12/10/11

"Can't you just do what I tell you? Why can't you listen?" My eyes focused in and out... I was in a daze from staying up past 2am the previous night, chatting through the night with a good friend. I glanced and looked quickly away as the fire in my mother's eyes scalded me. She tried to hollow me out with her words. I could hear the sirenlike shrieks escaping my mother's pursed lips over my headphones- needless to say, they didn't live up to their advertisement of being soundproof. My blood boiled beneath the surface... Why can't she just be quiet?

With heavy reluctance, I climbed up the stairs and began to clean the bane of my mother's existence- my messy room. As I put on hanger after hanger in my filled closet, I thought about everything that came up in last night's conversation. I smiled as I felt warmth consume my body as I thought of the connection newly formed between my friend and I. I reached for the next hanger, now by instinct, when I heard my mother's voice, once more- calling me down. 

As I walked downstairs, I saw him there. Standing in front of my door with a timid smile, earrings twinkling in the fleeting light, and his back straightened to his full height, my friend greeted me with open arms. My heart softly fluttered as he told me he came to say goodbye in person, before he left for New York for a business trip. How perfect, how refined, how exquisite- a meeting with no purpose but to express one's yearning. I loved the thought and a layer from my calloused heart seemed to fall dreamily until it vanished under the sea, made deep blue with my thoughts. 

Later, after he left- I checked my messages. "Call me... please." My friend messaged me an hour ago. I called him to find out, through open sobs, that his uncle had committed suicide. After 4 years of waking up to useless legs, he decided to tape up every crack in his room and light a bag of coals. I listened to every memory that surfaced to my friend's consciousness until he couldn't come up with anymore and fell into a thick silence. "I'm sorry..." I told him constantly, what else could I say? 

I wasn't thinking when I climbed into the car- I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I had to go somewhere. I found myself at another friend's house, sitting in her extra room... back against the wall, sobbing quietly as I recalled the conversation with my mourning friend. 

When death is made more desirable to you than life, where do you find yourself? Are you truly alive when you enjoy nothing, when you dream of death, of escape? Are you less than a person for committing suicide... or are you courageous and admirable for finally taking and having total control over your destiny? When your life is made so pitiful, always dependent upon the wills of others, are you able to be yourself? Can you love others and receive love when you are so detached from your potential? Why does misfortune mutilate the soul so? My voice trembled as I leaked out question after question to the patient ears of my beautiful friend. She kept her distance from my dark figure that continuously fidgeted throughout the entire conversation, but her eyes always met mine whenever I brought up the courage to look towards her with my face contorted in pain. 

"Maybe..." She said, "maybe... it's okay, Alison. It's okay. This is okay.. because... " and then, her voice would trail off as she gave up on finishing her sentence. Then from the depth of her soul, using the strength of her entire being, she heaved the heaviest of sighs. 

I grabbed my car keys and asked her to come with me. I was going to pick up a phone from a random seller, seeing as I ruined my other through my wellknown carelessness. She sat in the car with me as we tried navigating with the shittiest GPS in the world. A 10-minute drive was made into 40 and we ended up meeting at a location completely different than initially stated. I paid for the phone and bought a bagel and coffee as I rested with my friend. Sitting there as I heard muted buttons from my friend's constant texting... I wondered how fucked up life was. 

How easy is it for death to venture into every thought of ours and how easy did it seem for life to be taken from us. How I could've died so quickly as I drove to this location... how the world was so big and so vast, so filled with people, that my death wouldn't even evoke the quietest whisper of a sorrow. Yes, I concluded, we're all fucked.  

I drove us to my house... the drive felt much shorter than the one there and I stood there as my mom lectured me on my independence. "You do things too much by yourself.. you must tell us things, how can you just go buy something on your own accord? Do you know the danger of meeting someone you do not know? Do you know how reckless you were to leave without a word? Do you even know if it works?!" 

Her suspicions were quickly made valid as I took it to the shop. Apparently, it couldn't be activated as it was still alive on someone else's account. I called the woman and found with surprise, that it was her friend's phone. He said though, that he would have her call right back. With hesitance, I said yes and hung up. Luckily, the woman called back to figure everything out. Her account was suspended because she could not meet the payments, she did not have a cellphone anymore, and she could not afford a car so she had to get a ride from her friend to meet up with me for a refund, which she could not do until tomorrow. My mother took her address as she said, adamant, that despite the 40 minute drive there, we were going to her house now to retrieve the money and finish this.  

