3. Fighting through fogs

Halfway there. Recess. The past couple of subjects flew by as many intend it to. As if we were never there. Recess has always been that time to catch up on unfinished homework. I say catch up when I really mean is copy. Scrambling away trying to scan the answers as much as possible without thinking about why the're the answers in the first place. When there is so little time on the clock, we can't be going into details now can we?

Next thing I knew I was in a midst of war. Bullets flying all over the place. Heads bursting in front of my heads as each bullet penetrates ever so slowly into their hard and dense skull. Screaming out of intimidation but mostly fear. The looks on their eyes saying that they regretted every minute of it. Marching forward they went without any reason. What more did they want from life? They were already there emotionless, cold hearted and senseless. Why back out now? All were hoping to get back to normal. To the life they once knew, but at this particular time they could not think much about that just to move on. Kill or be killed. Successfully invading other people's normality while hiding the fact that they were only there thinking of their own. The flag planted on these foreign ground to call it their soil without thinking of the process they went through to have the ability to put a long metal rod deep in the grounds of foreign land with their colors atop tied with pride.

Kriiing!!!

Bell rang to inform students that the last class has finished and the day was done.

Sialan

Whoever conducted and claimed that cats have 9 lives must have been one sick bastard.

Name that Movie 8

John Keating: We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

Downer

I sometimes wonder what should have been, what could have been, what would have been?

The problem is that the word sometime is just a lie.

Stop on red

I've longed to start writing again but something is holding me back.

Its a hard pull down to obscurity while somehow finding ways to make more enemies.

This need to write is blocking my ability to live while itself being blocked by this pull.

The kind of pull that you somehow know you can't get out of.

Somehow it seems more deadlier than a writer's block. Literally.