I've been thinking about ambivalence a lot lately. And I’m still not sure what to think about it.
Because it’s basically inner conflict towards someone or something, but then, what does that mean?
It means you feel positively and negatively about someone or something, you want to react positively and negatively towards something or someone.
Usually, there’s an or between positive and negative. Ambivalence, I suppose, causes misinterpreted balance, by replacing the or with an and.
And it’s misinterpreted due to ambivalence being connotated as torn or uncertain. But, I think ambivalence is a good thing: it shows more than one approach to something, more than just one point of view offered from one person; an open mind, I suppose.
I think of ambivalence in the context of an ambivert. An ambivert is an introvert and extrovert in one body, one person that is both outgoing and reserved at the same time. To be an ambivert is to be special, unique, even revered. And I think that’s how ambivalent thinking ought to be seen: not as something negative, not torn thinking. Something positive.
Balanced thinking
:;,

She was the ocean
She swelled and broke, and when she swelled, she was grinning ear to ear, and twirling around, and laughing and singing, and when she broke, she was sobbing, wailing, curled into a ball so tightly that it seemed she’d never move from there again
She tugged me forward and pushed me back, and when she tugged me forward it was happily, into tights hugs, into small pecks on my cheek or mouth, to twirl around with me in a small waltz, and when she pushed me back, she was sobbing, her past was too much, the pain was too much, and she kept pushing to make sure I stayed far away enough
She was deeper than the ocean. Her thoughts went deeper than the deepest part of the ocean, deeper than I had ever known. She thought things deeper than I had ever begun to think about, she thought about life, death, love, nature, beauty, and things I would never think about
She expanded my horizon, like the ocean. In the city, when you looked at the sunset, the buildings all blocked out the beautiful sunset, and the entire horizon. But, at the ocean, you saw the entire horizon, and you saw the sun disappear behind the earth, and it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
She is the ocean
:;,

To understand your enemy, you must think like your enemy.
But one must be careful that, when fighting monsters, to not become the monster one is fighting.
And, so, this poses a question.
From each perspective, the other is the enemy.
But who is the monster?
For the other must be careful to not become them.
Or are they both monsters?
:;,

Sit down, and be still.
Sit straight against the wall, your back pressed against it.
Close your eyes, empty your mind. If you can't before the next step, go to a room without windows and turn off all lights.
Take a deep breath in your nose, as much air as you can take, and then exhale it as slowly as you can through your mouth.
Feel, exist, be. Let your mind wander as far as it will, while your body remains still.
Simply be. Don't be mad, sad, happy, tired, awake, don't be anything.
Just be.
Just be.
:;,

I just find it so funny
Bravery and stupidity are so synonymous, but I don’t think they should be
Bravery is supposed to be noble. Knights are brave, cowboys are brave, heroes are brave.
Stupidity is supposed to be…well…stupid. People who cut off 18 wheelers on the highway are stupid, that guy who jumps off a second story roof into a pool (me) is stupid, jesters are stupid.
But can't you switch them?
Knights can be stupid for charging a dragon. Cowboys are stupid for shooting in a street, not to mention the slower cowboy is definitely stupid, heroes can be stupid (Percy Jackson).
People who cut off 18 wheelers can be brave, would you do it, with those butterflies of fear in your stomach? Isn’t that guy pretty brave for jumping two whole stories into a pool, when no one else would (I think he is)? Jesters can be brave.
So, are they synonymous?
And, if you think they are
Should they be?
:;,

Some people are artists
Some people are art.
Others have the miraculous blessing to be both
Others are cursed to be neither
:;,

I am now a murderer.
There I sit, in my big, blood stained tank top and a pair of gym shorts, red dots cover the expanse of them.
There sits Leo Wilde, his huge mane is dotted and sprayed with red, his huge maw is covered and nearly dripping with blood, his well kept suit is also covered in blood, his white shirt stained pinkish, and his Gryffindor tie with its amazing windsor knot, too, has specks of red on it, his shoeless paws are matted with redness.
There lies Ash Lee, a previously unformed, vague shape of a humanoid, his mouth was unformed, his thoughts were primordial, and we wondered what he would become. I now know. He was destined to become a corpse of my mind, for I killed him when I realized that I should just stick with Leo.
There we are, Ash’s body lying nearly comically spread eagle on the floor, his blood pooling all around him, me and Leo staring at it, terrifyingly awestruck at we have done. It wasn't intended, meant to never happen, because Ash Lee, as it were, was never supposed to be born, he was supposed to just remain in my notes as a possibility to never be sought out. I forced him into creation, and then I forced him into
I can't say it.
Ash Lee will no longer rise promptly at 6:15 AM.
10/5/16
:;,

