Love and Trust

There are two rooms in two houses.

The first house is the one she got when she was still working her way up. She didn't like it very much--not the best neighborhood, no front yard to speak of, difficult to have any decent privacy--but she keeps it, because it's hers, and because people expect it. In that house, she allows herself two luxuries: two places she needed, not for her work, but for herself, before she would consent to living in such a house for decades, for the rest of her life.

The first is not one of the rooms, but a back yard. It is small, but present, and enough to grow in. She's made it good publicity, since it is organic and environmentally friendly, but first and foremost her garden is her garden. Life from her, feeding her. That keeps her grounded, no matter how many people might try to knock her down. When something goes too horribly at work, she thinks, garden, and her head clears. There's hardly room for what she's managed to fit, but the garden is there. It's hers.

The second luxury in the tiny house is her room. In the dining room, there rests a blank panel that swings out if you press here. Behind, there is a room without a visible floor, because it only barely fits her bed. On each of the four walls, there are books. No one has ever seen this room, though a spouse would, if she married. Anyone she trusted completely would see it.

The second house is a luxury in itself, and she knows it. It's a second house, how could it be anything else? But her work demanded something, some show of status--it was a second house or a mansion. She hated living alone in large places. They always felt cold, and hollow, and empty.

So she bought the place, a small, cozy space, and snapped a picture from the right angle, and put a picture in the right place in her first house. She dropped, "my cabin," or, "my retreat," when necessary, using the latter just enough and in the right tone that no one ever asked to attend. Whatever her words said, she made her tone say, "my sanctuary," "my sacred space," "the place I go to be alone."

That one is more isolated. It had to be, to give the right effect. That is no luxury, that is work, that is showing off to impress the right people. Nor are the books luxurious, to her mind. They are the ones she cannot bear to part with--torn, beat-up, almost disintegrating, old, well loved, hers. They do not fit in the reading room, so they were in storage until she had her reading cabin.

The bed, here, is in one of the rooms she takes pictures of. She can't sleep without books around her. But there is one room she never photographs, she wouldn't even let someone she trusted completely photograph. Show them, yes, but not let them document.

In the heart of the cabin she built, she has something she calls a waiting room, though she only calls it that when no one can hear her. It is behind a bookshelf--push here and the wall and shelf swing in. She sleeps in her reading room, but she only enters this one to dust and polish.

Her garden grounds her, makes sure no one can knock her down.

Her reading room is home, where she can forget the world and sleep.

But this, this room...

Two chairs, one candle in the center of the table, and a small kitchen off to one side. No division--the dining room and the kitchen are the same room, in her waiting room.

Whenever she's in a relationship and her partner want to know if she loves them, or asks her to marry them, she thinks, Would I show them this room?

If she can imagine them in the waiting room to her home, her heart, then they get to come in. They can see the cabin, the room, even the reading room in her first house, that most guarded of sanctuaries. If not, she's honest.

She hasn't been able to say, "Yes," yet. But she may, someday, so she keeps the room. Sometimes, on the days where she takes down a romance novel and wears rose perfume, she imagines cooking with someone else, in that room.

Othering

Between this post and the previous, this blog reached 4,000 hits.

"You'd allow one of them in your house?"

Hardly any time passed before I responded. From the other's perspective, I looked at him queerly for a moment, no more. But I remember the ideas I thought, impossibly quick had they been in words, but faster than sound, than light, than anything, because I simply thought them. They went something like this:

What an interesting form of othering. (Othering was thought as a word, for it was new enough, a fresh flavor on my tongue, sweet for the knowledge and bitter in understanding.) 'One of them.' Because, though he has just accused me of going over to the other side, of being a traitor, that very fact means he thinks me part of his 'us'. Hm. I'm thinking of him as other. Is that othering, or merely a trait of thinking of myself as having a self? Are the two separable? I certainly think one is worse.

And of course, the little one is othered. 'One of them.' You can't get much blunter than that, though I suppose one could make a case for, 'One of your/their kind.' I am not. Yet.

And that's the point. That statement is a threat. 'If you allow one of them in your house, you are a them.' Perhaps not at the same level. Perhaps worse. Traitor to your own. Turned your back on your own. Saw the light and turned away. All these little separating things, and if being other is bad, becoming other is worse.