In the car, while we drove into a world full of red brake lights and other streaming, lightning fast colors, I felt pity welling in my stomach. It hurt so badly. She can't even afford her cellphone bill; she can't get a car; she seemed to live modestly and yet, she still did not live within her means. My body trembled again as I thought more on it. My friend watched me with worry, and I met her venturing glances with an apology. "Sorry for bringing you out here.. sorry for burdening you." She smiled without resentment.

I then apologized to my mother in heartfelt Chinese. "我很抱歉...真的好罪惡感.我沒跟你說因為我不要遭你麻煩... I'm so sorry. I feel such guilt. It was only because I did not want to give you trouble." She answered with thought as she launched herself into a lecture without anger, but tinged with remorse and she told me that: "life is not simple. There are few you can trust. And 妹, little girl, you cannot win on your own. " 

I exited the car to meet with the woman who sold me the phone. "I'm so sorry, i'm so sorry- I didn't know. Where's your mom? Oh my, i really didn't know. How can these companies do this? They're crazy.. insane.." She was shaking all over and from her hands, bills were falling onto the ground. I didn't want to take the money back. She could keep it... let her keep it... My mother looked at me with steel and forced me to take the money. 

"Count it, count it, go ahead." The lady in front of me kept pressing. I didn't want to... How can you count money in front of a person? How illmannered.. how grotesque, what a show of rude suspicion. Why couldn't she just keep it? Why should I have the money when she needs it more?...

"Count it," my mother commanded me. I froze as I heard her voice cut through my thoughts. Slowly, I counted the money. Then I nodded to the lady still shaking uncontrollably. 

"It's here. It's okay. Thank you."

Then I sat in the car with my head in my hand, arm perched on the window, the cash resting against my cold cheek, I wished I didn't have it at all. I watched the surroundings move outside while my falling tears, what seemed like a common occurrence this day, obscured my vision; we were finally going home. My friend watched me quietly, her silence comforting me more than words ever could.

"媽... Mom..." I didn't know what to say next. She didn't look at me, focusing on the road in front of her and said without hesitation: "everyone must bear the responsibility for their actions, and you, your pity would spare her this time, but what about next? What good will this do her? "

To that, I had no answer. 

I turned my face away from her as she turned back to speak to me, hiding my tearstained cheeks. "Learn from today," she continued in Chinese, "learn that this world does not function on sympathy but reality." I thought of the love my friend showed me this morning, his face made incredibly handsome with joy, his excited demeanor stifled by the thought of leaving me... the pain of my other friend's loss, the breathy sobbing born from his strong chest. I was imagining his broad shoulders hunched with burden... all alone in the room close to the room that his mother's cries were filled with... the clumsy, stubby, unstable hands of the woman that I took money from... her quick apologies, her seemingly pure heart.. the cold, cold money in my even colder hands... It was hard to breathe.

I didn't say anything to my mother then... What could I say to her hard wisdom? I sat there in the darkness, to the right of my bewildered friend, shamed face dark, hidden in the back- and shook quietly in response.

:P

I wrapped my arms around her warm body and laid my head upon her shoulder. It's been too long...  I snuggled a little closer to her sleeping self and let my hair tickle my arms as I silently rustled the bedsheets. I interrupted her light sleep then. "You're freezing," her voice was husky from fatigue. I knew she would say this, she always reminded me whenever we touched. It was true. I've always had a very low body temperature, chill to the touch, an eternal icecube. "Baby, will you warm me up?" I playfully teased her and we giggled tiredly. I missed her a lot. We have always been very intimate to each other. I suppose it would've been very easy to misunderstand our relationship and for others to question our sexuality.

It would've bothered us, but it was pretty hilarious. Also, with our limited time together, we didn't really give a rat's, horse's, donkey's, your, my behind. We had known each other for about seven or so years and had only met once before this time in person. Though we haven't had many opportunities to meet, we referred to each other as sisters, a gift from the heavens above to each other us- a connection money could never buy. Our friendship had been pretty cliche as we were close to opposites in appearance. Her tan, muscular arm clinging to my own pale, soft exterior made us look almost humorous to everyone staring. Not only are our shells incredibly different, but our personalities as well. I've never been too easygoing, always a little too cautious, a little too stubborn, too academic, too serious, while she on the other hand was completely different. Although I identify the most with the libertarian party and its social agenda, I have always been a very restrained person.

