All human life has inherent value from inside of the womb to a life full of years and near to death. Eugenics is murder.

Murder as a noun is defined as "the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another." It's taking a life. Is it morally right for one to take a life because of the potential suffering they might go through in this life?

By that logic, no one should be having kids, even if they are healthy. What if their parents die while their child is young? If they had been aborted, they wouldn't have had to suffer through that. You can't prevent everything. I've heard stories of doctors pressuring women to abort their babies because of some alleged defect, sometimes it's proven, and that child ends up born perfectly healthy. Allegedly Planned Parenthood makes good money selling baby organs... that's some questionable motives.

Is the point of life to avoid suffering at all cost? It's not even possible. The most comfortable person in the world is still uncomfortable about something. Always searching for comfort in this world. I'm comfortable in my sweater until I start feeling really hot and sweaty and then I might take it off and get cold again and have to put it back on again to get comfortable again.

If it's okay to murder the disabled in the womb, why don't we just do it to those already born? Why not kill everyone who is deaf or blind or crippled? Why not kill the elderly who are old and dying and wasting oxygen? I think there is a difference between pulling the plug on someone who is, other than life support, dead, and pulling it when they're still obviously alive.

Maybe it's because we know humans have inherent value even when they have defects and disabilities and are old in age?

I entered a challenge:

You don't understand...

Write about something that you don't understand or that others may never understand about you or just in general that you want to explain; this is your chance to show what you believe, explain something important to you, or explain who you really are... move me :). Nonfiction (preferable) or fiction, poetry or prose.

That was December 9th, 2019.

I didn't know what to title it so I called it "The Life". I remember I wrote it one night before I had even made an account here while I was thinking of friends who are spiritually lost, which means that they have not repented and put their faith in Jesus Christ. Every single person out there has had something happen to them that has left them emotionally hurting. Some acknowledge it and some don't. Faith in Jesus doesn't promise that it'll all get taken away in a day, though God could do that, but it does help with the biggest problem we all face: where are we going when we die?

I think at first I thought you could only make posts in response to challenges, so there is that.

This here,   aint no mystery

Life... more or less filled with misery

Babies even cry upon they delivery

Dear God, I pray you deliver me

Not from sins nor from evil but save me from my memory

Please remember me,

Even though I never spent a single moment in your reverie

As I'm judged for eternity,

Please consider me

As if I'm even worthy,

Of every opportunity

Deserving to be

In your heavenly scenery

BRIEFLY, I WAS UNDER THE SPELL OF SORCERY

I was a victim of some treachery

I know I gave in to desires that's earthly

I was only hurting me..

Didn't even have the courtesy

Wanted more for me,

At times I took it forcefully

Ashamed to admit I made gains from another man's mortality

Most Importantly,

now having me some form of clarity

Which comes as a rarity,

your generosity, blessed me with this charity

Regretfully, remorseful for deeds Ive done wrongfully

No longer is there a cold hearted me,

So wholeheartedly

Something new for me,

this is my uncharted sea

I would sail endlessly

until you've undoubtedly pardoned me.

Presently,  I rather things go pleasantly

Please accept my truest apology

i adore you so much

i try to fit you into every

piece of art i see

ill carve out pieces of your skin

and tie ribbons out of your bones

so that i can mold you

into the perfect sculpture of

who i want you to be

I slither out the sheets,

Put my tentacles in sheaths,

Begin a day that's mired in shit,

The brown must not let me seeth,

Get upset, and you're a cheat,

drown my sorrow in some cheese,

Find the saltiness and sheen,

Hope I will not impart a scheet

It will be like Creek of Shitt's,

Else i blame on gloam of Scheat,

Or escape and leave my seat.

There’s space for rent inside my heart. The plus side is there’s not much in there. Not many tenants, but they’re here to stay—don’t have the heart to evict them. Yes, I know some of them have moved out. Doesn’t matter. I’ll hang on to their stuff for them for as long as they want.