I could claim that. Take the name of traitor for myself, wear it as a badge, my security in the knowledge that I am right. Stand up tall with my back to him, my hand extended to the scared one I protect.

But that wouldn't be honest.

By the line he draws, I was never that 'us'. I can be no traitor to a side not mine. I can betray no special loyalty if I was not specially loyal.

Then the next words rang out through my mind, the whole sentence in place and the sentiment true. Perhaps he would hear something I did not intend, but then, he would, regardless. I am no perfect communicator.

"I will always make a spare place for one of us."

Coming Home

Between this post and the previous, this blog hit 3,500 views.

This is my 150th post.

Starting points: Joseph Campbell and xkcd. Specifically, Joseph Campbell's discussion of going off to/coming back from war and this xkcd.

The xkcd immediately makes me think of Narnia, though I only know Narnia in basic terms, so that may show more of my ignorance surrounding the books than anything else.

I remember the opening scene of the first Narnia movie, where all the kids are sent off in a train, which leads to the wardrobe, which leads to the lion and the witch et al. The kids are leaving because there's a war going on, and there's a war brewing in Narnia. Fairly clear parallelism there, unless one misses the time period.

When we send soldiers out to fight, we recognize that we are sending them into this new world. We have things one has to go through an accomplish before going into that world, because people who grew up over on this side aren't properly prepared. Part of this is simple skills--for example, this is how you hold this weapon--but part of it is also mental training. These people are entering a world where it is expected that you will kill fellow human beings who are attempting to kill you and those around you. Even if one comes from a place where that happens, the structure of teamwork in the military is almost certainly different.

The children's literature that the xkcd is talking about also tends to go through this sort of preparation. "What? You must have the wrong guy, I'm not the hero!" Then whoever gradually warms up to the idea, or learns humility, or makes whatever sacrifice and shift needed to settle into the role. Part of the story may even be devoted to the horror that shocks a prepared into the right place and others out of it. An entire village destroyed, a comrade in danger of death, something like that.

And then the soldier comes home. This is, by definition, an equal shift to what going away was, as |A-B|=|B-A|. So we've got a cultural understanding that the soldiers are going to have an adjustment period after coming back, in which many of them will be traumatized, given that they just went off to war. We've got another ceremony to bring them back, just as we had one to send them out. Right?

...Kind of?

What xkcd highlights is the major issue, one that I would guess the Narnia books can get around: our hero is alone. No war buddies who get it, no one realizing what the hero has just been through, simply home->adjustment->war->home. This would be ever-so-slightly traumatic.

Luckily, it's not always this bad in real life. We do not go to war alone. There are things we do to help our veterans adjust back. But, through it all, there's this assumption snaking through that any difficulty switching back is only adjusting to physical or mental health issues gained in the other country. It's a culture shock. They have been at war in a country not their own.* The healthiest veteran still has to come home to a home isn't the same home, because the veteran is not the soldier is not the person who signed up. This is not to say there aren't issues with mental and physical health, given that the person just went off to war, just that they aren't the whole story.

As a professor of my mother's would say, I've now told you a little more than I know. I've never been, so I only know secondhand. Still...each ceremony has its complement, else it isn't complete.

* Civil wars excluded, but being at war with one's own country brings in another thorny set of issues.

Steve Jobs

February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011

He died. He was a visionary; he changed the world. The iPod and iTunes did not exist, now my computer's dictionary recognizes the words. He did not invent the computer, but he did help it become common. He did not invent the mouse, but he did popularize it.

He had 56 full years. I say this not because 56 years was enough, but to drive home how much he did in his time.

You know all this, if only vaguely. I cannot imagine someone who would find this blog and not know it, by now, and I can hardly imagine this blog, this post, outlasting the memory of the man. I do not need to tell you all this, but I say it anyway, in introduction and in memory.

What I do not say is that technology has been dealt a blow by his death.

I see this statement, in too many of his obituaries. As if Steve Jobs did not push technology forward, did not act as an accelerating force, but simply kept the system of enhancement from falling apart. It horrifies me. Steve Jobs was amazing, he was exceptional, and he sped the world with his ideas, his angle of attack, and his actions. This is fantastic. This is the mark of something lasting.