But to be honest, I don't believe in opposites attract. Quite the contrary... I believe the majority of people are attracted to those who are alike to them. However, I don't think there's a huge emphasis on what interests you share as there is on the time and the place.

Everything seems to be by chance. 

We interact with the fantastic number of the people surrounding us every single day, but we can only connect with a tiny number in comparison. Sometimes, sometimes you just get lucky. Because finding those few out of millions is, I believe, simply up to luck, by destiny or whathave you. It's pretty spectacular. We don't have much control in what obstacles confront our lives everyday, but we have enough freewill to choose how much we delve ourselves into other peoples' lives and how many opportunities we will have to experience new things.

I believe everyone has many pieces of their soul. It's as if they keep them broken up in their pockets. But these pieces, the ones lying in their pockets, don't seem to fit together perfectly to create anything special. Whenever we meet someone, whenever we come across a new place, we pick up and exchange a little piece of ourselves with the other and continue along our ways. In this regard, everyone is a mosaic made up of every encounter they have ever had. I remember thinking once that everyone is broken, stomped on, crumbled.. and I still hold that as truth in my heart, but now I can see the beauty of brokenness.

This broken aspect of ourselves is no problem when there are millions of opportunities for us to take our jagged-edged pieces to create something magical, something that people would stop and admire- a brilliant mosaic of our lives.

It's no fun having a perfect, smooth mosaic- that's boring shit- the bumpy and the curvy is the way to go.

I've been living a very conservative life, a life where few exciting, new things come up. Thus, I don't think my mosaic is colorful at all. However, I have the bare structure of it now and I plan on creating a spectacle, something inspiring, something that would take someone's breath away.  

There are people who constantly ponder the meaning of their lives... but let's start a little simpler; I'm offering a new path of action.

Instead of putting all your little braincells into overdrive as you overanalyze detail by detail, focus on making the most beautiful piece of art- the one no one can see, no one can hear, but everyone can feel and i'm sure you'd be headed in the right direction.

I don't think life is about sitting in a room and thinking about all the shit you have to do, or all the questions you want to ask the almighty or even questioning why the hell anyone is here on this deteroriating planet to begin with...

it's about getting out there and interacting,

that's what it means to truly be alive.

So get out of the little cramped up dark corner and experience life, get out of your comfort zone, give yourself more opportunities for interactions, for chance to take place, and maybe, just maybe, you'll find your answer.

P.S. getting off the computer is a good start.

SOL

The sun was burning my skin. I stepped impatiently side by side, wondering just how mad my friends would be. I heard a loud screeching and ambulances in the distance. An accident? I wonder how bad it is. My pale skin cooled in the shade now but my face was still burning. My friends had called me to go boating in the morning, but I had not gotten the message. I was late by 30 minutes so they had decided to pick me up. I was so embarrassed, how unseemly... for them to go out of their way- but i wanted to go. I wanted to spend the entire day with them. 

My mother opened the garage, already prepared for a long hike with my beloved dog. I sat in the open trunk of her car, my mother waited alongside me. I felt the warm air blow past my cheeks. I checked my cellphone- where were they? I called my closest girlfriends who were going, but no one picked up. Anxiously, I perused through my cellphone, finding someone else to answer me. "Hello?" I pressed my phone closer to my ear, "what is going on? Where is everyone?" And it was then that my world felt as if it were shaking.

I hung up quickly and turned towards my mother, voice quivering, I told her that we had to go. "Where?" she looked at me bewildered, waiting upon my words.

"The accident, they were the accident." I climbed into the car and we followed the sirens to the intersection right outside my house. I jumped off and ran towards the site. My friend laid perfectly still on a white stretcher, a neckbrace hugging her vulnerable body tightly. Her car was destroyed, the driver's door practically inverted from the collision and pieces of glass were scattered throughout. I couldn't breathe. I was choked with sobs. I could see all of my friends' parents standing around the site, taking pictures and holding one another.

"Are you Alison?" A tan skinny girl asked me without hesitation. "I was in the car, it'll be okay." It seemed hilarious then. She, who was in the crash, was more calm than I was, a bystander who came too late. She told me then that three of my closest friends were on their way to the hospital. My mother pushed my head to my shoulder as I shook quietly. 

I waited in the lobby of the emergency room. We've been here too many times... My mom's words were still ringing in my mind. One, two, three, this would be the fourth time in a year? It was still so uncomfortably cold in here. Flashbacks to my mother and father's operation continued to flow through me. I rubbed my legs with my hands nervously. Breathe Alison, breathe. I wanted to wake up, this had to be a horrible dream. My friend's father opened the emergency section's door, beckoning me to follow.

