For a Friend

"I'm hearing what you say but I just can't make you sound." -One Republic

Can I sit at this desk for 8 hours each day until I turn 65, writing stories I'm assigned, informing the community about shit I don't care about?

It's a fair question, nothing has ever gotten me passionate, or has grabbed me from the core. "Can I?"... is different than "Should I?". At 21, I don't know yet, the possibility exists that the passionate career choice, man, lifestyle might not always come swinging by as people wish with their delusions.

I can't imagine loving one man. Being in one home. Holding one job. Two years at a lovely campus with lovely people and I have the urge to run again.

I want to live how I want to live in a world that's confined, where everyone else surrenders to not living how they want. It's perpetual and contagious.

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The story was supposed to be about a young man who beats the odds of adversity and becomes a shinning example of youth leadership.

The story is of a young man who is riddled with flaws. He's homeless and troubled and even through his accomplishments, he faces the odds of being judged by the author of his story. A story read by 40,000, I strain not to judge, pretend not to look beyond the surface but it's not a touching, rags to riches story. Lie to myself and omit from the public my own prejudice of a person who I wished I admired, I wished I saw the strength of, he's been through so much, I wish I were impressed, omit that part of the story and positively portray this "success story", the one that sells papers and touches the heart of the public? Or go with the gut feeling that tells me.... the gut feeling that everyone else has.... that this success story is flawed and I don't believe that he'll amount to his aspirations. To me he is troubled, and if in ten years he ends up being nothing... I would've portrayed a success story, a rags to advocate story... of someone who isn't successful.

Put a million ways, I'm a doubter, I'm a realist, I get a layer of my naivety stripped away each year, and I just do not believe until I see the proof in front of me. I've slaved over this story for 4 days, being like an editor and not a person, luring, testing, asking questions out of skepticism. Is that why I like journalism, because I don't trust people at face value?

I'm a contradictory mess, empathetic but often heartless.

If I had seen this boy without talking him, there wouldn't be grounds to judge. However, people have so many imperfections. People say that imperfection makes one special, or unique, they fail to realize that they are talking about imperfection, when perfection is the ultimate goal, and complimenting people on their imperfections is almost like enabling them to settle and not strive for the best.

True, certain imperfection are thrilling. Rarely. But in other times the comforting comes from a place of helplessness and knowing that many imperfections are innate monsters.

I am what I always feared. The practicality of it all. The Republican White Old Man righteous, opinionated mind. Part of it is in me. Part of me believes that following the ABCs, doing what is right, will lead to the ultimate goal and the fault lies within the person who doesn't reach it. Even when everyone knows it's not that simple; the saying is a load of bullshit.

I'd like to believe I'm somewhat democratic or that I'm at least moderate.
It's a nice thought. But I judge so much, and I'm judging the exact people the world is already judging, so forget the word unique.'

I am not Mother Theresa and I am not a believer filled with blind faith.