Soapboxes

Comment's home of rants; weird, wonderful, weekly.

AUDACITY OF TRUST
by Meg McManus

Trust is often portrayed as something naïve, foolish or unwise. True, the act of trusting is a risk, however even when misplaced, complete confidence in someone or something is no cowardly act.

It is one that takes a degree of courage, it is not to be scorned. In modern society, value is frequently placed on traits of less sentiment and more practicality. ‘Trust nobody but yourself’ has become a popular philosophy, and even as someone who disagrees with the idea, I can understand why.

Whilst it is tempting and natural to turn away from the idea of trusting others after betrayal and disappointment, I believe this is the most dangerous thing to do. By trusting others, we open ourselves to human connection; as much as it can bring pain, it equally enables access to support and hope. The bravery in trusting is something to be applauded and taken seriously.

WAR WITHOUT BLOOD
by Bruce Skelton

Who knew answering a simple question could lead to so much anguish? The course long annoyance that follows Politics students everywhere. It could be a brief encounter or an introduction to someone new, you dread the question, ‘what are you studying?’ 

Once you’ve stated that you study Politics there is always an inevitable response. An anger fuelled reply of their (often factually incorrect) ideals and opinions, which are of no significance to you. Do they think I’m interested? Should I inform them of their flaws? No. Instead you awkwardly acknowledge them, adding a subtle sigh of disapproval and hope they don’t think you are being rude. You attempt to push the conversation in a new direction. Somehow, every topic seems to curl straight back to politics. An endless cycle.

And no, I don’t want to be the next Prime minister.

CHASING REALITY
by Jamie Cameron

I spend much of my life in something of a daze, in a place halfway between concentration and sleep that drifts on a wind of fleeting enjoyment and idle pleasure.

I’m never entirely sure if this is all there is supposed to be. Maybe satisfaction is an illusion crafted by our genetic history, that blooming oasis always in the distance, but always close enough in sight that we keep on walking. Dopamine soothes the nerves, and stings equally when it wears off. Serotonin’s there to stay, usually, but it’s always quiet. A wax and wane marks the days, yes, but naught eclipses the whole.

Now and then, a pinprick light pierces through the veil, and I realise all of a sudden why I’m here. My eyes widen and my hands grasp for a way through. I know it’s beautiful in there, whatever place that is. I realise something. I close my eyes, I savour the moment. And then I forget.

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