POV 28 year old man

Something strange is going on, and I don’t know how to explain it. It’s something like Romeo and Juliet, forbidden to be together. I love her, wait, but I don’t.  She’s 12 years younger than me, that doesn’t make sense. Yet, I can’t control these emotions. Ever since I went home for Christmas, and came back, I haven’t felt the same way. Something clicked…I fell in love.

The way she flips her hair, the way she smiles at everyone. There’s just an aura around her that makes everything seem perfect. But why can I not feel this connection with anybody my own age, why does she have to be 16? Even more important, why does she have to be dating my brother?

Being out in the real world, with my job and everything, I’ve noticed that age doesn’t really matter. Yeah, we may get frowned upon by others if we feel a connection with a minor, and hey, maybe it is illegal, but why should that be stopping love? I’m silly to think that she would ever love me back. What happens if she marries my brother? I think I love her.

Me, Myself, and I

Author's Note: When originally writing this essay, I planned on it being a analysis on myself. Now, reading it after it's finished, I think it might be more of a Cause & Effect essay. I'm not really sure though. Either way, everything in this essay is completely true, and was written from the heart.

When I was little, one day my parents rearranged the furniture in my bedroom. They thought it would be a good idea to move my bed on to a different wall or something, I don't really know. That night, I stayed up all night and cried, because I was upset that my room had changed. It changed! I never have liked change, never. But just recently, I have figured out why I don't like it. I have been through a lot in my life, and before I didn't think it affected me that much. Now I realize, those traumatic incidents in my past led me to the way I am now, they led me to hating change.

I was never much of a child. At age 6, I had to deal with the pressures of my uncle being murdered. I know, in the end -- that is just a death. But to me, that death brought on so many more obstacles. You should know, that when my uncle died, my cousin and my aunt were staying with us, just to make sure that they weren't too scared from recent issues. So…how exactly did that change me? Before they moved in, I know this sounds rude, but I had a perfect life.  My brother, dad, mom, and I.  We had our pet dog, and lived in a fairly big house in a safe city. Not to mention, we were comfortable in our financial standings, and never really got in much trouble. We had the stereotypical "perfect" life. Then they moved in. I had to change with the fact that now, frankly I wasn't the center of attention in my family.  I would have to adapt to the fact that there would be two more people in our life, our house, they would be in what was ours. And that didn’t appeal to me. Not one bit.

No, having new people come into my life -- and, well,  stay there -- is not the only reason I do not like change. Have you ever had to adapt to something that you didn't want to, then finally once you got used to it, have it change again? That is the story of my life. Once I had gotten used to having my aunt and my cousin live with us, things changed again.  My aunt left, but this time, she left empty handed, letting go of her grip on her daughter -- leaving my cousin there with me. Once again, I had to become accustomed to these changes. I don't think I like change because I know that the second I get used to something, it'll switch up on me again, leaving me confused, worried, and scared.

With new changes already put in place, but never set in stone -- you never know what to expect. So when I got the news that we were going to adopt my cousin, I was mad.  This might come at a little bit of a shock, but I never really wanted a sister. In fact, I was perfectly content with having a cousin. But no, apparently it would be "best for the sake of the family" if we adopted her. Personally, the reason I suspect that I don’t really like change is because I had such a negative outlook on this particular event, and I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Whether I liked it or not, I was going to have a sister, and whether I liked it or not, it was going to happen.

Having such a bad feeling on the things that were changing around me, I categorized everything that was happening in my life as "bad."  It wasn't just the death, moving in, and adopting that was bad -- it was the change that was bad. I was going to have to get used to setting five dinner plates at the table, I was going to have to get used to buying five movie tickets when going to see a movie, I would have to get used to having five people in my family. Things were changing around me, and there was no way of getting out of it, I had to deal with it. I was so scared of the way things could turn out, that I just covered up the change, pretending like it wasn’t there. However, after a while, it started creeping up out of that blanket, and continued to play with my life.