I stood outside of room 47, feeling a sense of despair. I opened it slowly and i regained my breath. My friend was clutching the blanket sobbing like a child. She looked at me through her watering eyes and with her mouth trembling and I simply just cried in response. Her mother sat by the side watching the entire ordeal, she sat by in silence. "Does it hurt?" I asked her tentatively. She nodded her head, still sobbing uncontrollably. Her leg was exposed by the blanket and diagonal deep cuts seemed to take over her skin. I put my hand on her shoulder and closed my eyes. I walked to room 49 next, I opened this door with less trouble; my other friend seemed okay, so she must, had to be fine as well.

I took a few steps slowly. Her face was terribly swollen and a large cut was alongside her face, she seemed stuck in her position, unable to get up. Her xrays had shown that her cheek bone had broke and that she was to go through surgery soon. It took her some time to focus on my face, to recognize who i was, and when she did, her already large eyes had gotten bigger and tears traced her pure white skin, being caught by her father's napkin before they soaked the blanket covering her. She looked like a wounded deer. Her fragile body was lying perfectly still and her eyes lolled towards me. I whimpered and moved to take her hand but stopped when i saw scratches that painted her hands red. I touched the outside of her hand. Why did this happen? She attemped to get up and pieces of glass fell down onto the floor, her blood made an imprint on the bed underneath her. I wiped my tears and stood by her as the medical practitioner stepped inside of the room. 

I found out then that the other driver had irresponsibly sped through a red light and crashed almost directly into the driver's seat and that the driver had been sent to another hospital, one with a better tramua unit due to her more critical condition. I felt a little dizzy then and took some time to find my footing, this had really happened. She could be dead.

I don't remember too much about the ride to the other hospital. My legs burned from my nervous rubbing and traces of dead skin were evident as well. I emptied a waterbottle in a few sips. Then, I stepped into another lobby. A huge crowd of people was around- everyone who had wanted to go boating. We waited for her. This group of people had been waiting for hours to see her and they had to wait another before they actually did. It was like the panic had begun to wear off when I saw her face for the first time in what seemed like forever. She was suffering from a concussion and was riddled with scratches on her face and her arm looked more red than anything. The pieces of glass were embedded in her skin and they were everywhere. "I'm sorry, it was my fault" I confessed to her. She didn't seem to hear me.

By this time, 6 hours had already passed us by since the accident. I left as her relatives replaced her friends in the room and I went home. I hadn't eaten anything and from the morning to the afternoon, i had lost a pound. I checked on all my friends when they returned home and learned of the insane events that took place right before the collision. Apparently, someone had been talking and accidentally said seatbelt instead of a different word. It was completely unrelated, but the girl in the front turned back and told them to put on their seatbelts. Just as the last person put on her seatbelt, the car exploded with shards of glass and was thrown across the intersection. If that wasn't a divine intervention, I don't know what is. 

Life is incredibly fickle. Everyone talks about its ups and its downs, but what about its end? They say it's a journey, death being the final destination, but it's hard envisioning how it would be when it comes to a stop. Perhaps it sounds very arrogant, but I had always believed that we had more control than we truly do. Maybe that's the only way I could live with peace of mind, a cloud of safety around my naive mind. That day was blessed. Their futures are still in sight and their lives are moving forward just as before. Everyone talks about what could've happened and everyone is thrown in disbelief and in momentary pain...

but there are million of what ifs and only one set of facts.

One of them being- we are alive today. You have the pleasure of sitting on your unharmed behind and I have the pleasure of seeing my animated friends' faces whenever i'd like. So make the best of it just as they will and live how you want to live or else very soon, you may be shit out of luck.

P.S. Don't run any red lights. 

Count your blessings

This morning I decided to help hand out food to the homeless. Two days ago, during class, my teacher inspired me to put myself in uncomfortable situations. We read a poem called "Curiousity" by Alastair Reid and he began to inform the class of his own passionate views. He said something along the lines of "You do not live simply because you breathe, true living is striving for something you are unsure of... when you're too comfortable, you aren't really living." Well, though i'm sure that many people would disagree with this (cough)squares(cough), it pumped the needed fuel into my sluggish heart. That's what brought me to the church- I had a need to be uncomfortable. 