In the beautiful words of John Marcus:
“Sometimes words are a little too hard to catch. They flit and flutter all over the place almost impossible to catch, taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.”
And the last part caught my attention, upon reading it. “…taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.” Cause I've written a novel, and currently I'm writing its sequel, and I essentially created a whole world. A whole global history, a whole global culture, a whole everything on a global scale. George Lucas, that literal genius, created a whole galaxy, far, far away, along with Martin Goodman creating a whole universe, Gene Roddenberry created a whole world on the USS Enterprise, JK Rowling created the Wizarding World, Angie Sage created one of my favorite worlds, the world of a seventh son of a seventh son with a name with seven in it.
Writers, in their own genius creativity, write worlds into existence, cover to cover, create them and steer them in a beautiful direction: forward.
And then I remembered. God created man and women in his image, and God literally spoke creation into existence, and the Bible recorded the event into literary immortality. So if God spoke (literally) everything into existence, and we fall short of His Glory eternally, then couldn’t we create worlds? Not, like, literal, physical worlds, but maybe a literary world, like authors do?
A world you could get just as lost in?
And words, words, the beautiful creation of the written form, constantly taunt and tease me, they challenge me, they call out to me to keep creating and writing worlds into existence. But we don’t need to write worlds into existence to make our words amazing: even I myself have written small phrases, not just worlds, but sometimes even the smallest things have the biggest impacts. (IE, my toddlers.)
(John Marcus has a beautiful mind, seriously, it repeatedly blows mine away. Keep doin your thing, dude.)
:;,

The thing about life is I don’t think there’s just one overlaying statement for all of humanity
We ask “Why?” but I don’t think we realize that, truly, out of nearly 7.4 billion people, there cannot possibly be an answer as to why we all exist. There cannot be one simple statement to define the reason as to why every single person of this race, our race, exists, because everyone has a different reason for it.
Or maybe that’s the answer
Maybe the answer to “Why?” is “Because there are 7.4 billion different reasons.”
Maybe it’s just that everyone has their own answer to why.
I remember I used to think that the reason we all existed was because the only other option was to not exist. But I think it’s not that simple, modern humans aren’t so primitive and instinctual anymore, our sixth sense has been forgotten somewhere, dormant in our genes, our very DNA.
The most modern **** species, **** sapien sapien, is a far more mentally evolved being from the first **** species. And because of that, our reasoning for living has evolved with us. There are, indeed, 7.4 billion answers to “Why?”, but I think that’s the overall answer for our species.
“Why?” “There are 7.4 billion reasons. Mine is __.”
Nonetheless, life is a beautiful thing. Find your reason.
And, maybe, just maybe, make it something a little more than existing just because the only other option is not existing.
:;,

It’s funny
How all I see is the negative
And all you see is the positive
But we’re both looking at the same person.
:;,

I fall more and more in love with her with each passing day.
No...no.
I fall in love with her again and again, with each new day.
Everyday is a new world, and in each world, I fall in love with her.
:;,

Writers
Writers write (duh)
There is verbal form of any language and a physical form of any language, and writing is the physical form of any given language.
And in some ways, writing is extremely beneficial to society. It expands vocabulary and ability to process things, it makes a better form of passing on things and keeping things as permanent as possible.
But, sometimes, writing is horrible, and even language in and of itself can horrible at times.
When one loves another, words, eventually, don't suffice to describe the overwhelming flood of emotion you have towards the other person.
In this age of technology and talking over it, texting or calling or face-calling, words sometimes do not suffice, those three words said all the time, over and over again.
Sometimes it’s a deep, passionate kiss on the lips. Sometimes a small peck to the tip of one’s nose. Sometimes a slow, gentle kiss to a forehead. Sometimes a small squeeze of the arms when cuddling. Sometimes a nuzzle to a neck or cheek.
To truly be a writer, one must submit to the fact that there can simply be no words. And it’s okay, it’s fine to not have the right words sometimes.
If anything, it can make your writing a little better.
So, go for it. Be wordless. Be in awe and blown away.
Be a ponderer. Because, in the end, that’s what all us writers are.
Ponderers, who attempt to describe their observances.
:;,

