I struggle with people who lack motivation. Motivation to
live
thrive
excite
adjust
express
be passionate.
I struggle with the fact that I will forever be unable to spark their motivation.

Regardless of how motivated I may be, the people who lack motivation will forever be without it.

This makes me sad all day.

Blogging Poser

The last time I posted on this blog was 3 years ago as a junior in high school. I am now a sophomore in college, and after reading my little brother's blog, I caught the itch to tap my fingertips against the keyboard and make all my useless thoughts public.

I have a lot to say, and I think a lot of the things that take place in my life would make for great reading, but typing it all up is where I tend to struggle. I don't like to write unless it sounds as perfect on the screen as it does locked up in my head. I don't like to revise. I don't like 2nd and 3rd drafts, and I don't like my inability to constantly be profound.

I do like the thought of people reading what I have to say, though. I like writing what I know needs to be said, and I like not turning on my censor. Almost more than anything, I like the thought of being hunched over this laptop keyboard, keys clicking into place, while the blue glow of the screen illuminates the words behind my eyes as they fight to get out.

If nothing else, maybe this blog will do something for my image.

11th grade

I am in second period right now.
I am a junior this year.
It is weird.

behind closed eyes, mouth, mind

plans are slipping out from under me

everyone can sit back , i wait

i worry

i fidget

i fuss

i am driven to the point of hysterics

but things work out

to the most they can be expected to, atleast

and i am in the wrong

chill

hang

let it be

i am incapable of these things

now

fast

on time

organized

these are the words i am familiar with

leave it to me

i'll make this work before you can question my intentions

and you'll be satisfied

after all, i am a people pleaser

smile

laugh

relax

you, my friends, you don't worry

i will

huff

vent

cry

fume

but only when you are out of sight

out of mind? no, not really

my mind is never empty, you see

it finds things to fill itself with

do i have control?

no, i gave up that power long ago

my mind has got me racing

pondering

sulking

wishing

maybe i won't have to lift a finger

maybe the overall effort will come from another heart

mind

body

soul

let mine just be at ease

maybe?

no

not now

not tomorrow

i don't think it'll ever be

so get up

dial the number

send the message

make the plan

it'll work

i've got it under control

wait, no control

i gave that up to the mind, remember?

no, i don't remember

i was too busy finding my friends

those people who care about...

my well being, maybe?

i wonder how often they

wonder

pray

wish

ask

guess

about me?

Rain

I've always liked the rain. I find it to be deep. Kind of like the puddles it creates.

Rain has always seemed more real to me than the sun has. Rain is dark. It is loud, and with it comes lightning. Lightning can illuminate the whole sky. It can show you what is really there. And thunder...well, thunder can just be scary, or exciting. It depends on how you choose to take it. Rain seems more to me like real life. The sun brings happiness. It is bright and glowing and though it can make you sweat, it tends to cause smiles as well. While this is what we all wish for, it isn't what we always get from life.

But rain...rain gives you all of it. The good and the bad. Its drops can cleanse you and relieve you from whatever you are holding in; if only for a moment. You can stand in the rain and suddenly feel alright. Even if you aren't happy, the rain provides a sort of comfort. The comfort of knowing that life doesn't have to be sunny and bright for you to be okay. I think that is why I like it best.

Smiling through the tears

I visited the tower today. It was about five in the evening when I left Ryan's house and intended to head home. I went to the trail instead. I parked my car in front of the Nye's house, and I started to walk. I haven't walked down the trail since October 15th, 2007. That day when the camera crews filmed all of us under the tower. I think back, and I honestly don't know if the reality of Scott's death had hit any of us by then, a mere three days after he fell. Of course we all stood huddled together, arm in arm, tear stained cheeks, staring blankly into the camera lense or swallowing back our sobs as we turned our faces to the ground, but it hadn't settled in yet. The real pain hadn't hit me, atleast. But as I walked down the trail today, the pain had been settling for ten months. Though the frequency of the pain had eased up a bit, the sharpness of it could still cut like a knife. I looked out over the shingled roofs and rolling hills and moving cars of Kaysville city, and I wondered aloud "Was this the last thing he saw?" When I looked behind me and could no longer see the Subaru parked on the Nye's curb I began counting the electrical towers. One, two, was it the third? No, no. It's the last one. It was really hot and I was sweating through my tie dye. The dust began to rise and stick to my legs as I drew closer to the tower. I was walking pretty fast. As I used to tell Scott, I was "walking with a purpose." I kicked a loose rock from my path and waved away a moth, and there it was: Scott's tower. It was different than I had remembered. I didn't feel quite so small as I had the first time I had visited it. I ran my fingers over the bottom rails of the tower and the memories began to flood back. They had never left me, of course. They flooded back to me everyday, but as I stood under his tower, they came back strong. I could see my friends; all in tie dye, heads hung low, eyes searching for a way out of our nightmare. I could see myself; one hand holding onto the tower and one covering my mouth as I muffled my sobs. I circled the tower and began to read the messages that bordered the rusted beams. "We miss you, Scott." "I miss you, man." "You're always in my heart." All of these were familiar. "Long live Scott Nye. He was our Sunshine." I knew the last one to be Payden's message. Even though Payden had messed up the spelling of Sunshine I still liked the words that he had written, and I often found these words floating around in my head. I continued pacing around the inside and outside of the tower, and then I read a message I had not seen ten months prior. "Scott-I love you so much! Love, Mom." Up until this point of the visit, I had held back my tears with little effort, but when those words met my eyes, the tears began to flow. I just thought of Mama Nye and her smiling face; then the image of her that I wish I never would've seen. The image of her at the cemetary when we all began to say farewell to Scott. She stood wrapped in the arms of Papa Nye as Brandt, Bronson, and Seth stood at their side. She looked longingly at the casket. Almost as if she wanted to hold on to it, but at the same time hide herself from it. She stood crying for her son, and Papa Nye hugged her. I could tell that he was trying to hug all of the pain away. He was trying his best to make it all better for his wife, for his family. Oh, how I wanted it to be better for them. And as I read the message on the tower over and over again, I realized how much Papa Nye was still trying to make it better, and I realized how much Mama Nye still cried when she thought of Scott. I looked up from my memory and my eyes began to follow the power line that hung between the electrical towers. I wanted to know why Scott had climbed it. I wanted to know why God couldn't have just stopped him. I wanted to know if something could've saved him. I wanted answers. The questions had been piling up in my mind since October 12th, and I wanted to know: Why did it happen? And if it had to happen, why to my friend? Why to Scott Nye?

