We are Afraid

We are afraid of letting go.

We are afraid that one day through our work the closed eyes of forgiveness will open up to let us know our hope has been lost as we try to remember how to coup and where we are. That we still have a job left to fulfill. It never ends.

We are afraid of the dark

and the day that created it.

We are afraid of all there is to fear.

We are afraid that tomorrow we’ll take today seriously;

and we’ll look bad and have to sallow all we have left with it getting caught for a second before sliding away. That tomorrow, when we aren’t in the moment, we’ll be forced the reality of sadness of today. The day past too late has passed and the moment of realization awaits like a fist hanging above your dazed head in a fight. Pleasurably awaiting impact as you flash through a moment in less than a second remember what lead you there why you can’t be forgiven.

We are afraid of the only part of us that withstands fear, an emotion that is exempt from emotions.

We are afraid of what we regret and that that makes us sad.

We are afraid of realization.

We are afraid it is too late.

We Are Afraid-Ikey

We are afraid everyone might leave.
We are afraid that jokes will not be funny
We are afraid of the dark
We are afraid that dreams might not come true and we wont be able to be a fireman or a princess
We are afraid of the what if
We are afraid we wont be able to pay for life saving surgery
We are afraid that a few too many will turn into never gonna have a few again
we are afraid that if everyone dies or leaves we will be left alone to fight on our own
We are afraid of aliens
We are afraid of having to use our floation devices from the airplane
We are afraid to see a world without technology
We are afraid that god is a myth and the closest thing to it is zeke
We are afraid that our greastest teachers taught us the wrong material in school
We are afraid of what we will do to win
We are afraid of the fact that we just might lose
We are afraid that we will lose pro sports cause back up qbs want a million dollars
We are afraid that this poem really did suck

We Are Afraid

We Are Afraid

We are afraid of pigeons

The way they circle there prey right before they land

We are afraid of sharks

They swim so close to the glass as if they are daring you to come closer

All the while grinning so their rows and rows of teeth show and you inch closer to see what that red sploch on them are

Before you know it they bust through the glass and swallow you whole

We are afraid of turning into our ridiculously embarrassing parents

We are afraid of someone breaking into the house when its only you on the other side of the door shaking with fear and holding on for dear life to a wooden bat but all of the sudden your palms start to sweat and the bat slips out of your hands

We are afraid of failing

Failing in life

We are afraid of creepy people who talk to themselves on the train

The way they rock back in forth in their seat hold there hands to there head and muttering what seems like the same words over and over again

We are afraid of tripping right as you are handed your diploma and knock the rest of the graduating class over

We are afraid of robots taking over the world

And there will be no Arnold Schwarzenegger to save us

We are afraid that one day we will not have the strength to stand up to our fears

That is what we are truly afraid of

We are Afraid

We are Afraid

We are afraid of insects.
The little spiders and ants that may or may not bite.
We are afraid of needles.
The shots that we know will help us, but scare us anyway
We are afraid of change
When it’s unplanned and could lead to something unknown
That leaves us suddenly helpless in a new world.
And everybody else will have liked the change and we will be alone
With nobody who can relate to us
We are afraid of flying
We are afraid of crying
We are afraid of 2012
The rumors that predict our demise as a species.
That when looked at reasonably are nonsense,
but that still make us worry
whether the worry is public or private
We are afraid of leaving
We are afraid of coming home
We are afraid of dying
But we are just as scared of living

We are Afraid

We are afraid of things that go bump in the night, things that creep through our windows and eat us up We are afraid of tapioca We are afraid that the cold nights will never end, the effervescence from our mouths illustrating our fears on the cold night sky We are afraid that we were not made right We are afraid that in the end, death, is the final stop on our journey

We are afraid of Kittens We are afraid of the sun, a glowing ball that ticks steadily towards our death, proving our place on this earth is merely temporary We are afraid of what people think

But most of all we are afraid of what people will say when we die.

Coins in the famous shower of golden illusion or nightgown and one sock or moist brush stroke of his fathers mustache.

There will always be people who want me just to shave it
some women want it other women hate it
some women even have a little themselves
some people think it covers a piece of true beauty
I always like to keep it clean and well intact
cause you never know who is going to see
those people who do see it enjoy having it different sizes and shapes
some people even have the to tools to make it wet
I enter a shower of golden illusion just to clean it up
I don't like having one sock near it
and unfortunately i cant find a nightgown that covers it up
the best part is that...
Beaver loves it too
As I enter, Beaver just feels safe knowing its there
I love having it and I have no plans of shaving it all off
for now
this is my mustache.