As for me today, I still don’t like change. It doesn’t matter what it is either, it could be even positive change, or change with no affect, but I still don't like it. Like recently, in school, we switched classes for the semester. To most normal people, this wouldn't matter at all -- and if it did, it would be good. Not to me though. Still traumatized from the changing events from previous in my life, I can't fathom of ever thinking change could be a good thing. I'm not saying I like it (being this way) and I'm not saying it's fun, I'm just saying it's me. And I don’t think I'll ever "overcome" my fear of it.

Now when I think about when my parents wanted to rearrange the furniture in my room, I realize why it was such a big deal to me. It wasn't because I was scared of monsters hiding in a different place, or forgetting where I put my toys. But rather because I was worried that things in my life would continue to change, and the choices that were to be made would be out of my hands. Change is something I am going to have to live with. I am not going to try to avoid it, I will just, for now, try to deal with it.

Pins and Needles

Author's Note: After a recent discussion on Haylie's piece (very good, I would check it out) I realized that this could be taken wrong ways. This is NOT TRUE what so ever. In fact there is just a hidden meaning, something that I want to see if you pick up.

I drop it.

Red blood swells up to a drop on the tip of my finger. The scent of the dark sea fills the air. Reaching out, I touch the wall. The cold stone combines with the blood, and just for a second, I can't feel anything. My body goes numb, my life freezes, I feel free.

I pull back.

Blue skies flash across my mind. The sound of young birds chirping brings my mouth to a slight smile. The cracks in my lips spreading out with the more and more I grin. But after a quick second, a black cloud fills my brain. Old memories come flooding back.

I pick it up.

Piercing the tip of my finger, the needle breaks the barrier between skin and blood, outside and in; right and wrong. There's no going back. The pain sends a shiver down my spine, aching my body. After letting the metal tip inside, I pull it out, watching the blood bubble up.

I reach out.

The texture of the dark wall changes from dry to wet, black to red; alive to dead. What used to be there, now taken over from marks of me. I rub my finger around the wall, leaving proof that I was there. Blood moves around underneath my finger, until it dries out. Until it is gone.

I think. 

Pins, and needles cover the floor that used to hold dolls and pillows. Scars cover the fingers that used to be so innocent. Thoughts cover the mind that used to be so care-free.

I know I should stop...but I can't.

Not a Coincidence

Author's Note: For our Poe Project, I wanted to show symbolism in the Masque of the Red Death. I have never written a symbolism essay before, so I apologize on the not- so- well writing skills.

Seven rooms, each one filled with a different color. A clock that chimes every hour, yet at midnight people start to care. A deadly sickness that can kill you within thirty minutes. Edgar Allen Poe definitely grabbed attention of many with the publication of “The Masque of the Red Death”. But, can all of those things just be coincidences? Is this story really that simple? I believe that Poe used many objects to symbol other ones, which will make the story more haunting.

Blue, purple, green, orange, white, and violet: what do these colors all have in common? They are all happier colors, one with meanings like innocence, natural, and love. These six colors are the first rooms in the palace of Prince Prospero’s house. But the seventh, the seventh is black; black and red to be exact. Besides being the colors of the Pewaukee Pirates, these colors are also the ones of death and abandons. Everyone avoids this room. Ironic, that everyone avoids the room of death…because they are trying to avoid death.

Clocks are almost everywhere. In most rooms there are clocks. What is a clock again though? It is something that counts down time. Clocks seem like our way of making sure we know how much time is left. In many people’s minds, a clock also reminds them of life and death, with the clock ticking down the minutes you have left in your life, creepy right. Some might say that it’s a coincidence that the clock is placed there, but I think Poe knew what he was doing.

The rooms of many colors and the clock are all held somewhere, right? A house, ballroom, holding space – whatever you want to call it. But the whole idea of the party place is that they are trying to go there to avoid the red death. Without there being a red death, there would be no need for a corral space for the people to go in.  This house is a complete symbol of avoiding things that you know are coming for you.

