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| I've been listening to When Johnny Comes Marching Home. I really enjoy it, but I felt like the lyrics could be changed to give the song a different perspective. The original lyrics are here. I've been helping prepare for my granddad's funeral, and while I wasn't really close to him in life, I don't think that proximity to death fills anyone with a lot of positive inspiration. When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah, Hurrah! The world will be quite changed by then Hurrah, Hurrah! The men have gone, the boys have passed The women weren’t saved for last, And War will ride when Johnny comes marching home. The old church bell is cracked and old Hurrah, Hurrah! Rusted, for too long it’s tolled, Hurrah, Hurrah! The Christian god had tried to fix The world’s savages and heretics, And now Famine grins as Johnny comes marching home. The Rapture comes before Johnny does, Hurrah, Hurrah! And for their crimes, humans are judged Hurrah, Hurrah! Our lives they passed, our souls they fell, And each has crafted its own hell And Plague will laugh when Johnny comes marching home. When Johnny comes marching back to home, Hurrah, Hurrah! In a wooden box, no more he’ll roam. Hurrah, Hurrah! And everything he once stood for, Strength and honor are no more, And Death will ride when Johnny comes marching home. | | |
| Last night, my friends came and saved my life. Nicole came to my house, and didn't complain about having to get me or being my driver. She brought me to this house a couple towns over, the kind of house you would never find if you weren't specifically looking for it. I didn't belong there, I was too grotesque and too scarred, but these people didn't mind. My presence went almost unnoticed to them, as I sat with my jar of worries and waited for its weight to become less painful. Nicole, Divina, and Lauren laid me down, and took my jar away. They put it on a shelf nearby, out of sight and out of mind for the present. The attended to me, and I felt like Caesar, like Hannibal, like Arthur, like Leonidas, like Jesus, like an injured soldier, like a gladiator whose conquests of the day have earned him a night's respite. These three girls poured me drinks and sang me songs, and I spilled my cup and shrieked off-key, and no one stopped to correct me. There was no jar in my possession, no millstone around my neck, no burden tied to my back. I was free and I caroused and laughed because I was happy, and my flailing and rowdiness was met with amused grins and pats of reassurance. I don't deserve friends like these. No one does. These girls were not human. For just one night, they took away every pain and fear that I had. I climbed down with them to a stream nearby, and they danced and laughed and murmured pagan rites on a stone that rested just a little above the water level. The floated about like nymphs or sirens or angels. They laughed good-naturedly, and splashed the water about, and it felt to me each time the water touched my skin that I was being baptized according to the laws of a religion whose only creed was the unflinching love of one's neighbor. The night turned dark when one of my angels, Nicole, lost her harp. She cried and shrieked that it had gone, and her anguished sobs seemed to signal to me the end of an age. I fell to my knees and spread my hands as far as each one would go, and as thoroughly as I could I scanned by touch for the golden instrument that was no longer in her hands. In the end, I had no recourse but to try and console my angel as she had done for me, but my voice knew no words to dispel grief, and my hands knew no touch to take away this type of pain. Therefore, I resolved to sink down with her, and feel the emotions that she was feeling, because at least then she wouldn't be alone. I wondered if my jar had spilled out and poisoned the well that these three angels let me drink from. I don't know where Nicole's harp went, but I felt as though my being there precipitated bad luck, that cloud of misfortune that follows me unexplicably as I move through this world. My attempts to both find the harp and reassure Nicole failed. Without being able to truly reason why I felt responsible for the pain I witnessed in her, I resolved to suffer for her. I would allow myself to be crucified so that Nicole would be spared. Divina and Lauren had gone to Mecca, and I though I wished to bow to them and give my thanks, I didn't know how many ages I would have to wait before they returned. So I opened the cupboard in which my jar of worries rested on a shelf, and secured it to my neck. From there, I opened the door to the unassuming house and began my journey. I walked for lifetimes. From Waldwick to Mahwah, I walked. The dark, the silence, the cool spring air, all made me miss my angels even more. But I walked, for Nicole, for the respite I was given without truly deserving it, and for everything in me that I wished I could give to the three of them. I owe them far more than my life. I owe them a single shining night in which I forgot what it was to hurt. And when I reached my destination in the early morning, bent and broken from the physical pain, I knew that I would never stop trying to repay these angels for the rest of my life, and whatever comes when that span of time ends. I may be in my house now, but never before last night had I ever truly been home. | | |
| A note on a screen or a piece of paper is worth almost nothing. I don’t know who will get this, or where it will go. It probably won’t go anywhere. But this is the most important thing I will ever say: thank you. I’m lucky in this life, because I have the very best friends: the friends you can trust; the friends who will listen; the friends you can laugh with; the friends you can love; the friends who will tell you when you’re wrong, the friend who will admit to you that occasionally he or she may also be wrong, him- or herself. Relationships change and evolve, people become almost unrecognizable to each other at points in time, but true friendships navigate through even the most treacherous terrain. I’m called airen online, and most of my friends have asked what that means. It’s the word for lover, a word that I consider beautiful, practical, fair, just and short in a language characterized by symbols, drawings, creativity, and wisdom. I have passed through my life without saying thank you nearly as often as I should have. I’ve done my bit, tried my best, succeeded at times, failed more often, but I owe you all my gratitude for every sweet ounce of time that has passed, and that is passing now. So thank you, I love you, and I will be standing by you even if the world is split into pieces. Reading this, I realize I’ve gone on too long. This thank-you note is flawed. But that is our defining characteristic as humankind: flaws, and the beauty and triumph and defeat and pain and perseverance with which we meet those flaws. Ending this text with a pithy phrase or a clever quote would be a terrible departure from my style, and, even worse; an affront to my species, if I were to force it. I don’t want to end the most sincere scrap of wording I’ve ever composed with wit. I don’t want it to fit nicely, or be well-rounded. I want it to be flawed, to carry my signature, and leave you as confused and disjointed as this text has been. Not so I can get recognition, but so you will know that it was me. Not so that I may stand alone, but so that we can stand together, with you knowing how deeply I am willing to go for you. Deeper inside myself then I am capable of understanding. Never give up, we say, when the cause is just. Never surrender, we say, when the campaign is righteous. With the voice of friends joined together, we’ll laugh until we fold and fold until we laugh. No ending. No death. Just love. Thank you. | | |
| On Saturday, I'll be a year closer to dying. I wasn't meant to live this long. I positively cannot stand the idea of being in my twenties. God is a sick fucking bastard. Fuck you, God. I'm going to spit in your face when I see you. | | |
| original quote: without you. i'd still be this uptight, quiet, self-conscious catholic school girl - Kfriend what have i done? WHAT HAVE I DONE? FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. I've made a terrible mistake. Do you mean to tell me that without my guidance, Kfriend might be this:  
I hate myself and want to die. | | |
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