His heart smacking against his ribs like a bumblebee at a window Or Divert people’s attention from his quest Or Traffic of schoolchildren and clerks

Imagine a sea of people

Herded together like sheep

Grounded, surrounded

Multicolored faces,

Then you,

Embedded in a design, quilt of different textures

Yet anxiety arises within because you are not alone now,

Walking in a street so crowded,

Your vision clouded by the blurs and slurs of the mainstream,

Your heart pounds in a beat that seems to echo aloud,

You don’t like crowds,

Every flaw projected onto strangers,

It’s a danger,

Having your secrets and quirks mirrored onto the street

Displayed to people you can’t meet in a short span of 2 seconds

Their judgments of you portrayed by their flashed faces,

Their cold eyes and stuck up held high chins they simply say

“I don’t know you but by looking at you I don’t want to”

Traffic of schoolchildren,

Traffic of clerks,

Traffic of businessmen and schoolteachers,

All of them,

Worry you.

Tunnel vision your acquisition,

Walking faster to your destination

Heart smacking against your ribs,

Legs quivering with each step,

All that matters is

you have to get out of the crowd.

Find a Child and Ask It Or People Only Notice What You Tell Them To Notice Or Circus Zeletny

Adults are caught up
in matters of importance
but if you want to know the truth
you must simply
find a child and ask it
because they are not yet fooled
by the supposed reality of the universe
they see things others don't
they notice
they think and they feel
and they understand
adults only notice what you tell them to notice
and they miss the things that are truly
matters of consequence
they let the baobabs grow big
because they failed to notice them
when they were just small
to them it is inevitable
that they will grow

That is precisely the point or from the circus Zeletny or Just an empty jar.

The Point of a circus and an empty jar is just nothing. A circus is fun, but to a

commonday person, nothing. A jar is a jar, nothing more nothing less, and lets face

it, if something is precisely one point, its not as important as another, because

its only one point. My belief is that nothing listed here is important. In fact,

since I am not someone who loved the word point, circuses and empty jars I find

myself to be utterly bored by the sentence. I can only hope that the circus closes

down, the empty jar breaks, and someone realizes that no one cares about the so

callled "point".

There was a residuum of summer in the watery blue sky or he was exhausted by their charade or he didn’t stop until he reached the door

There was a residuum of summer in the watery blue sky, the air was brisk, near cool. The sun coming through the empty trees with the warm sky reminding me of what was to return. A cool breeze brings me back as I open the door. I look across the way and see him. He looks familiar, almost as if I had met him years ago. I do not bother approaching him for it would be a waste of my time. I already know him. He was exhausted by their charade, by their make believe version of life. I stood there in silence unsure if he could see him. I swear I know him from somewhere but where. He didn’t stop until he reached the door, the seriousness of his manner was evident in the crisp, clean, unfiltered air on that cool day. I look up at that watery blue warm sky. Something was familiar about this moment, this man, this day. I turn my attention back to the man just in time to see him for one last time before he slips away. I swear I remember this exact moment in time, this exact same day, this exact man. I look back up across the building he entered and toward the sky he left behind. This day was mine, this moment happened, this man was me.

Flashed their credentials, or made short work of the lower lock, or out the window, onto the roof

The steps one must take to remain hidden are endless. Then again, the amount of different strategies to remain hidden is also an endless list. Obviously it’s easier not to hide, but sometimes that’s just not an option. When the situation presents itself and you have no choice but to remain unseen if you want to be able to move forward, you have to be able to do it. On many stealth missions that you may or may not go on, you will have to force entry. Get yourself into a place that you are not allowed to be in. The ways to do that are also endless, but you want to always have options. You can’t just be a master lock pick. The art of finding your way into locked doors doesn’t always mean playing with pins until it opens. It is important to have a new identity too. A fake one. With your own set of credentials that you can flash out for the dimwitted security. You should also know your way out. Sometimes you can’t just go back the way you came. Because if things go south, you should be able to get out the window, onto the roof, on your way back to freedom.

