An interesting thought I would like to share with you

After many and extensive voyages across the place the first world has long grown accustomed to I have come in contact with numerous fandoms and have even shamelessly participated in a few of them. The internet is a wild jungle of wishful thinking and all the things that didn’t happen so we have to do ourselves. It’s a place where all the half cast romances are blindingly obvious, a place where people who have never met nor wish to interact like old friends. The internet is really just a really big scrap metal garage where you get to wander about and find what you find. We play ball with ideas and put them on the walls for others to see. An endless maze of half formed theories and the wide variables of negative and positive.
Because of one of my egoistic all ventures into the internet and my secret love of Marvel I found a tumblr snapshot where fans of the growing sensation “Loki” had explained in detail how obvious it was that the raven haired villain had been tortured before he had made the decision to make the earthlings kneel. These two people had explained how in the beginning of the avengers movie he had been showing clear signs of exhaustion and had been struggling to walk. Then one of them had made the observation that he was walking fine in the end of the movie even after being beaten half to death by a large enraged ogre, showing that Loki was obviously worse off at the beginning. While I don’t particularly care for that sort of thing I was struck by how both the fans spoke of the character and the movie in general like they were real. Like the movie hadn’t been born for the soul purpose of getting a profit, like it wasn’t a movie at all. It didn’t matter if it was clever filmmaking or pure coincidence, because it was no longer about who made and thought of the story, it was about how the story was perceived. I know from experience that fandoms tend to brutally mangle stories until you can’t recognise them beyond what they calls themselves. Some people are completely certain that this is a bad thing. They are sure that it will ruin the original story, whatever it may be. They think of it like the fandoms re-paint the masterpiece, but use the original canvas. This isn’t true. Fandoms do re-paint the artwork, but nothing happens to the original work. I think that fandoms are all about borrowing. They borrow the ideas and the characters, like children borrowing action figures. Maybe the way the movie or story is perceived is changed, maybe the fandoms make the viewers glasses rose tinted, but the story itself never changes.

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Opression is a hefty subject

If you were to ask my school what it thinks of itself you would get a very superficial answer that would undoubtedly be a lie. My school is much like a teenage girl. Hidden self esteem issues, blurred by speeches made of false vanity and egotistical proclamations, the same way a girl my age would wear a dress short even though she feels uncomfortable. My school is constantly asking itself whether it’s good enough. Good enough to compete, good enough to be a school, good enough for anything it can get its hands on. I know this because I am who it asks. Every time I am given a small piece of paper for a few minutes of brooding in a stuffy classroom during lunch it asks me. It asks me whether its good enough. The glasses is cloudy and it can’t quite see so it has to ask. I don’t know what it aspires to be good enough for, I haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.
Maybe my school would be a little more confident if it took of the glasses that cloud it’s vision much more than they correct it. I don’t know, but then it might see its wonderful faults. The fact is as much as my school is ambitious, it is also lazy. As lazy as me. Work can only be done in specific conditions and even in those conditions it’s a hit and miss situation. We won’t work when it rains. We don’t like the cold. If its too hot we will bathe in the fountains. If the leaves are falling from the trees we will play. If need be we will do a math equation. As much as I complain my life with this school is a comical one. Irregular and dazed. It’s like a melancholy romance, not fated, yet still somewhat interested. I feel quite bad sometimes because I make it seem like the school and I are enemies. We aren’t. We simply bicker, still quite good friends, but with a habit for arguing. We are not incapable of getting along, we just don’t see eye to eye on some subjects.
It’s not that my school needs attention or anything of that sort, it just gives a damn. Too many damns. More damns than it ought and it occasionally gets tired and has to sit down. It is at times like this that I am at my least intolerable. I don’t think it’s my school’s fault. It was created on the foundations of a society based on oppression and first world problems. Still, it is tedious, if not painful, to be a part of something so concerned with its own reflection. Vanity is easy, under confidence is hard.
I scare my school. I scare it because I am not who I am meant to be. I am meant to be just another faceless student, blinded by either ruthless ambition or a need to impress, but I’m not. My school proudly advertises its values, I see them everyday. I’m sure it doesn’t recognise what they represent. I’m sure they only see words that have become so clichĂ©d and over used that they no longer even resemble what they might of once. My school is one of the many vultures feeding from the beaten remains of once noble words like they are still trophies of honour. They see these words not as the scraps of ragged meat still clinging to the bones of long dead lions, but as if the lions still alive and sharing their flesh with smiles to go, but then there are always those people who don’t want to take part in the unconscious savagery of the vultures. People like me, who see past the honour boards and the awards, I threaten what they hold dear and I do it without even working very hard. It’s only now that my school realises how fragile their precious system is.
The best oppressors are those who don’t know they are oppressive; you can’t rebel against a system that doesn’t realise it’s own faults.
All throughout history people have been oppressed, looked down upon and scolded for looking up, but on these occasions and long periods of time it was often obvious. The oppression was dealt with using guns, bombs and insistent shouting, now all we know is text books, price tags and advertisements. Our society has us believing that we’re the best the human race is ever gonna be, but really we’re just the middle men of history. Corporations and companies have us buying stuff we don’t want with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t even like, believing that we’re still going to turn out to be rock gods and movie stars. We have no Great Depression, or any Great War, we’re just sitting here with our first world problems wondering why we feel so bad. We get only these occasional little snapshots, brief ideas that never go very far and even when they do their too loud to be listened to. We think, we bathe, we eat, we sleep, we work till we die. At least when there’s a gun in you’re face you know whose team you’re on.
We must be the only society to be able to have oppressors oppress themselves, forced down by the rules and regulations that came from nowhere.
We are all just feeding off the dead lions, or left to starve and be ridiculed.