With the red death lurking around, people want to be safe, but some can’t. Even though they’re held in a party, with tons of fun, there are things there that are unmentionable. Edgar Allen Poe knew what he was doing when he was writing this piece. He threw things in that make sense at a glance, but even more sense in a second look.

Lily and the Reptiles

 Author's Note: I wrote this, well...I don't really know why. It doesn't really have a meaning to the point -- but it's supposed to symbolize something. I hope you like it.

For as long as I can remember, Lily always wanted a turtle.  Every day, before bed, she would ask her parents for one. Ever since their pet dog ran away, she wanted to fill the hole in her heart with a turtle. But her parents always said no, telling her that she would never get a turtle. After about a month of asking, her parents finally considered it. One afternoon they took Lily to the pet store, so she could look at the turtles. While looking around, Lily saw a Komodo dragon. This got her attention. After leaving the pet store, the whole drive home she started talking less and less about the turtle, and more and more about the Komodo dragon. From this day on, she asked every night for a Komodo dragon, instead of that turtle. Once again, after enough begging, her parents took her to the pet store to buy the Komodo dragon. To Lily's disappointment,  they were not the only family walking through the doors. A little girl, dressed up in a Tinker Bell costume was holding cage, a cage that held a Komodo dragon. Lily ran to the section where they would be, but she was too late. That little girl got the last Komodo dragon. So Lily walked back to the turtles, and looked at them. She stood there for hours watching them play, and finally turned to her daddy, and said "I want this one, I'm positive".

Not a Ruler, But a Dictator

When you think of a pig, the image that comes to mind is probably a pink creature rolling around in the mud. Now think of ruler, a commander, a chief -- a dictator. Your mind is probably figuring an image of tall man in a suit. He probably has a mustache or possibly is smoking a pipe.  These things have nothing in common, right? Well think again. George Orwell, the author of Animal Farm, portrays a telling of the Bolshevik Revolution. But there’s a catch: the important dictators, rulers, leaders…those are pigs.  Napoleon the pig is the ruler of the farm; he is a leader, an enemy, a dictator – much like Joseph Stalin, a man who had great power in the Bolshevik Revolution.

As people, when we are given an opportunity to have power, we take it. Napoleon the pig was served a chance to become a ruler on a silver platter after Mr. Jones, the farmer, left.  Stalin on the other hand gained complete power after Trotsky’s ordered death in 1940 (Joseph Stalin (1879-1953)). In both cases, the previous ruler was kicked out, or expelled from leadership. In Animal Farm Mr. Jones had been rebelled against by the animals: “Jones was expelled, and the Manor Farm was theirs”(39). As for Stalin, he knew he would be in compete power after Trotsky was killed.  For Mr. Jones and Napolean, if they did not get the previous runner of the Farm or the Soviet Union out of power, they would not have dictatorship of their land.

Not only would both of them have no importance if they did not get the previous ruler out of power, but once in power they both changed rules and made others work. Part of Joseph Stalin’s ruling was creating a five year plan. At the looks of things it was supposed to be pretty good – hopefully bringing the country back to a happier place. Having trouble finding the problem? The plan made the residents of the Soviet Union work (Joseph Stalin ). An unfair amount of physical labor was poured onto them.  Whereas, in Animal Farm the animals all had to work on the farm for long hours of the day. Dragging their souls in sacks on their back, the animals all had problems with the rules that were created. In both cases, the workers spent all of their time being slaves, with the tasks leading many into death.

Besides the chance of being able to have power, and the laws they put in effect after they got that power, there is a difference between the characters. I can go right ahead and tell you, yes – one is a pig, and the other is a person, but there’s definitely more behind the difference of these characters. In the end of the revolution in the book Animal Farm, Napolean the pig is still in power. He still rules the farm, in fact he rules the people in the farm, too. However in the real Bolshevik revolution Joesoph Stalin was dead, ending his ruling (Joseph Stalin). I don’t know why George Orwell changed the ending of the character, maybe it was because Joseph Stalin did much more than ruin socalism  (Joseph Stalin (1879-1953)) in the Bolshevik Revolution, and he wanted to portray that. Or maybe it was because he thought it would be a better ending to the story. All I know is that the ending is different.

