4Isn't it ironic that one day all of these pages will be filled? What will they say? What questions will I have asked? What thoughts pouring through my ears embraced by this and other pages. Pieces of trees compressed to form one page inked with red and blue lines in straight columns ready for you to write on and express yourself, your ideas and numbers and words and pictures and scribbles and blanks. Can you imagine that one day all the paper in the world, pages in books like dictionaries and encyclopedias and children's folk tales will all be filled with these words, these pictures and thoughts and ideas? An idea a thought from ones mind expressed in such a way that can be comprehended by a child to a most intelligent human being. Yet, we only think of geniuses being out elders but really it's our infants in their mothers wombs knowing all knowledge from the first time the cell divides until the last kick and final push before entering our idealistic world for the first time kicking and screaming, gasping for our first pollution filled breaths. But we don't think of our children our infants our fetuses that way. No! We see them grow in the bellies of a woman like a tadpole losing it's tail until leaping into the pond after a fly as the water splashes around it's body and again settling to reveal this uniquely spotted green frog. We see our babies take their first breath of sterile hospital air forgetting where this air has come from. Forgetting where you are as the germs from all around you begin to crawl. Crawl unto your child's skin and multiply within hours over their helpless bodies. Yet, abortions are ok! To send their partially birthed bodies into garbage bags with yesterdays lunch and think nothing of it. Because it's ok. It's your right to take ones life for as fast as it has been given and grown in your belly, your womb. The infant knows their creation and death yet as we grow we forget and become blind to the humilities of our society and our loves and loses and life with death and dieing. We become numb and deaf to ourselves and it's only our faults as we wash out children of their imaginative minds because " Johnny space ships and aliens don't exist so please try something new for your art project like flowers and trees." Yet we turn away when Johnny shoots the squirrel outside for fun when his pad of paper and pencil are in the garbage because it's wrong. Because drawing is a waste its not real. It's not life. Life is the "real world" with careers and the "American dream" with more Johnny's and their blue eyes and blonde hair. Not Hitler's creation though. It's our own. But, isn't it just Ironic we fight against something and later make the idea real? The thought that one has processed through his mind and shared to either be denied or accepted. Is it wrong?
Irony was my word that I had chose to write about the day I wrote this at the farm I board my horse at and I wrote this in 10 min. Seriously! Please read it all.