There are times that we, as humans, forget that we are existing, we are living, that we are doing more than just converting oxygen into carbon dioxide and water vapor.
And it’s ironic, since we tend to forget this existence while we are existing.
We get so lost in our lives that we forget we are living.
So, exist.
Be.
Just be.
:;,

Rupi Kaur is so entirely correct.
I'm not sure if writing is healing me or destroying me either.
I get to say what I want, what I think.
But from this writing comes those sleepless nights
From this writing comes those silent screams in my brain
From this writing comes a roaring, a deep, deep set roaring
From this writing comes these bags under my eyes
From this writing comes so much of my effort, my brainpower, my time
From this writing comes her
From this writing comes thinking, which is to be alive
From this writing is maturity
From this writing is growth
And I'm not sure if this writing is creating me or destroying me.
:;,
,;:

And I felt your happiness
        And I felt your pain
                And I felt what you felt
        But I didn’t feel your emptiness
And you didn’t either
                                                               :;,

We exist in 3 dimensions, but only move in 2.
We exist backward and forward, left and right, and up and down. Just have another person stand still and check them out.
But, in normal travel, we only go left or right, and forwards or backwards. (If anything, 2.5 dimensions, unless you back your car up in very odd amounts.)
Our cars do not fly yet, so we don't regularly go up and down.
I don't know, I just found that very fascinating. It hit me on the bus, watching another car travel while traveling.
I find a lot of things fascinating.
:;,

There he lay, sleeping gently, sleeping quietly
There he lay, awake, rubbing the sleep out of his little eyes with his little fists, blinded by the low sunrise
There he lay, meeting eyes with me, both of us simply staring at each other
Child, sweet boy, little infant, return to sleep, this world is much too blinding, much too loud, much too *****, for something so pure as you.
Do you even know? That someday, 17 years, you will be sitting where I am, perhaps having these same thoughts towards someone born 17 years after you?
That you could be riding an old yellow piece of scrap metal on wheels at 8 in the morning
The sun blinding you
The music pounding in your ears
The good morning text from your girlfriend?
No, no, little one, go sleep, return to your little infantile dream.
This world is too much for you.
It is too much for me.
The only difference is seventeen years.
Close your sweet little eyes.
Seventeen years.
:;,
10:48
9/28/16

I can see her there, in that field
She’s spread eagle, her beautiful, asymmetrical nose points straight up to the brilliant blue sky,  a few wisps of white in it.
The clovers grow tall, reaching up to tickle the sides of her bare skin, the sides of her neck, her face, her arms, her legs, her cheeks, and a small smile spreads across her face in the feeling.
She’s happy, so indescribably happy, she feels nothing except that happiness fill her entire being, and she takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales slowly through her mouth.
And then her eyes open to a brown man, his eyes closed, and she knows he is in his own field of tall clovers and blue skies.
:;,

She praises my work
I under-articulate my writing
She loves my mind
I hate my brain
She stares into my eyes
I avoid them in the mirror
She runs her hand over my chest
I cross my arms over it
She kisses my lips
I let her
She tells me she loves me
I respond with my self-hatred
She loves my smile
I wish I didn't smile as much
She loves my hands
I am dissatisfied with all they do
She is an optimist by birth, beyond her control.
I am a pessimist by necessity, entirely by choice.
,;:

Time flies.
And yet, I am walking.
:;,

Eyes are the window to the soul.
Can you imagine how it feels to see nothing?
Can you imagine how much it must even be when it’s in the mirror?
:;,

“How do you live?”
“To the fullest.”
:;,

My hands were on her waist
Hers were on my shoulders, gripping oh so gently, making me aware of her and the cold go away
She put her feet on mine, those small things wrapped in black fuzziness
The thought entered my brain, and I felt as light as air
I started twirling, making sure I had a firm grip on her so she wouldn’t fall
I smile spread across my face, heart soaring, stomach erupting into small flutters
An orchestra in my head played its slow tune, and I followed it
She laughed, said no, stuck her hand out to the side, mine followed hers and they intertwined
She grinned at me
Oh, I loved her there, I loved her so
I started twirling again, humming that little tune
My heart was fluttering, I was warm, warm with her love and her embrace
Hmmm hm hmmm hm hmmm hm hmm, *** da *** *** ***
Her head rested on my shoulder, nuzzling
“We need to do this at our wedding.”
Wedding? Our wedding? How perfect it sounds
“Take your heels off first.”
Yes, yes, our wedding.
She laughed, I smiled, and I loved her
:;,