It started off at a good pace, everyone was playfully setting up- spirits were high. I drew up everyone's nametags, designing each one with care- relieving some of my boredom as I waited for the needy to walk in. No worries though, I soon found my niche in the whole scheme of things- I was cookie girl. I brought cookies to all the homeless who were eagerly waiting for their free meals. A small stream of homeless began to wave into the amazingly hard to find church. After a while, the line of homeless began to dwindle and I found myself without any one to cookie up. So instead, I grabbed some grub and decided to keep one of them company. I scanned the tables in front of me, searching for someone who seemed like they could benefit from my presence.

There she was. She had a black beanie that stretched to cover her eyes, a black jacket that lightly hugged her slightly overweight body, and dark brown hair tied messily up into a ponytail. I crossed the room with my plate and drink. The first thing I noticed was a sort of stench coming from her, or perhaps it was the gentleman sitting nearby. A sort of smoky, stale smell... The odor filled my nostrils and lingered throughout the coming conversation."Do you mind if I join you?" She answered awkwardly, only with a slight nod of her head. I sat down in the chair and began unwrapping the gigantic sandwich they provided. I introduced myself and asked for her name. Her rough exterior contrasted greatly with her light childlike voice. Though barely audible, I learned her name was Emily. After exchanging names, I found myself completely at a loss, what was I to say? So i started asking her where she had been, whether she had ridden a motocycle, the best food she has ever eaten, anything I could think of. She answered every question with some sort of difficulty.

The noise from the rest of the room did not help her meek voice project and her hand kept sweeping the table... as if she were cleaning off some imaginary crumbs, then she would always go back to picking at her food. Her sandwich laid open for dissection. She ate the meat and cheese first, then began to pick at the soft innards of the bread, clearly avoiding the lettuce and all else. She had been everywhere in the world. From America to Europe to Asia, she had been everywhere. Motorcycling? She had been there, done that. Best food? Asian or mexican food, she loved them both. I could tell whether or not I was hitting on a happy memory or bad by the shape of her lips. With the happy times, she would silently smile to herself, letting her rotten missing teeth peek through her pink lips. When bad, she would begin to ramble about some or another, seeming to be distressed by her own ongoing words. She told me that she didn't want to be seen, that she had some sort of accident, disease, maybe both, her words were incomprehensible. I couldn't help searching for her face though, hoping to gain some sort of understanding about her identity. So I slightly bowed my head to peek under her beanie, her eyes were green? brown? I don't remember, but I distinctly remember the lines sketched into face from exhaustion and conflict. She looked about 30, but somehow I had a feeling she was in her 20s.

After a while, after going through a great deal of questions, I came to ask her whether or not she enjoyed Portland more than New York, a place she formerly lived at. She paused then and answered in her surprisingly high voice: "I don't know about that." I asked her why. And she told me then, that she had been raped by a man stalking her. She began to ramble again, but I could pick up on her random bits of coherent speech. He was short, bald, dark, and continued to stalk her to this day. She had tried telling the police, but something went wrong, the testimonies... something. She paused in between her talking, pushed her aged, painted green fingers to her temples as if she was having a headache, her lips pursed together... readying themselves for a light sob. I stopped eating. I realized then, that I had been mindlessly snacking on my sandwich, but now... now, I didn't think I could stomache any more food. "I'm sorry." What else could I say? 

I learned that it was 10 years ago. 10 years ago, she had been raped. And last year, this year, God knows when, he raped her again, and quite possibly countless times in between. For at least 10 years, she has been living through hell.

She didn't stop there. She continued on, telling me how in New York, she had constantly been chased, attacked, and once when she was finally getting money, someone had stolen all of it. She had family here... but they refused to talk to her, refused to meet with her... I let the silence consume our conversation, my eyes began to fuzz out of focus, I was simply a shell of a person. What the hell could I ever do for her? I wanted her to go back to her good memories, so I brought back France- a place where she said was the best place she had ever been- they treated the homeless well there, she said. "Do you want to return there, are you leaving Portland?" She answered casually, as if talking about rape, as if being on the verge of tears were an everyday thing, "probably".

I thought of the money in my purse then. I had about 150, 160, somewhere in that range- I could offer it to her, I could give her something. But then I thought of what I would be encouraging. She had not found herself in this situation simply by chance. There had been landmark decisions that led her here... it couldn't just be chance. So i offered her food instead. "Do you want more... Is there anything you want me to give you?" She looked up then, I could almost see her eyes light up through the dark fabric, and her lips parted once more... 

