All My Life's a Circle...

...sunrise and sundown. ~Harry Chapin.
I (although I could be doing more productive things like the homework I've been freaking out about all day, or, even better, sleeping) have been reading the archives. And I have come to the conclusion that my life pretty much runs in a circular pattern. It starts off with hope and happiness, goes to despair, stress, and a ton of homework, even more despair and stress, mostly brought on by my bad time mangagement (see first sentance), then things start looking up, hope returns and happiness ensues, until another crushing blow falls upon me. It is a viscious cycle, and no wonder I've gotten so cynical, pessimistic and escapist. And- since I'm a good little Anthropology and Sociology student- I know this isn't my fault, it's the result of the the horrible American culture creating an environment that is influencing me. Seriously- all those classes consist of is the implied understanding that white American culture is of no value, that no other culture in the world is capable of doing anything wrong, and that, quite possibly, nobody has a right to say anything is "right" or "wrong." Bah. A pox on college, and on American culture, which encourages people to attend it. And now to bed, where I should have been 2 hours ago.

There's some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't help. ~Calvin, of Calvin and Hobbes

The fury of the blizzard had ebbed, leaving a deep coating of dusty snow to muffle a world frozen to the negative 4 degree. She pulled her coat on over her pajamas, stuffed her feet into a pair of shoes and slipped out of the dark basement. Few things are more beautiful than a winter sky. The air is dry and clear-- all the water has frozen and fallen, and the stars are at their most reachable. Orion was the only recognizable constellation; a waxing moon and the nearby city blocked out lesser stars. The snow crunched as she angled for a better view. She thought about perfection, and how man had so completely ruined God's perfect world. Even now, in all the beauty of the black sky and the white snow, moon and stars, lay man's smudging, marring fingerprints. The city light blocked out the stars, and it's toxins lay in the glittering dust. Breaking the silence of the snow was the hum of the highway and the crunch of a snowplow across the woods. Woods (don't think about it) that had (it hurts, but I can't help it) more or less been doomed to be sacrificed on the altar of urban sprawl and human greed. It was, and is, a thought that panicked her. Her childhood, the precious memories that made life livable, chopped down, buldozed, and replaced with the proposed 20-house development where people would make memories of their own, never realizing that they had destroyed hers. The fragrant patch of wild lilly-of-the-valleys, the various forts she had built with the friends she no longer knew, the place she had buried her pets, and fled to when all seemed wrong with the world. She remembered how it had felt when another woods, equally precious, had been destroyed, and a few tears flowed down her face for the old pain of the little girl was, and the present fear that little girl had never anticipated.
To some people, change is a friend, but to her it was always an enemy, forcing her forward when all she wanted was to stay where she was, then retreating for awhile and lulling her into a false security, before whipping her world around again. It even had the gall to change her. This was why--although by most people's standards she was young--she felt old, defeated, and helpless, unsure of where she was going, what she was doing as she tore herself away from the world of snow and stars, and headed back into the house.
"Help me, Lord. Please... just help me."