To understand your enemy, you must think like your enemy.
But one must be careful that, when fighting monsters, to not become the monster one is fighting.
And, so, this poses a question.
From each perspective, the other is the enemy.
But who is the monster?
For the other must be careful to not become them.
Or are they both monsters?
:;,

I don’t think my parents have ever understood me
And as it is, you may already misunderstand: this isn’t emo, or angsty or anything like that
I just think my parents don’t really get why I do the things that I do. They don’t understand my point of view or my way of looking at life or my approach of life.
My dad is always business-y and task minded: make a list, check it off. He goes with the flow, but within that list. And if my dad were the sun, my mother would be the moon, as she’s a perfect, but less bright reflection of him. She just kinda says what he says, holds his point of view as her own, and basically just absorbs his words and spews them back at him.
I’m my own person, and that’s why, I believe, my dad is disappointed in me. I'm not the type of man he is, not even really a man at all, but nonetheless. I'm not who he wanted me to be, but I am my own person, and I'm proud of me, I guess.
I'm not even who I wanted to be. I remember being a little kid, and my vision for myself was a lot different than how I turned out.
But I think I turned out better than those fantastical visions.
Yeah. Just maybe.
:;,

I stared at you in only small amounts, when you wouldn’t notice me.
I stared at you when you looked at her, laughed with her, and overall just didn't especially notice me, or my existence.
I stared at you when you were looking at anything else, and saw your change in emotion each time you looked at something different. Eyebrows rose and fell, cheeks changed in the shadows of your face when it tilted, eyes lit up and died down, the corners of your lips rose and fell so exquisitely I could feel my breath being stolen from my lungs, and when the tears rolled down from your eyes in a relentless tirade to the ground, I found myself awestruck at the woman who could laugh and sob in such a lovely way.
I stare at you for as long as I want, and when you notice me staring, you do one of four things.
Your eyebrows rise or contract in question
You smile at me so sweetly that I can hardly believe you’re smiling at me
You nuzzle your nose into my cheek, your eyes closed, which mine quickly follow
Your face lifts itself to mine, tilting slightly, and our lips meet in such a way that my mind is silent for that eternal second
I stare at you,  and I notice you even more, and you notice me even more.
I stare at you in large amounts, when you usually tend to notice me.
But neither of us really care when you catch me.
:;,

I belong in the water
I wander the cosmos
But I am chained to the earth
-An aerophilous terrestrial prisoner.
:;,

As I saw the blood leave my body
It reminded me of you.
You slowly ****** the life out of me too.
::,

The world is not divided between good and evil
The world is full of good people who do bad things and bad people who do good things
The officer who sells drugs and murders people under the power of his badge
The criminal who has a family of four back home and does his hardest to provide for his wife and children
But the world isn't divided between power and those too weak to seek it.
There are those who seek power who shouldn’t be in power
And there are those who should be in power but wouldn't seek it
So what does divide the world?
I'm not sure either…
What if there is no division?
What if it’s just blending?
I swear, those Taoists were up to something with that yin and yang symbol, the taijitu…
:;,

We are not curious about what lies in the light
For it is clearly seen.
We are curious about what lurks in the darkness
For it is unknown.
:;,

I don't really believe in the concept and ideas of soul mates anymore.
I suppose I'm not entirely sure when I stopped believing in it, but I just did at some point or another. I just don't think there are two people made perfectly for each other the instant they meet each other, or beforehand.
No, I think it’s that you’re made to be made for each other.
Humans, as created, were created to be able to rub off on each other. That’s how we adapt to different situations in our lives and all. It’s the same reason that you can become such a different person over years of time, because other people and ideas and such rub off on you.
And that’s where I think soulmates come from.
The two of you don't start out as soulmates, but y’all become soulmates. You're made to be made for each other, since humans rub off on humans. After spending so much time with them, y’all seem, like, perfect together, but at first it can be so awkward, can't it? It was sure was with us, at first.
And now, I’m more comfortable with you than I am with my own self.
I was made to be made for her, and she was made to be made for me.
And now we’re at the stage where we’re made for each other.
She wasn't my other half until she became my other half.
Soulmates.
:;,

Maybe when I'm older, I’ll feel young.
:;,