My time at the tower was brief, and within a half hour of arriving I was almost back to my car. The damp and sticky drying tears still clung to my cheeks as I shimmied my way past the "Authorized Vehicles Only" sign marking the beginning of the trail. The sensation of drying tears was one I had become accustomed to the week after Scott fell. However, I don't think my tears ever completely dried that week. As a group we could hold our composure pretty well, but once the slightest action, word, or thought hit one of us, within ten minutes all of our eyes would be brimming with fresh tears. By the end of that week we weren't afraid to cry. I rolled down the windows of the Subaru and waved good-bye to the Nye home as a U turned away and started down East Oaks Drive.

Whenever I would drive away from Fruit Heights I always caught myself imagining Scott sitting in the passenger seat. He would be flipping through songs on his Ipod and occasionally begin mocking my driving skills. I would just smile at his sarcasm and keep my eyes on the road. "Are you driving with a "purpose", Lizzy?" he would ask in a pompous voice. I would reply with a goofy insult and his puckish laughter would fill my car and be swept out of the open windows. If I became caught up enough in my daydream I could glance over and see a flash of red curls. Today I did see the flash of red. That was enough to keep me smiling the whole way home; even though tears still blurred my vision.

Teacher Face

As most of you know by now, Mr. Thompson (yes, the huge bald one) is my father. Everyday I go home after school and I see my english teacher typing up a blog in my computer room or getting ready for baseball practice with my little brother. Is it weird? No, suprisingly not. But since he so graciously made me the topic of his latest blog, I feel I should do the same for him. As the end of the year comes to a close, I feel you should all know a little bit about the real Mr. Thompson. The one who plays my dad.

Teacher Face. Does this need to be explained? Ok, then allow me to explain. The minute my dad walks into Fairfield, he puts on his teacher face. His dirty humor (which he has plenty of), his personal problems, and his relation to me all disappears behind his teacher face. He is no longer just my dad, he is Mr. Thompson. Sophisticated, intelligent, and all knowing. So, now that you know what Teacher Face is, let me tell you about the real MRT. Michael Robert Thompson. The man I have had to deal with everyday of my life.

My dad is intelligent. And yeah he is sophisticated, but don't let him fool you. I don't know about your parents, but my dad, who I love so much, has been known to let a few swear words fly from his "sophisticated, english teacher" mouth. Since he took the time to talk about my little swearing (abbreviated of course) I thought I would touch on his little habits. He is not a foul mouthed beast by any means, but he does swear. And it is funny. I don't care what you say and i don't care if curse words offend you, when my dad swears, it is the FUHING funniest thing. Whether it is out of pure frusteration or just a dirty joke, Mr. Thompson swearing will make you laugh. Too bad you guys will probaby never hear him let one slip. He is smart in the area of disgression and he knows when it is appropriate, and he knows that it is NOT at school. So, my dad should know where I get my abbreviated swearing habits from, I get them from him!

As for my so called "attitude", that is definately a Thompson trait I would say. He claims to be oblivious to his own attitude, but I'm sure if you asked anyone who knows my dad and I, they would say we are exactly the same in our sense of humor and personality. We laugh at dumb stuff and we laugh at stuff that would be considered vulgar. We are Thompsons, simple as that. Some of my ninth grade teachers have even told me that I am just like my father. Most of the time they say it when I am driving them NUTS! But that's just how I roll. And it's his fault I am burdened with such a strong willed and I guess what you could call "in your face" attitude. He is exactly the same way. You are all just fooled by Teacher Face. You think you know Mr. Thompson, but you have no idea. I hope that this blog has opened your eyes a bit. It's not as in depth as his was about me, but I am doing this blog at 11pm the night before it's due, cut me some slack. I guess I just didn't inherit my dad's strong work ethics. Oh well!! He can deal with it!

I love you DAD!!

Precious Ain't IT!!?!~

Poems

The Way to Cheer on your Team

The way to cheer on your team is this—
Go to the game prepared to scream.
Be very prepared to lose your voice and be prepared
to have lots of opposing team supporters stare at you.
The proper way to scream is this—
Never attempt to premeditate what you are going to scream
until you are perfectly poised in your perfect spot and the
game has officially begun.
Let the lyrics of your screaming song find their own
way out of your mouth.
Feel the scream build within your gut and let it
willingly free itself into the air and ears of all who surround you.
Your only responsibility over your scream is
to make sure it is heard by everyone.
Opposing team and all.

But don’t always think your shouts and loud support
will go unpunished.
Your opposing team may fire back with their own jests
and rigorous attempt to intimidate and persuade
the referee.
If this happens, do not fear.
Continue to let your gurgling screams erupt from your lungs.
And if necessary, allow the volume of your voice to rise
while strategically aiming it towards the obnoxious opposing team.
The key is to never back down.
Your shouts and screams are meant to be heard.

Your team needs to be cheered for.