Professor Alphonse von Clay, the Mighty Molecule or you can’t leave me with her because it isn’t healthy for a boy my age to be with a women like that

The dog days are over. The song, and melody just mix in between to create the perfect harmonious blend. A song so popular, that was once outcasted, and to the dismay of others, will one day be outcasted again. Sammy thought that his dog days were over. He finally could have a partner in crime, and what a man his father was. The Mighty Molecule was everything his mother wouldn’t let him. He would smoke, swear, and drink in front of his son, and Sammy adored every second of it. However Sammy’s father was everything great, except for being a father. When Sammy wanted his dad the most, despite the Mighty Molecule promising to stay, he still left. Then, like the dog days are over, the Mighty Molecule was out of the lime light.

The pair of young German professors or chairs to stock a large café or market bags and wrapped parcels of meat.

They looked at me weird for making a café that only serves meat not coffee no cookies but meat like beef stew or that gross pâté stuff which only stuff old people order cause they’re obviously constipated. I mean who else could think of a café that only serves meat like a meat pie well other then Sweeney Todd but I promise its not made of people but seriously who knows what in meat? But back to the food we have steak cut into stars and circle to look like finger sandwiches and the art is my favorite part. There is a life-sized picture of Lady Gaga in her meat dress hanging by the door. Some people think its odd but they have obviously never tasted our Gaga chili it has little bits of raw meat in it to honor her amazing creation which is of course the meat dress. So when you’re on town I encourage you to come to All You Can Meat café next to the German School in New York. By the way its not all you can eat that’s just the name.

Long Title

it's a giant or statue of liberty or maybe its was supposed to be a female.

Its starts with hair in the mind of annie mangoni. TO her, thats something really weird to talk about. I cant say i dont agree, hair is f**** weird conversation. But how can I judge? They say one mans trash is another mans treasure and maybe their right. In Zeke's mind hair could be the number one thing. He could have a diary of hair in his room, or even more, a bag of hair he collects in his bag. That hair that frustrate ourlives, working their way onto computers, books, and mouths. The annoying strands we brush off all falling unknown into Zekes hair bag. And that makes realize I shed so many things, so much hair, everyday. Gum, rappers, dust, dirt, everything I dont want brushed off to where? What if I secretly collected gum. Not the packaged stuff but the spiderweb kind under your seat, or the worn down pieces sprinkling the sidewalk. While everyone thought I was normal I actually had a massive collection of used gum. Would people be scared of me?

The Blackness of My Blackness

The blackness of my blackness, I don't think it's malicious. It's manipulative. I can't control it. It isn't evil, it isn't malicious, it isn't bad. Bad because it's erratic, unruly, disorderly. It goes where it wants, it takes what it wants and I let it go. So therefore maybe it is bad, it's disobedient but I thrive in it.
The words will roll of my tongue and like a wounded, stuttering bird it will fly right through you. I will collect you, I will collect everything about you. Then I'll leave the pieces behind me like a broken trail of breadcrumbs, retreating with my blackness, my shadow.

The Blackness of My Blackness

The Blackness of My Blackness resides in the corner of my being. It is sealed, with no air and no light to allow it to grow. It is covered tight and it will not leak, even with the heaviest weight thrown down upon it. My blackness used to scream and thrash in its small and confined corner, but now, its collapses, laying down flat, breathing hard. The blackness of my blackness used to be alive, but as I learn, it dies.

The Blackness of the blackness

I fall into a dark hole, no ending or beginning. I am trapped and I cannot get out. I am scared, alone and the blackness surrounds me. I hear voices outside, but how to get them? I want to be loved, cared for and appreciated. I scream in terror and call for help. No one answers as I plead. My voice disappears and I am silent sitting in the blackness.

My blackness, while black, is made up of many colors. The purple overlaps with the green, the blue mixes with yellow, the orange swirls with the red. These colors create a kaleidoscope, all the while being drowned in endless blackness. My blackness envelopes my being; it is nothing; it is everything. My blackness controls who I am; it controls how I am seen, how I see, what I see. The colors of the tie-dye that stirs in my blackness each represent a part of who I am, who I can be, who I will be. The colors, the blackness are pumped through my body by the upside-down pear shaped muscle in the center of my lungs. The blackest of my blackness resides in my soul, wherever that may be; the blackness is a never ending abyss of thoughts, ideas, dreams. The blackest of my blackness is neither good nor bad; it just is. The blackness of my blackness is where everything begins, everything ends, everything lives.

