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A Formal Apology.

I feel horrendous. I have let this blog deteriorate, grow in obscurity to a purgatory. I realize it’s been months since I’ve posted anything new… and I feel terrible because I have suddenly realized how much it betrays any person’s even possible interest. To any followers out there who are still with me, I thank you. I have been distracted cutting the line between the growth of reflection and the attraction of experience; for the last several months the hunger for experience has outweighed my need for reflection. Here’s to realizing what’s important in my life again. I hope you will see more of me in the upcoming weeks.

Most Sincerely,

JSCK


Statements

I was walking around a bookstore today and stumbled across a book that slightly offended me, purely by the idea of it. It was a book designed to give people ideas for graffiti . I love street art, I think it is a beautiful form of expression. But it is inherently that:  expression. I suppose I imagine the audience for this book to be those who want to make a mark but don’t yet have a statement to make. And I can’t help but feel that it should implicitly be those who have something to say that should be speaking up, so to speak.


In the night.

On this night, I spent my time in a way which I always enjoy, walking around campus having nothing more than a genial discussion with a friend. We talk about benign topics, but they ultimately cultivate into our truest concerns: papers, projects, work. To go back to the beginning of this story, or even before that, as these things always do, there is the matter of exactly where my campus lies. In order to maintain my wonderfully freeing guise of complete virtual anonymity I’m going to keep it generic: nice campus on the outskirts of a relatively large urban area. Being in our guarded and patrolled safe haven has had an interesting effect. By proximity we (being a mildly large group of students) feel we have a right to comment on the happenings around us as though we can truly have a say, and yet, behind our welded gates and our constant patrols, this voice of recognizing the outside element has no real weight.  On this night the importance of the conversation pales in comparison to how it was punctuated. I myself have joked casually about being reminded where we live and that there is a life outside this haven, a darker one at that. But now, for the first time I grasp this concepts. There is no winter wind more chilling than hearing that deafening crack cut through the nights air. No longer being able to casually muse at what it must be like, instead being forced to envision it all as fact not speculation. The look on those faces, the blood on the pavement. Above all that unforgettable, echoing… pop, pop, pop.


A Morning After

Deaf. Or Something like it. A ringing left as the latent herald leftover from a good night kicking. The loss in one sense, being, the loss of a sense resulting in an unexpected harmony. Sitting here, half unable to hear, I feel that which I would have otherwise ignored: the reverberations, sound incarnate. The building as a reacting sound-board receiving all and answering back. A peace simpler than ever, between myself and a thing. The virtually unheard of emotional response of the inanimate, deeply echoing the animate.


So, this is me.

Well, as you have probably deduced from the title, I am just another college kid who thinks that there may be some value or appreciation within others to what I write. So here goes. If you like what I write, or even if you fucking hate it, please do not hesitate to tell me so. As a hopefully expanding writer, any feedback would help. Many thanks, peace.