So done, epically done

Something I really hate is that people are always telling me I have to have a good reason why. If I want to do something I need to have a reason. I told my older sister the other day I want to go to Norway the other day and without even thinking she replied that I knew nothing about Norway and that’s quite true. All I know is where it is, but I like the sound of it, so why not?
I’m constantly having to explain to my family why I want to travel, largely because I wouldn’t leave my room if given the option. It’s not that I want to travel to meet knew people or to have life changing experiences, I just like the idea of being alone somewhere else. It’s not that complicated. I’m not very good at meeting people and I’m pretty indifferent to the notion of “life changing” so all I really want to do is be somewhere else.
I want to live the sort of life where I can do something amazing and spectacular things to win a bet. I want to live the sort of life that, heck, if I have a whim I can follow it to wherever it leads, whether it be wealth or ruin. I want to lead the sort of life that’s described in those terrifically stupid songs my dad listens to. The ones that are sung really fast, and you can barely keep up and it’s just so stupid. To me it just sounds… fun. I’m not naive, I know that my life won’t be like those songs, but I can damn well give it a shot. I’ve done stupid things just to see if I could and I’m not above doing it again. What really frustrates me is that for a long time I won’t even be given the chance.
The way I see it, my life is pretty dull. Sure, the graphics are damn near perfect and the characters I’m immensely fond of, but the plot sucks jack shit. I am so beyond done with being thirteen, I’m done with cancer, I’m done with the school system, I’m done above all with the ideas in my head only survive on paper and screens. I’m done with being thought of as stupid because I don’t value grades. I’m done with being called scatter minded and unorganised. The people who are meant to be shaping the way I see the world, namely my teachers only make both parties resentful. They throw around the word “organisation” like it’s some magical power that everyone’s meant to have, giving students the power to pluck time from thin air and remember things like machines. You would think that simply having a vague sense of organisation means that you are incapable of human error. You’re not.
I am just so epically done with my life that it actively makes me feel guilty, because there are so many people that care for me and try and help me. Like I said the cast of my life is bloody brilliant. They are that one quarter of my life I try to hold above all else. The other three quarters can burn in hell for all I care.