The Blackness of my Blackness

The blackness of my blackness is really not all that black. It's more transparent, pale, virtually invisible. This way, you can't even see it until it's too late. It is formless, so you can't protect yourself from it. You can't prepare for it, you can't avoid it, you can't destroy it. All you can do is run from it. It's futile, of course: the blackness will absorb you just as much as it has absorbed you. However, running can maybe prolong the fight against it, maybe allow a ray of goodness to permeate it. I should have tried that.

The Blackness of My Blackness

The Blackness of my Blackness are the terrible answers to the questions I ask myself. It is the bottom of the hole that I dig for myself hoping for an answer beneath the crust, blindly dig until I find myself surrounded only by the heavy earth of my mind. I stay here, not because I want to but because if I try to climb I will only make more dirt fall upon me. The only way to go is down. The harder I dig the more tired I become. Inevitably, I must give up and lay myself upon the ground, I press my cheek against the rough and granulated soil and I wish for sleep.

The Blackness of my Blackness

The blackness of my blackness is my bad intentions. The things that you don't say because it's not something that should be said. Sometimes, it's how I feel with no sugar coating.

The blackness of my blackness

The "Blackness of my Blackness" is the weirdest title I have ever come across. Not only is it vague but it is also rudimentary. If I were to chose a title it would be "Where is the Blackness." This would pose a question and therefore make it easier to write. It is implausible for me to think that I have a blackness of my blackness. However where is my blackness is an easy question to answer; wherever i want.

The Blackness of My Blackness

The blackness of my blackness is neither good nor bad, not wicked nor benign, yet it is also both evil and virtuous— for the blackness of my blackness is a part of me. In fact the blackness of my blackness is the path to the light, a journey through the unlit tunnel, and the blackness of my blackness is the infinitesimally small light at the end. The blackness of my blackness is my upmost fears, those secrets within, and the way out and to freedom! If you try to find it, you will fail, try not and succeed! The blackness of my blackness is a contradiction— a simple perplexity!

The Blackness of My Blackness

The blackness of my blackness is that I know I am not thinking straight. When I know this, and yet I do not care. In fact, it is when I resent that I should think straight. When the mind is warped, it is a liberating sensation. No longer are there. Like the artist who first threw his paint instead of gently setting a brush, the blackness of my blackness is my failure to. The black is the warping, and the nessness comes loving from that. I don't give a damn what your blackness is, mine is my own, my private child born to me by me and will die with me. Your blackness is invisible, not subtle, don't kid yourself. Mine however, is a roaring devil ready to fight.

The Blackness of My Blackness

I have been fighting my blackness for a few months now. My blackness kills me, but yet keeps me in check. My blackness scares me, especially because I struggle with it everyday. My blackness is not on my surface, but kept deep inside my body. My blackness flows deep inside my veins, sleeps in my brain, and is stored in my heart. It is that I don't trust myself. The blackness of my blackness hinders my conscience. I have tried to trust myself, but I just cannot...

The Blackness of my Blackness

Inside of everyone, there is a deeper and harsher part of you. A part that most people may not see right away. However, you will always see. This may be the worst aspect about you that goes way beyond your outer appearance. If people knew it, they would be shocked. My blackness of blackness? One would not know unless you truly knew me. My blackness of blackness

The Blackness of My Blackness

The blackness of my blackness is a topic that is never talked about but is always acknowledged. The blackest part of me is not for your ears but more for your heart. You will understand what my blackness is when you come to know the full me, the me that I hide, the me that you always seem to find. I don't talk about my blackness and I ask you to do the same. Let my blackness be a secret in the open air. I will not vocally acknowledge it but look at me directly in my eyes and you will hear what I can never say. Don't try to pick apart the blackness of my blackness, don't try to evaluate it, you'll only be wasting your time. My blackness is not yours, its not your therapy case or some mysterious "thing" you can fix, it is mine. So let it be, you have your blackness too.

The Blackness of My Blackness

The blackness of my blackness is when I'm ashamed or embarrassed. It can emerge when I'm jealous or sad. Sometimes it comes when I am my most happy or excited. It comes when I think only of myself and not of the consequences that might come of my actions and words or of the hurt it could cause other people. The blackness of my blackness is solely about me and my wants. No one else. Alone.