Most of this empty space I’ll admit I’ve been afraid to lease, worried I’ll find the wrong person to fill some rooms. But all this empty space makes me feel a little lonely. That’s gotten worse with time. Don’t get me wrong, I love my current tenants. They live rent free—the space they occupy I make sure stays theirs.

I’ve gotten better at putting out my “For Rent” signs. Most of my applicants are boring though. Nice enough, I’m sure, just…not for me. I’m picky, I guess. Then again, one has to be selective when renting out space in the heart.

“For Rent.” What an odd concept, considering I give the space away for free. Maybe I should change my signs. But I don’t want anyone getting any ideas and taking advantage of me. I’ve got plenty of room. No hurry to change that.

I was and always will be a rockhead first, but I was raised with country music too. Here are a few artists/songs that I love:

Dwight Yoakam - "Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose (https://youtu.be/Bmun9iNJ_Lg)."

Not so long ago, my Dad played this rockin' tune for my fellow teenage friends on a Boy Scout camping trip, and he turned all of us into fans.

Hank III - "Smoke & Wine (https://youtu.be/1ZyL0TWFeLE)."

His voice sounds like his grandfather, but his music is like punk rock with twang. One of the few country artists whose albums have Parental Advisory stickers too :-)

Gary Allan - "Yesterday's Rain (https://youtu.be/AC5Dlzz44qM)."

His music has helped me through past heartache, including this song.

Aaron Lewis - "Tangled Up (https://youtu.be/HmSTjofvXwM)."

I never expected the lead singer of Staind to be decent at country music, but he is :-)

Johnny Cash - "I Still Miss Someone (https://youtu.be/0GM-1N8TfHE)."

You can't go wrong with Johnny Cash :-)

Freed now from the land of the dark enslaved words I had written. The night had begun as I wandered my path without a sense of where to go. The words against my back scrambling to follow, to engage my tired self. No, I turned around and addressed them, be gone with your cursed ways. I can no longer write you into my prose. My eyes now staring at them with a heated defense of this need to be free. To no longer ache from despair from their meaning. Send them to heaven I thought, as a few came closer. Their curves of desire reaching out to touch mine. To speak through me as no others can. The longing to return the pen to its owner rose within each words feeble attempt to engage me.

No I screamed, give me peace. Bury yourselves, quiet your urge to be known. Find an oasis of ink to lounge within or I will.

It was then I knew my destination. A far off corner of the world with a big black pool. Sultry in name, Portina. There…exists a place for extraction of new words, new meanings. A berth the freed can reach their hands into and touch. Touch is a word with a new meaning. Unknown until now. Procured by immersion. Portina exists in the same way everything does when you notice the light. As I enter I’m reminded about a poem I wrote.

A crushed lemon in the form of a seed.

Planted I grew into a stalk of wheat.

To touch the air this way to meet.

A gentle form thus now complete.

In time to stand between broad light.

I bend and feel the earth.

A grasp that’s firm and true I try.

In steadfast waves of mirth am I.

In time I too may bend and break.

Becoming something new.

The time of day into the night.

Yet, still my aim stays true.

So when the sleeve of wheat is changed.

Into another worth.

Then say another part is born.

Upon this gentle earth.

(I suppose this was written because sometimes writers want to disengage from the known aspects of words. Maybe the current ones are so heavy and it’s long past the need to express them. Escaping words that cling to an existence they themselves are clinging to is a two pronged endeavor, of course. This writing is about retrieving new words, but it’s really also about the hard work of being able to.

Mostly I’d like my prose to create thoughts that are for the individual reading them a sort of inspiration, something personal to themselves.)

you wouldn't expect to find Igor Stravinsky roaming the streets of Copenhagen. But it was unmistakable. He stands out in the croud, like a green flavored giraffe. Perhaps it was an alternate reality. (Perhaps?!) There was a giant sandworm devouring one of the busses , don't ask me to pronounce the name of the street. (All names were in Cantonese but written in gothic).