"No." 

And that was that. I had nothing to offer her. After a thanks, she got all her things, awkwardly stumbled towards the door... and was gone. I sat at the table completely dumbfounded for a good 5 minutes. How was I supposed to be okay after hearing that? After seeing this woman willing to break right in front of me. 

When I got home, I could still smell that musty scent... God, it seemed to stay forever. Comparing my stressors to her stressors seems like such a joke. Every day she has to return to the entrance of the Salvation Army, her temporary resting place. Every day she has to live with all the pain that others have caused her, the pain of being abused, the pain of being abandoned. She has no idea of where she's going next, how she is going to get there... if she's going to be raped, if she's going to be attacked, if she's going to have another "accident'. She is living, there is no doubt, but she is not living in our world, she is living in hell. So assess your life at this moment, find shame in your worries, and humble yourself in respect for this woman's woes. Beat yourself down to raw human compassion and put yourself into this sad woman's shoes. See the contrast in your pains and hers... and let your heart take a kick.

Be thankful for all that you have, for others, like her, have nothing.

Take the time to count your blessings.

A true victim

"Never be the victim," my dad's words hung in the air as I held onto the wheel in front of me. I was driving through the dark roads. The wind was blowing the leaves in a way that made the flurry of the leaves seem like a monster gliding through the street. I grasped the wheel tighter. My dad was sitting next to me, his large body relaxed against the soft gray interior of our old tattered van. We were talking about life, talking about friendship, about everything that he bothered to mention. I love my dad. He's the best man in the world. Though he can't express himself well, I know he has always cared a great deal for me. He's a man of few words so i imprint every single one into my soul, never losing sight of them. 

Needless to say, those words took hold of me. 

Though my dad hardly realizes it, his words are always eerily relevant. Men intuition? Good joke. But I digress... I really thought I understood it. Don't be the victim meant don't place yourself in a position where you could possibly be the victim. That made sense. After every situation, every event, even after just a friendly chat with someone- I always asked myself... Was I the victim? Thus, I gained an aggressive edge. I shoved everyone aside and did as I wanted. I never let myself embody the whimpering, spineless victim role I created in my mind. I made sure that I was never that victim. However, now, I wonder if I took his words the wrong way- perhaps a little too extreme. That victim I envisioned in my mind was the one who let everything get to them, and though I still somewhat agree with that labeling, I now believe that there's another, better definition. Vulnerability is essential to life, and no matter what you do- it will always be peeking through even the thickest, ironclad, padded wall. I really believed that I was in control, in control of everything, but now I realize that I was only in denial. 

The truth of the matter is that in this world, there's little we can control- things simply happen. But we can control how we respond to it. When bad times roll around, i believe we can go in two general directions: 

1. We can roll on our backs, exposing our tender, yellow bellies to the vultures... 

or

2. We can get up, brush it off, and walk away with dignity.

A victim is not someone who lets shitty things happen to them, for control is just an illusion... a real victim is someone who allows that negativity to consume them. Now, looking back, I believe I got it half right. I mean, you do try to steer clear of obvious dangers, but in actuality, sometimes you just can't avoid these situations. Well, unless you're superman or some other freak of nature... but I seriously doubt that any of us earthdwellers could accurately determine whether something will be benign or malicious. So why pretend you can?

Maybe it's because we tend mull over the negatives when we're down, but it seems the latter is the road less traveled. I believe this is the true effect my dad was striving for when he shared his words of wisdom. You choose how to respond: you either fall to the ground or stay upright. Of course, it's much easier to say than do, but I have confidence that everyone has enough inner strength to make this decision for themselves. Despite how hard it would be or how tempting the other side is, I have faith that everyone can lean towards the light or at least not fall flat on their face. There's a myriad paths out there to take, but only a few will benefit you. Perhaps I'm getting a little too abstract. Well, in simpler words, take a number 2, cough, i mean pick option number 2. Number 1 just leaves you wallowing in your muck, until you're stuck, and shit out of luck. (+1 for rhyming?)

Each one of us is a ticking timebomb, for at any moment, we can disappear from this world. I can show you fear in a handful of sand. You make what you can out of your life and hope that it's good enough for you, God, or whatever you believe will judge it. So how much time would you want to waste at your own pity party? 

In the end, it all boils down to this:

You can fall all you want, but it's up to you to decide whether or not you are a victim.