Love Hesitates

Computer Science.

What is computer science?

I haven’t the foggiest.

Curious how I’m now a computer science teacher.

Love.

What is love?

No clue.

Funny how I’m married then.

I suppose its that warm fuzzy feeling you get inside around Christmas time.

Or that feeling of being full after Thanksgiving.

Or that sensation you get when you drop on a roller coaster.

Or maybe its that feeling when you hug somebody.

Not, any somebody, but one of those somebodies that you hug and it feels just right.

Not too tight or tall or short or big. Not a lame loosey goosey hug, but a firm, supportive, warm embrace that fills you.

Maybe that’s love.

Or maybe love is reading a really good book that sweeps you out of your desk and into another world.

Or perhaps getting an A in a subject you’re not good at.

Then, I guess love can be blurred with Happiness.

Like how you love you’re favorite candy bar and you’re happy when your mom buys you one unexpectedly.

But Love should be able to exist without its friend happiness, right?

I mean if you’re having an unhappy day, does that mean you can’t show love?

Or Shouldn’t show love?

Yet how much love does an unhappy person show?

I don’t know, I’m not really a philosophical person.

Just an ordinary computer science teacher.

But really love and happiness do go together.

If you love someone you’re happy with them.

And if you’re happy then you’re probably more likely to love.

Really it’s a good thing love and happiness are friends.

But sometimes Happiness is fooled.

When happiness runs off and becomes friends with other characters that may look like love: Money, Fame, Lust, Acceptance.

When Love Hesitates,

That’s when things start to go wrong.

But what do I know?

I’m just a computer science teacher.

Goodbye

Goodbye.

Au Revoir.

Auf Wiedersehen.

Adios.

Four languages.

Four distinct peoples, places, emotions.

An array of foods, cultures, jokes.

So different, yet so alike.

How much different does an American look from a Frenchman?

Or a German?

How different can a human be?

Spread out over a plethora of land and climates, divided by mountains and rivers and wars.

United in experience, drive, peace.

Why do we fight, then?

I suppose it’s our nature to outlast, survive, fight.

But when we can survive, are surviving, why should we fight for survival?

Why build walls to protect if no weapons are needed to destroy?

Why tear each other down?

If fighting is only for survival, then why wage war?

If one side stops, if the bullets stop flying, if the bombs are silenced, the war cries suppressed, then the “enemy” need not fight for survival.

I guess, then fighting no longer has a synonymous companion with survival.

Then fighting goes with opinion, arrogance, perception, God?

No not God.

Men may fight in his name, but it is for their own glory, not his.

No not God.

Some say the human race is flawed.

How can it not be?

But, why couldn’t our flaw be something less destructive?

Why couldn’t our flaw be loving too much? Or an uncontrollable need to help our fellow man?

Why do we have to fight?

Why not just be content to survive?

Why can’t nations get along?

Why can’t human kind get everything straight?

Why can’t many languages become one?

Hola.

Guten Tag.

Bonjour.

Hello. 

18 Years

                I look up from the boring school book.

                Just a couple more pages,  I tell myself, And you’re done with final book of High School.

                I swivel my chair around and look out over my backyard.

                18 years I had looked out of this window. 18 years I had played in this back yard. And soon when I look up from my work, I would hopefully be seeing a different setting: The lush green trees and old bricks of Williamsburg.

                18 years had passed.

                18 vastly, short years.

                I looked around the yard. That patio wasn’t there at first, but that crooked tree was. I used to climb up and jump off of it as if I wear jumping out of an airplane. And the play set used to stand there. I would swing for what seemed like days, soaring through the sky like a bird freed at last. There’s the shed that my dad built. I remember there was a week where I would climb up there and read a book or just stare out over the yield behind the yard and be content to do just that. And there’s one of the sticks that I would yield as a ninja or a knight or a super cool spy kid or whatever my fancy was. Any my bike, oh I would ride around the neighborhood imagining that if I hit a magical button it would transform into a pod that would fly me to the moon.

                The memories I had in this yard, In this house. The laughing, crying, fighting, imagining, thinking, dreaming.

                I still dream like a kid, but its harder to dream once you’ve known reality.

                I look down at the book in my hands.

                I so badly wanted to go to college, but at the same time, I don’t. I want to stay in this backyard forever. I want imagine and dream without reality crashing in.

                Like Peter Pan, I don’t want to grow up.

                18 years

                18 vastly, short years.