I believe he wanted it to continue without him. Did he not, he would have stayed head of the company to the last day, or given up on it when he saw death so near. He did not. He named a successor. The company will continue, if changed; technology will advance; the Earth will spin on its axis.

We have lost an orator. We have lost a visionary. We have lost someone who could see something, understand it, sell it. We lost a storyteller. We lost a man.

We did not lose our ability to adapt. Leonardo da Vinci died; Shakespeare died; Steve Jobs died. These are tragedies. These are beautiful things that passed. Yet we lived without them, we grew enough to have a society where they could have the effects they did--writing, printing press, microchips. We shall continue, and all the better for the fact that they were.

In honor of him...well, as I said, we lost a storyteller. He said it better than I would.

"Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on."

Moments

The odd feeling of falling, tumbling up as two quick eighth notes precede a held belt.

Pain rumbling through your stomach as the junk food catches up with you.

Discovering that the reason your favorite snack is out is because the fresh batch finished as you walked in.

Skimming along different sources to procrastinate and finding a quotation that explains, exactly and succinctly, that odd thought that had been running through your head all week.

Sprinting for the sheer joy of feeling bare feet pound dew-damp grass.

Staring at someone who called you out. Watching calmly as the light flickers on behind those arrogant eyes that start to recognize a fighter.

Watching the sunset in midsummer, harvesting done and safe for the moment, babe in arms. Your lover puts a warm hand on your shoulder and shares the moment.

Yelling, "Echo!" in an empty cavern.

Glancing at the clock and realizing with a jolt that it's two hours later than you thought it was.

Finding that piece of candy that you'd come to think was something you'd dreamt, rather than something you'd truly eaten.

Stabbing yourself with the pig-dissecting scalpel without piercing your glove.

The moment after a terrible day where you fall into someone's arms and cry so hard you shake without any control.

Realizing that what you just did was the last item on your to-do list.

Finding an author with a writing style you love, then finding nineteen other books by the same one at the library.

Shyly holding hands on the first date.

Feeling your breath stop as your eyes meet with the person you've never quite gotten the courage to ask out...and realizing the other person stopped breathing, too.

Finding that someone else feels the same way you do.

Figuring out what on Earth made that piece. Why this chord sounds happy, what this archaic language means, why the cadence works as it does.

Standing confidently to a challenge and exceeding even your own expectations.

Extending a hand to that person you've never been close to without thinking about it, then seeing the spark of friendship start in those eyes. A smile echoes in yours.

Seeing everyone you care about safe. Laying down to rest.

In Order

My overarching goals are as follows: To learn everything, to teach it to everyone, and to be an inspiration throughout.

This is the first time I have expressed this in print. Just thought I'd mark that milestone.

Common issues presented:

"...Isn't that impossible?" These are overarching goals that I constantly reach toward. I do not have to be able to see their fruition clearly, in fact, if I could, I would say I had poor overarching goals. My overarching goals contain supergoals contain goals contain tasks. Tasks are the first point where I assign a specific timetable, though goals have a vague one, and supergoals usually are possible within a lifetime not extended by a leap in the science of keeping humans alive.

"What if you discover that the human brain has limited capacity?" Then I will keep notes.

"But sometimes it's impossible to teach people things. You can't teach derivatives to someone who doesn't know algebra!" Yes. So I will teach them algebra first.

"How are you going to know how to teach everyone?" First: See first goal. Second: My supergoal here is to become a polymath teacher, with my current goal being becoming a mathematics instructor. Why math first? Because the worst teachers I have ever had/seen/heard of have all been mathematics instructors. Good ones exist, but math is more dependent on past knowledge than any other subject I've seen. A bad mathematics instructor can destroy a student's chances for years, if not more.

Another one that I can't summarize in a sentence but is expressed fairly well here is that I don't want to teach evil people. In reaction, I would give rational reasons for being good. If people like you, this is good. If people hate you, this is bad. Therefore, spreading happiness helps achieve later goals. We're pack animals; we like nice Alphas. Benevolent dictators have an easier time staying in power.

These three all have one answer, in a way: rational ignorance.* It is rational to memorize my notes' placements rather than all the information contained within if my brain truly has a limited capacity. It is rational to leave someone ignorant of how to work derivatives--briefly--if they do not yet understand algebra, because most people cannot learn both from scratch in a day. It is rational to help evil people become good before teaching them biases or how to achieve goals. The existence of a helpful being who will not help evil is a push toward good, which means I would be a motivator for anyone seeking to learn from me in the first place.