Teacher

I remember that day Scott pulled me aside to change everything. I could feel his anger, his frustration toward me. I knew he was mad, but why, why would he turn like that in a split second. Why did those words spew out like the very venom we would try to combat. It did not make sense then, I did what was asked, just exactly what was asked. I remember the words he said with almost painful clarity, they started harsh like the sun lit snow lying there silent next to us, but then finally he said it. He changed his tone to tell me something in such a way that it seemed new for both of us. I stood there in silence, silence so loud it still rings through me today. Silence created after he said the five words I remember clearer than that night sky after two days of misery. Five words that took a mere two seconds to say: “You have what it take.” A life changed in two seconds is one that can only be remembered in two parts. In a way thats our job; changing someones life in two sends, a mere heart beat away. I did not understand what he meant, what was it I had? I still don’t know what it means. Looking back, however, I’m glad he said partly because it was well worth it but mainly because I will never be the same again.

Teachers

I had a teacher once, whose name was Mr. Amershadian. He couldn't have been more than five and a half feet tall, and he was round, pudgy, with a grey beard and moustache. Outside of class, I called him "Uncle Peter," due to the fact that he had been good friends with my grandmother for decades. He was gay, liked trains, spoke twelve different languages and in a way he vaguely reminded me of a fuzzy teddy bear; he was without a doubt the most intimidating and frightening teacher I have ever met. This wasn't because he was mean or terrible. It's just that everyone who crossed his path adopted an intense need to make him proud, and that is a very intimidating task. He was tough, but only because he knew when you weren't working as hard as you should be. And he was always, always right. "In five years, you'll thank me for being such a tough teacher," he would often tell us when a student was on the verge of tears. I was in France recently, and my accent was good enough so that nobody could recognize I was not a native speaker. I was tempted to write him an email, telling him, but then I realized that he was, as usual, absolutely right. And there's a part of me that doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was right.

teacher

The demon of rebellion is locked within the walls, tables, and chairs of every classroom, arising occasionally to jirate the throne of authority. The bane of teachers, its beaten back dehumanized to cure a guilty conscense. In this class;however, the beast of burden is welcomed, and for me its consent is my escape.
To refuse the order of power, to take whats given-throw it away-and return with creativity (or as others call wrong) is the greatest lesson I have ever learned. They say the mind never dies, but I think not when confined to the ideas of another. Taught to disagree has given me myself back and with that I am perfectly content. So i guess in teaching my to disagree i was taught to agree with myself. Sometimes it is not in the lesson that you gain knowledge but through what you take away as "a lesson" where you truly gain understanding. and through rebellion i gain that.

Teacher

For me, revolutionary is the key. I want to hear those words, or that phrase where all you can say is eureka! I want to be great, and I have it all mapped out. I know what schools I am going to, and what I am going to major. I know all of the different variations that my career could take me depending on how I want to use it. I have options, but I have also been narrowed in. There is a road to take. However, we all know that there is a left hand turn, and a right hand turn as well. Mapquest can’t tell you when there is traffic so there can also be impulse movements. Lastly, there are forks in the road, and only you can decide which way to go. I have been driving on a one way street, straight to my future. Until I hear that eureka, you will continue driving.

Love is the Drug that I'm Thinking of

Teachers have played a big role in my life. Or rather, some teachers have played a big role in my life. Throughout my education I have had countless teachers. Some that I have liked so much that I still think about them regularly, and some whose name I can’t even recall. There have also of course been the ones that I did not like and that I remember for my dislike. I can name a couple teachers who I have liked so much that they have had an effect on me beyond the schoolwork. Whether or not they have ever said anything that has helped me on my way to escaping is irrelevant, because if they have, I don’t know what it was. I believe that a teacher that I really like would have the ability to help me escape. I don’t know what they would say, but I think that a well placed statement from a teacher that I enjoy could affect me in a profound way. I don’t even know what or where I am planning to escape to though. Maybe that’s what the teacher will help me with. Maybe this advice will come not from a teacher I know, but one I am yet to meet. Or maybe it will never come at all and I will escape without the help of a mentor or a guide. I know that it is possible for a teacher to help me realize myself and my own desires and goals, but I do not know if it has happened yet or if it will happen at all.

Teacher

What is something a teacher has, or might, say to you that had allowed you to begin your escape?

