My Fictitious loves

     Firstly, I am the only one allowed to refer to them in this manner. I am much more than willing to glare, shout, cover my ears, eyes and refuse to speak to whomever is bold enough to deny their existences. While I've my growing array of companions and mentors that I myself create and admire, there are others; the originals to some extent.
     I have been mourning over the death of my dearest, dearest L for around 3 years. The death of lovely Dorian was also a bit of shock to me. But, L has always had a special place in my heart.
     I'm not sure if it's normal to not feel ashamed while admitting my love for characters from mangas, books, my imagination. They just manage to reach a point of perfection that no human can ever acquire. My wounds were slowly healing. I was eventually able to think about L without having tears well in my eyes. The degree of my denial started to decrease. But then, I saw a treasure peacefully resting upon Mr. Gordon's desk. Death Note: volume 1. Upon asking to take it home, permission was granted and my wounds were pried open once more. For months last year, I tried to find out the mangaka's address in order to send her a hate note, or anything that would be able to convey the amount of pain that she forced me to endure by killing L. And, as of yesterday, I found myself having to fight that urge. To try to conquer my love.
     I've always had a bit of an imagination. Though my daydreaming has become much more intensified over the past few years, it's always found ways to weasel its way into my life, creating some sort of social boundary for me. I used to have an imaginary friend, who's name I cannot remember. She left me. She said that she was going on a trip to Paris and she never came back. I wanted her to, but some part of brain was screaming, 'NO! She's not coming back! Stop lying to yourself!'. It is that voice that taunts me daily, 'He's dead, stop pretending that your L will be revived', 'Dorian Grey was asking for it...'.
     So, of course, I fight back. I imagine even more and drown my rationality in my disregard for reality. Currently, L is happily living in Russia. He enjoys his quite and wintry surroundings and often sits by a fogged window, sipping sweet tea and eating strawberry shortcake, gazing out his window and into the large clouds above. L is happy, and at piece. Dorian never tried to destroy the painting. He bought a nice house in London with easy access to the theater. He's living alone but often visits Basil (whom he never truly killed) secretly in the night. Indulging himself in the relationship that Wilde was not allowed to let them have. My cat roams the school building. Elegantly hopping in the desk, purring. Within a moment, the room will be silent and empty, calming me down. Or, maybe, I've turned everybody in the unsettling and loud classroom into variables or cats or animate sheets of paper.
     Combating rationality with imagination is fun, though not in the least bit socially beneficial. But if I have Emmie and my other, fictional friends, then who cares? If I end up being social inept, then I'll just become a computer programmer. Which is convenient for I love computers as much as I do cats.

I apologize for the extremely low quality of this post.

The Scarlet Letter- Beta

The Scarlet Letter

     A women who lives in a Puritan village commits one of the most frowned upon sins; adultery. Having been pitied, Hester's life was spared, instead, she was made to wear an embroidered A on her dress. To do so, she used scarlet threads and branded herself with a beautiful A which reflected the evening sun when she was first released from her prison cell.
     I use the word branded intentionally, Hester will live her life with the townsfolk glaring at the medal of her sin. When she dies, her tombstone will be engraved with the letter she bore for nearly all of her life. It's spectacular, seeing the way that Hester was so quickly isolated from the community that she'd once been apart of. Though she sews clothing for those around her, they do not meet her eyes. It seems that they're only able to stare at the A on Hester's bosom. Walking to market, Hester's chest is singed with each disapproving glare. Her cheeks are made red by the way her customers freely make it known that they're disgusted by how unfaithful she'd been to her husband (who, by the way, hasn't been around Hester for years).

     Hester endures this punishment with pride. The cloth covering her hair and the scarlet letter became ritual for her, a sort of misery and banishment that she grew accustomed to. She lives her life silently. I often imagine her striding through the town square, looking ahead into nothingness, her feet barely grazing the ground. I see her looking downwards, slightly, feeling unworthy of letting her eyes roam from the trodden on dirt below her. It seems that Hester realized that her life was just one to be sneered at. I don't think that Hester wished for death, but perhaps she wouldn't care if she hadn't been born, perhaps she would be too distanced from reality to acknowledge her own passing.   
     Logically, Hester secludes herself in a desolate abandoned cottage, rarely leaving, rarely speaking, friendless but spared of the townsfolk' resentment towards her. Who would do differently? Of course though, there always be those who claim to 'thrive on social interactions' and 'will die if they've only themselves for company!'. And, of course, there are the folks who shun social isolation. Why? I do not know. Many claim that it is unhealthy, but to leave your cottage only to be shunned is better than mental peace? To only stare at dirt paths and be gawked at, as if she were an animal in a cage? 
     Personally, I like to spend my entire weekends inside, ignoring emails, and with my cellphone's battery left uncharged. Being alone is nice. It's not as though that if I were to leave my fort, I'd be bombarded with words of hate and disapproval, but why spend time with humans when I can daydream about more ideal things... more intriguing people, quieter places, massive, burnt forests, silk ballroom gowns, empty mansions overlooking a lonely plain, visited only by scorched, sacred trees? Where's that sort of appeal to be found in reality? Why waste time roaming congested city streets? Why go outside to only be welcomed by the same monotonous buildings and songs and chairs? I truly do not see the point in all of it, I've already created a much more interesting world of my own. 

