SPEW - Blog Posts

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and think to yourself: Jk Rowling really fucked up in the fourth book with the whole S. P. E. W. thing didn't she?

Like what did she even mean? It seams that all the characters in the book find Hermione's activism annoying and unnecessary,and we're never given another take on it, so we're supposed to think that it is in fact "sjw bullshit" and something to laugh at. And the argument all those characters use against what she stands for is that elves are supposed to be slaves and that they are actually happy to serve wizards, which sounds soooo sick, and nobody actually gives an argument against that?

And I know this part of the book can be served as a satire of the society's attitude towards activism but what it turns out to be in the end is mockery of said activism. The way the author decided to portray it is soo shallow and mean, like when Hermione "forced" elves to be free and made this fuss about her SPEW club...

Like hey JK, wtf did you want to say exactly??

I yearn for motherhood, yet can’t look my own mother in the eyes. I yearn to give love, yet can’t allow myself to get close enough to be loved. Do I yearn for what I can’t have, or do I just live in an endless cycle of forcing myself into unhappiness.

When I was little, my mom never knew what to do with me.

I was nothing like I am now. I was loud and fiery. I cared about the sky and clouds, rather than my hair and grades. Nothing was out of reach; I could do, say, be, anything. I was the definition of spunk, with my lightning blond curly hair, colorful, messy nails- courtesy of my sister, crazy outfits of layered pattern and color, and wide, hopeful eyes.

And that’s great, but, what do you do with a kid like that?

Well, according to my mom, you take them to the zoo. Obviously.

My mother and I spent hours at the zoo each day, to the point where I had nearly every exhibit memorized and knew more than the zookeepers themselves.

We’d start with the peacocks, my mother making a quick sketch, outlining the gentle caress of their tail feathers and the sharp scrutiny of their beaks. Then we’d wander over to the jellyfish, my personal favorite. We’d dance for the flamingos, sing to the polar bears, and perform Mary Poppins for the octopi.

And sure, the penguins were pretty cool, and I tolerated the hippos, but I was there for one thing:

The train.

I can picture it so vividly, even now, in my third-hour English class.

I loved the way the air got all cool and misty as you entered the forest and the way the warm daylight disappeared behind the thick leafy trees. I always sat by the window, head resting against the sill. I counted the fireflies that twinkled, floating lazily in the woods and sang through the racing wind that roared past the window.

And when the overflowing joy I felt racing down the tracks became all too much for my little heart, I would close my eyes and let myself sink into my surroundings. It was nothing but the wind flowing through my brilliant blond hair, the low wine of the old wheelset chugging on, and the deep content that settled within.

I lived for the train.

It’s a little strange, right? What 4-year-old girl is thinking like that?

I’ve always been like that. Always, thinking, loving, feeling, experiencing.

And I’ve never changed. I am this, even now, as the tired and confused girl that stands before you.

I think that my character, ever-changing and pivoting, boils down to one simple fact about me.

My ability to feel.

I feel so deeply that even the smallest thing can resonate so strongly that I am moved to tears. My ability to experience so profoundly, both isolates me, and connects me. Everything, no matter how big or small, fascinates me, captivating my soul. The thought of being alive, just simply existing, enchants my very being.

Everything affects me; the way the setting sun’s light casts itself across someone’s silhouette, or maybe the way that summer’s cool evening wind flows smoothly across my shoulders. The lively breath of the train. The warm presence of true bliss.

And I live for these moments of great fervor.

The moments where you can see music, taste emotion, or feel the way something looks.

The moments where you lie your head down on the window sill, close your eyes and let the wind of the rushing train tug at your heart, mind, and soul.

These are the moments where we are just people,

The moments where we become human again.

And that's what I believe in.

I believe in Life, and I believe in Experiencing.

I believe in that little feeling that grows in your chest and crawls up into a smile when you are completely, entirely happy, and I believe in the way your heart drops, and throat burns when you are met with great sadness.

I believe in dancing in the kitchen, talking about your day, holding hands, and listening to rain

I believe in love, even when unrequited, and I believe in hope, even when false.

I believe in the spunky little girl at the zoo, and I believe in the jaded girl that stands before you today.

I believe in life . . .

Especially celebrating it.