Those words changed my life, they allowed me to reach beyond, to bridge the gap between dreams and reality. The force of those words shook me to the core, not fiercely though, but like the subtle thrumming of an electric car. My whole being shook with awe, as I struggled to comprehend the seriousness of these words. I felt changed somehow, pieces fit together that didn't before, and I suddenly realized what to do, what I will do, and how I will accomplish my goals. To be honest, I was a little bit afraid of the change I had felt, but I pushed past my minor terror. I realized something, this change, these words had enacted something in me, I saw my chance, my voyage, and ultimately my escape. The gates of freedom I could see the words in my vision shining almost opalescently, paving the way to my escape.

My Caterpillar Scheme

My Caterpillar Scheme

When I was six years old I used to picture my life as an adult I would steel my mothers high heels and make up and wear them all day long with my princess tiara and pretend to be a princess adult as I called it and now that is the way I am still seen. Every day here I am in the same old place each and every day. Boston Massachusetts the same old street, the same old house, the same old dinners, and the same old school. The six year old with the tiara, heels, and make up is my cocoon it is holding me back from being an adult it is trapping me. I am still seen as the baby the youngest and it is keeping me from who I can potentially be. And the people constantly telling me what to do just adds layers to my cocoon. Every day I hear you only sixteen, they try to make me their little girl and that is what holds me back. But the day I get to make my own decisions is the day I get that letter in the mail that says congratulations you have been accepted. That will be the moment I shed my cocoon it will be my decision it is my future that is when I will finally be an adult.

My Caterpillar Scheme

Suburbia is a very odd place to be trapped in. On the surface it seems dull, mundane- they like to pretend everything is sweet and idyllic. Yet it seems to me that I hardly know a person who isn't doing something that would be considered morally iffy, to say the least. Haven't you ever seen the show Weeds? I refuse to believe that is the life I'm living. But wouldn't that be interesting, more fascinating? Wouldn't that at least be admitting that there is something lying under the surface? I cannot stand writers who discuss at length their difficult childhood growing up in suburbia. This is not pain, or hurt, or poverty or illness or any of those things one would actually have the right to complain about. It is just boredom because people refuse to let the interesting manifest itself. The snippets of conversation one hears in line at the Starbucks are utterly dull, all the women with their long painted nails and expensive designer handbags- these are not innocent, boring people, as much as they would like to cultivate such an image. They are fascinating, fascinating and broken and utterly fucked-up, but they don't let anyone see this. They prefer the control of having a set image, a mask to wear at all times. That is what I am most afraid of in life; the mini-van with the 2.3 children, going to yogalaties with my overpriced cup of coffee before heading to the nail salon and sneaking in a quick trip to the grocery store before picking the children up from school and taking them to their soccer games and ballet classes. And I will escape- the minute I turn eighteen, I will escape. Maybe I will live in Paris, the women with their noses turned up and their cigarettes, and wear all black and grey. I could move to New Zealand, and learn to love having more sheep than people as neighbours. I don't think the sheep would care much what my nails look like, or if my handbag is properly overpriced. I think in a way, nobody is real in the sense that they are all pretending to be somebody they are not. I think in a way, nobody is inherently anything- we are just masks, shades of different people that we become due to the people around us. The Parisian women are just as fake and cultivated as the woman who lives next-door. I will escape, and create my masks as needed, but when I return I will return to the sheep. They are what they are, and they aren't pretending to be anything. They need no scheme- they are already butterflies.

My Caterpillar Scheme

My Caterpillar Scheme

I get stuck into a routine. Daily routines, monthly routines, annual routines. All of these a system of things that I have done in the past, things I am doing now, and things that I will most likely continue to do. If it were up to my parents, my grandparents, and the umpteenth number of parents before them, I would go to a good college, get a good job, marry a good wife, have good kids, lead a good legacy. Good is their word. I can’t use good because I’ve never seen “good”. I’ve never witnessed anything “good”. Isn’t good just a figment of imagination? Not just my imagination or my ancestor’s, but everyone’s? In reality when people talk about what they wish in their life, it won’t come true, or not necessarily as how they planned. In fact, in reality I will probably go to college, get a job which pays too little, sleep in a bed which is too small, send my kids to a school which is too expensive, and marry a wife who doesn’t love me enough. But for now, I have a distraction. People know that I like music. Like probably isn’t the correct word but it will suffice. Since people already know this about me I’m not going to dwell on it. This thing is my distraction from my daily, monthly, and annual routines. It is a fact that I will not use this distraction in my career. It’s not the lack of drive or the lack of care about this, it just won’t happen. Music will not physically move me out of my system of routines, but it will put some blinders on me and make me not worry about my job, or my kids, or my bed.