"How will you distinguish between good people and evil people?" I could say see overarching goal one again, but I have already stated that I will begin teaching before I learn everything. The simple answer is that I have no way to distinguish for sure. However, as a human, I do have feelings on the matter. Aaaaand someone in the audience points out that feelings aren't always correct; I can be biased, etc. So I'll say: "My goal is to spread knowledge, inspiration, and happiness. As these are my goals, I will place people who aid those goals as good, those who harm as evil, and those who do neither as in need of inspiration." It is not perfect in defining 'good' and 'evil', but it meshes with my goals and so works. I'd call it a pragmatism expression of idealism.

I can still be incorrect. That makes the instance a learning experience, bringing me full circle to overarching goal one.

* Ignorance when the knowledge would give less than the energy you would expend gaining it.

Absence

When civilizations fade and even your last lingering ideals have turned to dust, you will look at the world and ask, "What did I ever do?" For everything will be gone, and it is only human to wish to see what you have done. To wish to see something with your name on it, your mark.

And the little girl will take your hand. She will take you to the chatting, smiling crowd. And she will say, "This."

You'll understand. "But happiness is fleeting. I can't have done any more than just made them feel better for a few seconds." Even if you have cured cancer, you will feel like this, if only for a moment.

The little girl will smile. "Silly. Happiness echoes. And people just keep adding noise!"

Then she'll skip off to another, while you stand in the smiling crowd until you go to someone or someone comes to you. It'll only take a moment. After all, after everything's gone, what else is there to do but get to know each other?

And you'll smile, and maybe you'll walk off. And maybe you'll become one of the little ones, going out and finding those who have been alone too long, learning how to see when someone just needs a moment. Or maybe not. In a truly infinite world...

Sick and Tired

Some of the best speeches are bluffs.

Eyes shut, as one coming upon a great, but not entirely happy, truth. "If I leave, now, I'm going to survive. I'm going to have a long, happy life. I'm going to live to a nice old age. I'm going to smile at my grandchildren, and have those nice little wrinkles at the corners of my eyes that happy people get when they've been happy for a good, long time. I'm going to look at my kids, and their kids, the way my parents and their parents looked at me." Eyes open. "So I should leave. I should take off running, right now, and not look back for a second. The only reason I shouldn't be sprinting, right now, is to save energy, so I can run longer.

"Assuming I am as weak as you think I am, I should be doing that. Assuming I'm as stupid as you think I am, I shouldn't even have though about how I shouldn't sprint. Assuming I'm as afraid, lost, little, weak, helpless, useless."

The space of a breath passed.

"Assuming, assuming, assuming. Oh, I absolutely love that word. Because it means I can be so many things at once. I can be a brat, and a hero, and the smartest person in the room, and that kid no one should care about, and I don't even have to lie. In fact, I'm more likely to find people believing the truth if I don't lie. If I insist I'm not this, insist I'm not that, then I find people refusing to believe me. Because of course I'd say that. I'm too modest. I'm saving my own skin. I'm trying to puff myself up, little thing in front of the big guy.

"And then,"--smile--"oh, and I can see it now. That understanding. That I was telling the truth. Every single time. And that's the lovely bit. I have never lied, even by omission. I told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

"So, run. Because I'm sick of running, and perhaps I'm too sick to chase. Just...run."

Some of the best speeches are bluffs. The poor thing could barely stand, much less run. Much less fight. But the strength to stand and the will to speak, only speak...that can spin the world off its axis, and right back on again.

Trope of note: Tired Of Running

Glimmers in the Den

The stories that get told from bad times can be dark indeed. But sometimes the most memorable are the flashes of wisdom, hope...


We weren’t happy. Who would be? Forced here, where we were basically food. If we got lucky, we died or became one of them. And what if becoming one of them meant a shift in thought so huge that we became…well, like them?

I touched the stones in my pocket. As I went through the day I saw a girl yelling at the guards. I handed her the varied brown one that said wisdom. Her lips twitched and she nodded; fell back. She tucked the stone in her pocket.

