment. You know a lot about them, I'm sure. Their work, or lack thereof, criticisms, political posturing, secret sex life, health, poverty, wealth, and you could name every ghost in their closet as if you were intimate friends with them. But you could never tell me what it's like to be them. You've never lived their life, or taken the time to understand why they do the things they do. If I asked you why you hated them, you would give me a syllabus of what henious crimes they committed against you to cause you the winter of your discontentment. You might even have pictures to go along with the story too. But you couldn't tell me what it's like to wake up as them, and you can never tell me what it's like to be truly happy, because such hate is void of true joy. If I asked you about the war, you could entertain me with a bevy of fictional and non-fictional facts interspersed with anecdotal evidence that is stuffed with incomprehensibleness. You've never been to the Sistine Chapel, seen Stonehenge, walked the halls of the Louvre, or the path of the Great Wall. Yet never a moment's hesitation to disparage that which you know nothing about. You can't tell me what the Louvre smells like, or what the sound of your shoes against aged stones resembles, or to look up and see the genius of man depicting God with brush and paint. You will never know pain until you watch the one you love, draw their last breath, while looking to you for help. You will never know love, until you love someone more than you could ever possibly love yourself. You've never know you could rescue someone from grief with words.
You presume to know so much about them, but what you know are assumptions, based on words, in a tiny corner of an ever-growing smaller world. You are not intelligent confident adults, but boys and girls. Nobody could possibly understand your pain, your reasons for hate, your reasons for crutches, yet you assume to know so much about others. You have listened for a few minutes in a day, and you know everything.
You shout liar when unflattering comments fall upon you, and sing praises when you're drowning in glorious lime light. Old and tattered arguments are kept alive to keep you in the role you have chosen for yourself. You are named the fool and complain of the title, never understanding that without your permission for them to put the colored hat upon your head, they have nothing. You open a room to identify your goodness, and then complain about the job you have chosen for yourself, when it's simply an act of self-importance and control on your part.
As Prince Charming said: If the shoe fits, wear it.
The True Ten Commandments of Social Issues.
1) If you hate Social Issues stay away, and if you can't stay away, don't bitch and complain. X marks the spot.
2) No one on a computer is afraid of you. False bravado is like false modesty, neither work.
3) The pack mentality says more about you, then them.
4) The first sign of maturity is accepting responsibility
5) To belittle children or minorities is the purest form of hate.
6) Allow others their thoughts, it's the true gift of maturity.
7) You can't un-ring a bell
8) If you dislike another, allow them to pass freely without comment.
9) Life is short, happiness shorter, stop wasting both.
10) Fight you bastards, I hate peace.
posted by Eye Witness at 9:40 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home