My caterpillar scheme

That scheme, the only one I have left. The one that will let me out of my own tedious existence. It starts with an idea, one of hopefulness, where I can do and be what I want, live how I want to, and do it all at my own pace. I guess it starts with separation, or forgiveness, frankly I forget. I move on from where I am; it does not matter where I am going, in fact, there is a good chance I’ll end up in the same place as where I am. Its not so much a physical move as much as a mental transformation. I will not begin until I am ready but there is nothing that will slow me down once I start. Its a movement of control; taking temporary, or permanent, control of my life so I will be able to find out if I am in fact living. And when it is once again time to change I will give my last little piece of control to move myself to the point where I let my course of action take over again. I’ll set myself up to be able to be carried the way I want through my life.

Caterpillar

My Caterpillar scheme

school, as familiar as home, is my prison. The routine: classroom-hallway-classroom, all individual cells building upon each other to hold me back. the layers, the layers of people entering and exiting congest me, forming a smell i know too well. But through this school, this prison, I find my escape. Moving quickly. one year, then another, I break for freedom. Driving me, independence and self success. The inmate yard, college, moves me from fear to excitement. the final step, the transition. And through this prison and its smog and its yard I move. Clearing, I am free. my scheme of escape used, I continue to work the maze, the scent of street my guide. But I have only known one smell and I realize I only know one plan, one scheme, to escape.

Ikey Caterpillar scheme

My caterpillar scheme is to change myself not for the better but for worse. I wanna just make myself into a huge douche bag turn myself from a fun loving individual to a big jerk. I choose to make my transformation not to please anyone but myself. I want to be alone and the only way I can do that is through turning myself into a terrible human being. I will start off by not listening to what others say weather it is some teacher or a student I just wont listen to them, their words will pass through my head by and it shall never get the slightest thought. Once i begin to stop caring I will start my mean streak. The hatred starts, they will begin to think I am just a racist and a prick where in actuality i am one of the nicest guys you will ever meet. People will think i have changed but i have just done it so that i might hide myself and return to the most basic part of life. Solitude. even though I may not remember sitting in the woom I still consider that to be the happiest time of my life. I will escape only to find myself again. I want to sleep and eat and wait until I feel like a new person. I want to live again. The only forseeable way for me to live again is to close off my life.

My caterpillar scheme

I am currently Zeke Satloff. I am a junior at Beaver Country Day School, and I love soccer. I am very good at soccer, and I know this. However, I am a skinny little Jewish boy from Newton. This is not who I want to be though. I am currently an ugly caterpillar with a lot of potential. I am making my cocoon, so that one day in the near future I can come out of that cocoon. I want to be a top collegiate soccer player, and I know what I need to do to get there. I am at a scrawny 145, however I am working hard in the gym to get stronger so that before I go to college I will be at least 160. Every practice with my team I challenge myself to get better. My work rate has improved dramatically, and I am one of the smartest players on the field. My technique is also superb. I know that as long as I keep up what I am doing, and continue building my cocoon that I will come out of it and become a butterfly. For now though, I continue working.

My Caterpillar Scheme

I am just a caterpillar. A caterpillar among a world of insects. I am still just a caterpillar, slow, not exciting, just letting my life live itself while I watch. I am developing my skills and my mind. But before long, I will move from this caterpillar state. I am learning now, learning what I need to know to take the next step. Soon I will begin the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly. From raw to cooked, from seed to stem, from grape to wine. From child to adult. Soon I will transform, and take up my role as a butterfly in a world of insects.

My Caterpillar Scheme

My Caterpillar scheme is to change me, to move me from my dreary existence and change from my everyday life. To go out and to do new things, my scheme is a scheme of renewal, of change, and above all, of new beginnings. How am I going to start my change though? First I shall take all my worldly possessions, and throw them away. Then I will go out and do, go and move and act and use. DO everything, to know everything. Doing things will change me because normally I dont do much. But most of all to become a new person, a butterfly, I will try at everything I do, and at the end of my scheme, something or nothing might happen. But now, looking ahead as I scheme, I look forward to the rest of my dream.