A few days later, a little boy was hiding in the corner. He was sobbing his clear, too-old gray eyes out. I took his hand and pressed the pale green stone into it. He looked at it, then at me. He clung to me and we held each other until he stopped crying. I convinced him to start washing and eating again.

Barely a few hours after that, I was flipping the last one over and over. It was black, and polished very smooth. I think it had been like that since the start. I might just have come to it for comfort enough.

A woman was praying. Before, I had heard her saying she wouldn’t pray anymore. It didn’t surprise me that she was. We were all going back to old comforts, and until she said she’d stop a few days after coming here, she’d prayed every evening. She said she had since she was six.

The topic didn’t really surprise me either. It wasn’t even covered in pretty language anymore. “I’m trying. I’m trying. But I don’t understand why.”
I looked around, checking for anyone obvious. The fact that I couldn’t see them wasn’t really pertinent. When they wanted to be seen, we obeyed every rule perfectly because they were cementing their power. Most, though, just wanted to make sure none of us were trying anything too dire—-like escaping—-and get on with it.

No one I could see. It crept down off my bunk and over to hers. By the time I got there her prayers had stopped, she was just crying. It hurt—I mean it physically hurt—to see someone so broken. I hoped the outburst would help her, but I was worried she’d just fall farther.

“Miss?”

She jerked up and looked at me. “What?” she asked sharply. Then she closed her eyes and softened. “Sorry. Yes?”

I took a breath. This was my last, but it was worth it. But it was my last, so I better make it count. “I’m Amelia.”

“Jean.”

“When I was little, I got these stones. They’ve got words on them, and they help me remember what I want to do, or be.”

She nodded. “I’ve seen you giving them out. How many have you got left?”

“Just the one.” I held the small oval of polished black out. In the dark, it was nearly invisible, though it reflected a lot of light.

A few phrases ran through my head. ‘(I think) It’ll do you more good than me.’ ‘You need it more than I do.’ But that wasn’t what I wanted to say.

“I want you to have it.”

She took it, solid black indent up. “What’s it say?”

“Turn it over.”

She looked at me; then turned it over.

“If you ever need me, just ask.”

She stared at the stone for a moment. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled a little now. “Thank you.” Her eyes went to mine. “The same goes for you.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

That last one said trust.

Fire and Ice

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

But--

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

But I need to dance. I need to move or I'm going to--

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

Are you even listening?

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

You're melting, aren't you.

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

That's what you're so worried about. Listen, Ice, you don't need to worry. You can flow. It doesn't have to be so--

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

Listen to me. Please. I know this has worked for you. But it's not working for me. Please, just listen.

There was quiet. Which was about as close to assent as Fire was going to get.

You're cold. I know. I know it's worked for you. But it's not working for me. I can't just sit here; I can't just watch everyone go by and just--stand here. I need to move, to spread, to grow.

You haven't tried.

Yes, I have. I've tried; believe me. I have tried stopping myself, but it's not working. Do you remember when I really got to burn, so bright I was almost blinding, so hot I burned? I have never felt better. Never.

You burned.

Yes. Yes I did. But it didn't hurt anyone.

It scared me.

And it scares me when you're so...cold. But I get it. It's how you work.

Ice trembled. That surprised Fire, truth be told. Ice moved, but Ice moved like...well, a glacier. Ice didn't tremble, any more than Fire truly went still.

I'm melting.

I could move.

No. From the inside out. If something taps me, I'm going to shatter. I'm melting.

Fire paused. Fire knew, on some level, that Ice was melting. But Fire hadn't known how close Ice was to the tipping point. Fire had assumed the heat was melting Ice, and so the melting would be from the outside in. Visible. Showy. The idea of melting from the inside out...

You're burning.

Heating up. Yes.

Fire was, for once, at a loss. Whatever the emotion, Fire could adjust. That was the strength. Fire moved, danced, adapted, and, if it came to it, burned through. But what to do for someone who was so afraid of doing just that...

Try it.

What?

Melting. Flowing. Try it.

What if I can't get back?

Then wouldn't you rather do it now, on your terms?

Poem #2

Forgive me if this seems disjointed. It can be difficult to tell ones own story, especially when it didn't 'happen'.