     There are differences between Hester and I. I do not think that Hester daydreamed in her cottage, I'm quite sure that her thoughts continued to dwell in reality. Hester willingly accepted the consequences for what she'd done, she never let herself stray from her punishment, not even while secluded in her house. This leads to yet another difference, I'm not able to accept reality, it's much too displeasing. It's boring and empty. I'm most likely facing the consequences of some sort of action, but for what was I punished? Why have I been, for so long, unable to accept this world?  

Link: http://awakethegomer.blogspot.com/2011/02/scarlet-letter.html#comments

Yet Again- Asimov

     I'm still reading The Collapsing Universe. This is not quite as pathetic as it may seem, for I have not been reading it consistently. I should be done within the time-frame of the weekend though... Either way, I think that I've had the liberty of adding yet another 'favorite thing' to my extremely short list (which, of course, excludes everything that doesn't have to do with reality... then the list would be rather lengthy...) .
1. Black holes
2. Saturn and *drum roll*
3. Neutron stars
     Neutron stars are not only made out of compressed neutrons, they are also made out of condensed awesome. I use this word in both its true and in its modern meaning. Neutron stars are huge. They are not, by any means, massive, but their gravitational pull is very, very intense... and, they are ridiculously dense (a neutron star with a diameter of 14 kilometers [which is not small for a neutron star] has an approximate density of 1,400,000,000,000,000 g/cm cubed). And, neutron stars are fascinating. Anyway, back to the gravity though... A neutron star is basically the result of a star thats' outward push of its electromagnetic field can no longer withstand the inwards gravitational pull. It then begins to collapse and the matter is then compressed (explaining the density). Because the protons and electrons are smashed into each other, they cancel out each other's charge and they are neutral thus, the entire star becomes comprised entirely of neutrons and is therefore a neutron star. The inwards collapse then comes to a halt because the neutrons are pushed so closely together that the nuclear force overrides the gravitational pull (which is very strong because the closer one is to the center of any body of relatively large mass, the more intense the gravity becomes). A person weighing 70 kilograms on earth would weigh 20 trillion kilograms on a neutron star with a 14 kilometer diameter.
     I want to write more, I truly, truly do. But, I cannot due to the fact that if I start to go into tidal waves and other things in regard to neutron stars I really, really wouldn't be able to stop. That's what I like about astronomy the most; you'll think that you're fairly knowledgeable in regard to a specific topic but then you'll find one unknown law or term that will lead to dozens of new pieces of information. The other thing that I really like about astronomy is that it all makes sense and it entirely logical and, anybody who knows me knows that I'm fairly obsessed with logic... and another thing that I love about astronomy is that it feels as though the amount of information it offers me is in an  abundance.
    Because I adore astronomy so (along with other genres of non-fiction) I've been thinking that perhaps I want to devote this blog to my discoveries. Because the books are usually a bit dense, I can dedicated 2 or 3 posts to a book and can explain things as I go along so that I can feel like I'm making an actual connection with whomever may give my posts a glance. If anybody else is also interested in astronomy, I would like to know, we could swap information and that would be very, very pleasant.

The Collapsing Universe- A Legitimate Post

     The thing that triggered the Big Bang is often referred to as the 'cosmic egg'. There was an absurdly strong explosion which most likely took place due to nuclear reactions. As you know, the universe is expanding. Planetary bodies and black dwarfs have their own center of gravity, all of which influence the things around them. This gravity will (supposedly) slow the outwards movement of the universe and, after the velocity reaches 0, the universe will snap back inwards, creating another cosmic egg. The thought that I'm about to propose is extremely hypothetical, due to the fact that the density of planetary bodies and black dwarfs changing the order in which particles were originally heading after the Big Bang, but, I cannot help but wonder. Imagine if, somehow, things (everything within the universe) compressed themselves into the exact order from which they were shot out from the cosmic egg. Then, when there was another nuclear reaction which would result in an explosion, everything would would eventually reach where it had been before it 'snapped' back after losing its velocity. In other words: what if every single molecule making up the earth, every human, every star, was identical to the stars and molecules and humans that had been there before them; that the universe just goes through infinite cycles of identical rearrangements of everything?

     It is a very amusing thought... everything in history would continuously repeat itself, no, infinitely repeat itself. Just as Earth has its history completely erased, it begins once again. Txai lives, she dies, she's recreated eons of years later. I do not view this hypothetical situation as an example of fate, but a presentation of the ways in which everything abides a mathematical formula.... which is beautiful.

     I am not so naive as to believe that many people read my blog, but, regardless, I do have a question that I would like to be responded to in the comments. Would you rather have the universe repeat itself endlessly or never have come into existence? I cannot choose, I find for both of the sides to the question posed are embarrassingly pathetic. Instead of choosing to watch a dog endlessly chase its own tail or having aborted it as a fetus, I must say that I'd rather sit and watch. Laugh at the stupid dog, cry at the waste of its life, be unaware of the dog because it had never been born, reach in and hold its tail to prevent it from running in circles. 