Pigs and dictators are completely different things. One can talk – the other can’t, ones a person – the other isn’t, yet both of them happen to represent the same thing. Joseph Stalin may be a real life dictator that made life horrible for many, and Napoleon may just be a pig that made other animals work hard on a farm.  But digging deeper, we see that they both kill, they both rule, they both have so many things in common.  They both ran a Revolution.

Bibliography

Joseph Stalin. 2012. 19 March 2012 <http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/biography/stalin.html>.

"Joseph Stalin ." Biography. 30 March 2012 <http://www.biography.com/people/joseph-stalin-9491723>.

"Joseph Stalin (1879-1953)." 1999. PBS.org. 19 March 2012 <http://www.pbs.org/redfiles/bios/all_bio_joseph_stalin.htm>.

Koeller, David. The Bulshevik Revolution . 19 March 2012 <http://www.thenagain.info/webchron/easteurope/octrev.html>.

The End.

Author's Note: I know, I haven't posted in a while, but I am back.:) This essay is a poem analysis for the poem "Where the Sidewalk Ends". Below I have posted a copy of the poem for you all to read! Keep in mind that this is just my interpretation, so nothing is set-in-stone to be the real reason it was written. I hope you all enjoy my 2012 DWA piece. 

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein may be an old poem written many years ago, whose author happens to be dead, but it is personally my favorite poem ever written.  When I was littler, I thought the poem was about a real sidewalk.  But recently, I have figured that it’s not. It is about so much more; that sidewalk that he talks about, that’s life, but more importantly the end of your life.

If I told you that last night I went outside and the trees were dancing, what would you think? Would you really believe that the trees were tangoing or possibly waltzing? Of course not, trees can’t dance, but we can picture them dancing. These are figurative language devices that help us get an image. So when Shel Silverstein sat down to write this poem, he wasn’t writing about a walk down a sidewalk. 

“There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.”
 

The sidewalk is your time, your journey, your life.  And at some point it’s going to come to a stop. When he talks about the sidewalk ending, right before the street begins – we get the first look into using devices. The street is your after life, either Heaven or Hell or wherever you go after you die and the sidewalk is the moment you die.  When Silverstein mentions the bird resting from its flight, I get a feeling that the bird is a person, one who’s “resting” from their long stressful life on earth. Throughout the whole poem we see how he works figurative language into the piece.

When reading a poem, you don’t only want to look for the meaning used behind the words; you want to read it in the voice that the author is trying to show-- often known as the tone of the piece. If I were to listen to a recording of somebody reading this poem, I would safely bet that they would not be yelling. They probably wouldn’t be laughing, joking around, or reading through with no expression, but instead using a calm voice, a very Morgan Freeman narrating the March of the Penguins style. No matter what poem you’re reading, the only way you will completely comprehend the poem is if you understand the tone that the author is trying to use.

Aside from looking at the figurative language and the tone when analyzing a poem, it is important to find the mood of the piece. In kindergarten you learned that your mood was what you were feeling. You could be happy or sad, sometimes even mad, right? Well when you’re finding the mood of a poem, it’s the exact same thing. The feeling that you get when reading a poem is the mood. When I read “Where the Sidewalk Ends” I feel like there are no worries in the world. It makes dying seem like such a normal thing, not scary at all. As for me, the mood in this piece --even though the topic is such a horrifying thing – is happy.

At a glance, this poem might be about a real sidewalk, maybe even one in the Village of Pewaukee, like what I thought when I was littler. However now I realize that it holds so much more underneath the words.  I realize that the author wants us to feel certain ways when reading his work; I realize that he purposely uses figurative language devices to paint a picture; I realize that this poem isn’t really about a place where the sidewalk ends.