I have a moment.
But no moment stands alone.
Imagine you have fallen, because you stumbled, you tripped.
You fell off the side of the castle. Your fortress. Your family’s.
But you caught yourself. You climbed back up. One step, one handhold, one foothold, one at a time.
Then, as you reached the top, the footholds fell away. Your hand slipped. You hang there by your fingertips.
Don’t worry. Look. You’re friend’s there. You friend will help you up.
Crack.
That was your fingers breaking under a hard boot. Your heart breaking under a hard smile.
No.
And now…now you can’t catch yourself.
How could you?
How could your friend?
Here is the moment. It is that brief frozen moment in the fall. The one where you decide to let yourself fall. The one where you stop fighting, because you don’t care.
But you don’t freeze there.
You hit the water and cry out from the sharp smack on your back, the ice covering your skin.
And you can’t fight. You already decided. You’ll drown, crying.
Sobbing, gasping down lungfuls of water until you drown.
…
You wake. It’s bright, so bright. You think it might be someplace good…but the light is blinding, everything hurts…
Not the good place.
Tears well up again. You tried, damn it. You tried.
A sob tears through your chest.
Why? An enemy killing you, that would have been fine…you would have understood.
But not that one. Not the one you’ve loved like family since you were a child.
A curtain is pulled away and the light hurts even more, you whimper in the middle of a sob.
And then you hear your name. Not in anger, not in satisfaction, but almost in reverence. You hear it again, in exultation.
“You’re alive!
“Guys! Guys, guess who woke up!”
That’s the other moment. When you realize it hurts because you’re alive. Because someone cared.
You don’t recognize the one who woke you. Apparently you barely know each other.
It didn’t matter. This one saved you.

Well?
Aren’t you going to do anything?

Rant: "Well, Yeah, But You're Not Gonna Win That Fight."

One of my teachers actually said that to me. Someone who is meant to be teaching students how to deal with the world actually said that if it looks like you might not win, you should stop trying.

Context:
The set-up was that this generation is over-tested. Everyone agreed. Then, to continue the conversation, I said that I thought we were also being given too much homework in elementary school.

(As a brief aside, no one present had any connection to elementary school teachers, so none of this was a personal attack nor could it be construed as such. Well, it could, but you can also say, "Hitler liked puppies!")

She agreed with me that we were over-homeworked. She did not have any reservations there, she just flat-out agreed. Then...well, see title. She said I was not going to win because everyone has always been over-homeworked, in her own words, "Every generation has had seven hours of homework."

I stared at her for a beat. She had just said, in front of her entire classroom, the people under her authority, that she believed something bad should not be stopped because it has been going on for too long. This is a bad idea for two reasons. 1) "Don't fight if the odds are against you" kills just about every major human achievement. Why should we change? Because new ways are, occasionally, better. And the, "It's tradition" argument is always wrong. It may be more efficient, easier, people may be more comfortable...but those are the arguments. Not some random thing about how it was good enough for my thirty-times-great grandfather and so it's good enough for me. 2) If the amount of time the policy has been in place is the thing that is messing people up, then adding more time to the equation is not going to help.

Forget tradition. If someone else has a good idea, listen to it, and if you have time debate, then that's probably a good idea. But the fact that it was good yesterday doesn't mean it's good today. It just means it was good yesterday.

Musing#4: Friendship

Loyalty is when someone turns to you and tells you to run, then you say, "No," and help them.
Friendship is when someone tells you to run, and you say, "Hell no. You run," and you both stay.

Loyalty is when you follow someone to Hell and back, fighting and watching her back all the way.
Friendship is when you follow someone to Hell, and watch her back as you know she watches yours.

Loyalty is when you follow someone because he's right.
Friendship is when you stand by someone who's not.

Loyalty is a solid, honorable duty to stand by someone.
Friendship is when you can leave at any time, and don't.

Loyalty is a trait.
Friendship is a bond.

Hope is when you can see a light at the end of the tunnel, and go to it.
Faith is when you see no light but follow it anyway.

Hope is when everything you know is destroyed, then you see something you don't know.
Faith is when everything is destroyed, so you look for something that isn't.

Music is emotion and pitch weaved together until we barely know how we can separate it.
Magic is that which you allow it to be.

Goodness is doing what helps.
Evil is doing what hurts.

Now, riddle me this: Which of these do I believe?