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    White Blank Page

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    The Builders- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    All are architects of Fate,
      Working in these walls of Time;
    Some with massive deeds and great,
      Some with ornaments of rhyme.
    Nothing useless is, or low;
      Each thing in its place is best;
    And what seems but idle show
      Strengthens and supports the rest.
    For the structure that we raise,
      Time is with materials filled;
    Our to-days and yesterdays
      Are the blocks with which we build.
    Truly shape and fashion these;
      Leave no yawning gaps between;
    Think not, because no man sees,
      Such things will remain unseen.
    In the elder days of Art,
      Builders wrought with greatest care
    Each minute and unseen part;
      For the Gods see everywhere.
    Let us do out work as well,
      Both the unseen and the seen;
    Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
      Beautiful, entire, and clean.
    Else our lives are incomplete,
      Standing in these walls of Time,
    Broken stairways, where the feet
      Stumble as they seek to climb.
    Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
      With a firm and ample base;
    And ascending and secure
      Shall to-morrow find its place.
    Thus alone can we attain
      To those turrets, where the eye
    Sees the world as one vast plain,
      And one boundless reach of sky.

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    "I’ve learend that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel" - Maya Angelou

    I thought about you today.  I thought about what made us so different.  How did you become so, so devious?  People always talk about why they’re so screwed up.  The blame it on their history.  I have history. And my history isn’t so different than yours.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do think that someone’s pedophile uncle or suicidal mother can screw someone up, but for most their history is just an excuse for the poor choices they made.  That’s what it boils down to, right?  Choices.  I chose a better life for myself.  You didn’t.  I can’t blame you.  Immediate gratification feels good but now you’re in prison, with one leg and a collapsed lung, without family, without love…

    I love you.  It’s odd because I don’t even feel like I know you.  You’re my blood, I know that but we didn’t grow up together like we’re supposed to.  You were long gone before I turned 6.  I’m 22 and I only have a handful of memories of you.  Most recently I remember you lying in the hospital bed, empty, lifeless.  Is that how you want me to remember you?

    For most, the experiences you’ve had are enough to change someone around, for good.  For you, it’s just a hurdle.  You find a way to get around it, to get back on the same route you were on.  I hope you change.  Although, I doubt you will…

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    The Danger of a Single Story

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    All the world’s a stage…

    That’s what real love amounts to- letting a person be what he really is.  Most people love you for who you pretend to be.  To keep their love, you keep pretending- performing.  You get to love your pretence.  It’s true, we’re locked in an image, an act

    -Jim Morrison

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