I let shai hulud slither by, singing to myself the old nursery song, you know...'the wheels on the bus go tesseract tesseract tesseract..' The bus was quantum-entangled with it's rout, so it rematerialized, mostly unscathed on the next stop, with just a few teeth stuck on the roof. It reminded me of the paperback i was reading in the airport, Re-omletting for beginners. A very detailed textbook about how to unmake an egg, and then make it again. Fascinating read, if only the last three chapers were torn by some miscreant.

Sravinsky was not aware of sandworm's passage. i dont know what goes on in that guy's mind. Is it conflicting bitonality? Polyrythems from the Russisn heartlands? Cognizant marionetts? Well if he can't be bothered to notice the great maker (blessed be it), then he won't notice me and my sticky fingers. Or so i thought.

I walked past a pack of amorous velociraptors, their communal affection to each other touching in a way, but I could not spend time on that, unfortunately. This is a one-shot deal.

He walked on, buying a hot cup of broxy stew from a kyosk. Is he not afraid of the many diseases that could inflict him?

The thought sickened me. I drew closer, smelling the ghastly stew. I came closer still and reached my hand inside his pocket. But Igor Stravinsky is not someone to pickpocket! Growing up in Tsarist Russia teaches you a thing or two about street urchins. He scalded me with the stew, which burned more by the sense of failure it represented, than the actual temprature which was remarkably low for a fatty stew. i guess in Copenhagen, people drink borxy stew cold on Thursdays.

'You total failure!!' Mocked me the surrealist in contempt.

I was still recovering from the shock of the cold broth.

'You will never amount to anything!! You can't even pick my pocket right, can you?'

'But maestro, i just need to know...i must know...what does a great man like you hold in his pockets!' I protested.

'What i hold in my pocket is non of your business. NONE. Now, go harass someone else, i belive i saw Elgar walking a while back. '

'I don't give a damn about Elgar and his Pomp and Circumstance, really tell me all i need to know about his pockets. No! No No No No! It has to be you' i demanded, trying to clean my hand with a wet wipe.

'Please maestro! Surly you can understand the need. Haven't you ever burned to know the contents of someone else's pockets?!'

'Don't call me Shirley. My name is igor. And yes, i have once burned with the passion of curiosity. I remember an oboe player once, who had something in his pocket, but..but it is immetirial! What would this world be if we just delve into other people's pockets to satisfy our curiosity?!'

'It is not a bad thing to be curious...i'll tell you what. Maybe you are a tad curious to see what is inside my pockets?'

'Not in the least'

'Not even a bit?'

'No. You are not interesting enough. '

'What if i told you that i have a pitch for the disney company. for the third fantasia film. '

'That doesnt interest anyone. Both films were flops. '

'Both filns used your scores'

'So? Is it my fault they did things so badly. They cut off entire parts of the firebird...for what? At least the didnt touch

my Patrushka i despise Disney! But just so i know, what was your pitch? '

'Got you interested?'

'da...i mean yes..just for the fun of it...'

'Ok...i was going to suggest a scene with a treasure hunt. Guys running around with a map...you know X marks the spot...they dig it up and find the skeleton of mickey mouse. '

'Intetesting...what would be the music set for that?'

'The 1812 overture?'

'Ha! Too obvious. '

'Ok...how about the Bachianas Brasileiras?'

'Vila lobos?...hmm.....which one...'

'Maybe the aria...'

'Too depressing...how about the Appalachian Trail. '

'Copland? I tbought you hated his work.'

'Oh..i do...i do...which is why its perfect for Disney!'

'Ok. Ok. Appalachian Trail it is...now, could you show me what's inside your pockets?'

'Fine. Here...' And with that, Igor Stravinsky emptied his pockets. The contents were:

A jaw-harp,

A box of crayons,

A third edition paperback edition of re-omletting for beginners,

Three apricots,

A telescopic baton,

The keys to a Mazda Lantis.

32 Krönner,

A small bottle of disinfectant.

We parted ways amicably, me to post my discovery, and he, no doubt to read his copy of the book.