The Collapsing Universe

     I've decided to pick up another book that's about black holes. Over the past few weeks, I've noticed my reading habits and interests changing. I liked run of the mill novels before but I recently started to read Cassini, who writes extremely abstract works of fiction. Then, my interest in fiction started to deteriorate and I found myself  absorbed in non-fiction. Currently, I'm reading both The Collapsing Universe and Disease of Cattle. I like these two books a lot because every single sentence teaches me a new thing. Whether I'm learning about the nuclear force or how cows have epilepsy, I'm just cramming raw information into my mind... which is bus-loads of fun. Well, it's a short post, but I just wanted to share y developing love for non-fiction and if I were to go into depth about either of my books, I truly wouldn't be able to stop typing...

The Scarlet Letter(2) (for a summary, please read my other Scarlet Letter post)

     Sadly, I was about halfway through the book when I discovered one of my favorite things about it. Though I immediately noticed how (regardless of how many clauses would occupy one sentence) nearly every single sentence was a truly beautiful work of art in itself and how the book assisted my arguments against others that being an introvert can be beneficial. For the first 120 pages or so, I was not aware that this book was meant to be read aloud.
     When I was younger, my dad would read me to sleep. Whether the book was At the Back of the North Wind,  Huckleberry Fin, or Little Lord Fauntleroy (which, even as the young age of 7, I refused to allow my dad to finish due to its unbearable amount of repetitiveness in its descriptions and the suck-up personality of Lord Fauntleroy), I always had fond memories of my childhood bedtime stories and the soothing sound of my dad's voice. I was on the train a few days ago, sitting down next to my dad and reaching into my bag for The Scarlet Letter, when I noticed my old man looking at the cover. I offered to return the favor of all of the books that he'd read to me. Having had done this before, my dad leaned in and I began to whisper the words of Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale into my father's ear. I read to him some more during an Art field trip, then again on a bus, then on a train again, in a car, at home, in my dad's room, while I was sitting on the radiator and he on the coach... I started to allow myself to daydream during Project Real; wanting to share every word of the book with my father and my father alone.
     I distinctly remember walking alongside my dad on the Art field trip that he'd accompanied me on. The sky was a beautiful shade of darkish gray and it was very wet outside. I was reading a part of Pearl's (Hester's daughter), and, after hearing the words aloud, I realized the extent to which Pearl was a demon-spawn, I was able to fully comprehend the immense amount beauty and eloquence in the writing of Hawthorne! I was thrilled. Reading the book aloud stimulated my imagination, making the stream the separated Pearl and her Mother more distinct, making the painful steps of Dimmesdale even harder to bare! But, perhaps, the most satisfactory and exciting part of reading the book aloud was when I was sitting in front of the space heater in my dad's room and, while reading to him, I heard him quietly snore. I had accomplished what he'd accomplished for me so many times in my early youth; a voice calming enough and a text beautiful enough to rock a person to sleep.

The Posts of Many Others

     At first, this assignment irritated me. I did not see the point in reading the works of my peers. Nor did I see the point in leaving my comments to their work. Still, after reading many a blog, I'm still skeptical. But, I did pick up yet another reason to not want to read other 8th grade blogs: It's crushing. After browsing the works of Annie   and of Lilabet, I was ashamed not only of my blog posts, but of my capability as a writer in general. In 7th grade, I sat directly across from Liliabet. I'd lean over the table, and grab a hold of her published pieces, claiming the treasure before any other 7th grade eyes could reach it. Lilabet never failed to thoroughly impress me and inspire me to improve my writing, with a vague hope that it would one day be comparable to hers. I must admit though, eventually this newly found motivation became a sort of despair. The maturity of her cynicism, her ever-growing vocabulary, the complexity of a single sentence... I had always known that the feats of her writing could not be compared to mine... whoops! I just read Pia's blog... Yet another has been added to my list of superior writers)!
     Of all of their posts, how can I possibly pick only one? The posts are built upon each other and constantly poke, pinch and scream out, ''Tis I! I'm the best I tell you the best!'. As they bicker, yet another post climbs its way to the top, only to be pulled down and replaced by those beneath it! I try to single one out, only to think of another. I like these blogs not only because they're a swell suffusion of what I value in writing (grammar, vocabulary, originality, fluency) but because they tell me, 'Txai, you could do a helluva lot better'. 
     I like to say that I gained all of my current maturity and logic at the age of 4, I've yet to mature any farther, and do not think that I ever will. Growing up was annoying; the screams of kindergarten, the petty problems of 3rd grade, the condescending voice with which all adults addressed me in. I, sometime in elementary school, learned to not push myself. I did not need to. Studying wasn't necessary, neither was particularly heavy editing and revision to my writing. I believe that it was in 7th grade when I became aware that I needed to study in order to succeed in classes like Social Studies and Math. Later, thanks to the works of Lilabet, I learned that if I wanted to turn out a truly satisfactory piece of writing, I would actually have to work... hard. I realized that, in order to obtain my prior success once more, I would have to exert a legitimate effort.