narnia's winter
i don't know where to begin.
politics is as good a place as any, i suppose. everyone else is doing it. even though the only thing i really have to note is that the amount of anger and frustration that has been caused me by the bush administration and its various side effects must be a sign that i am really still pretty naive; for some reason i expect better. everyone who cares has heard my little catchphrases delivered with the heat of indignation scorching the punctuation marks. at the moment i can't manage much more than a feeling of quasi-despairing cynicism. cynicism is what happens to idealism without optimism.
so no one listens to what i think should be done to the world at large. what's left but to turn it inward and effect what good i can? except i can't do enough. i leave so much that i wanted to take care of unhelped and i feel boundlessly selfish at times. but there's also the feeling that i ought to be able to give where i wish to at the moment without politics, consequences, judgements, even forethought. without worrying that someone will ask me to choose a favorite child or complain that shares are uneven.
"who shall have this?"
maybe i have been less than forthcoming, but then maybe i have also easily fallen into the role of villianness. and maybe i have let go of small worries. it surprises me, the acuity, sympathy, sensitivity that turns round anyway, but it is a surprise worth much. i will throw nothing from the back of the sleigh, if i have to fight the wolves myself.
politics is as good a place as any, i suppose. everyone else is doing it. even though the only thing i really have to note is that the amount of anger and frustration that has been caused me by the bush administration and its various side effects must be a sign that i am really still pretty naive; for some reason i expect better. everyone who cares has heard my little catchphrases delivered with the heat of indignation scorching the punctuation marks. at the moment i can't manage much more than a feeling of quasi-despairing cynicism. cynicism is what happens to idealism without optimism.
so no one listens to what i think should be done to the world at large. what's left but to turn it inward and effect what good i can? except i can't do enough. i leave so much that i wanted to take care of unhelped and i feel boundlessly selfish at times. but there's also the feeling that i ought to be able to give where i wish to at the moment without politics, consequences, judgements, even forethought. without worrying that someone will ask me to choose a favorite child or complain that shares are uneven.
"who shall have this?"
maybe i have been less than forthcoming, but then maybe i have also easily fallen into the role of villianness. and maybe i have let go of small worries. it surprises me, the acuity, sympathy, sensitivity that turns round anyway, but it is a surprise worth much. i will throw nothing from the back of the sleigh, if i have to fight the wolves myself.