Homo Sapiens are so Difficult

             What is this thing individualism? Why do we celebrate those that stand out from the rest, even as we refuse to accept them?  Many argue that as humans raised and felled civilizations, our intellectual and cultural advancements allowed us to appreciate differences.  This celebration of differences, and of the individual, is uniquely human.  Now, we do not fear predators and so the idea of conformity is largely dated.  And yet, society is collective, and we all tend to blend in.  It's almost as if being radically different means being put on a pedestal for rising above man's basic instinct, and triumphing over the sea of sheep-like followers.
            But if you think about it, why are those artistic individuals so different?  What we really celebrate in them is a product not of a unique spirit of creative and social rebellion, but of discontent.  The knock-offs are those that follow standards others have set for being unique individuals-they are different for the sake of being recognized as different.  The people that have truly risen above their fellow men are often not admired by their peers.  They are different because of their discontent with the way things are, and that discontent is not a quality often extolled by the masses.  
            It isn't the kind of shoes you choose to wear, or the shade of lipstick; it isn't the music you listen to, no matter how obscure; it isn't the era your mind is stuck in.  It's how you act on your disgust for the way something is.  The true definition of a "hipster" should be  "martyr".  
           Besides, being a part of  society is not lamentable.  Humans are by definition social creatures, and our heritage is one of collective achievement and advancement.  I apologize for previously misusing the word "individual".  It is not one who is radically different, and it is not my redefinition of the word "hipster".  We are all individuals, and we are all as worthy as anybody.  Any one of use can become great.  We all love, hate, cry, remember, and above all, we all live.  Our outward appearance is a testament to the era we live in, so that future historians can say "ah, the 2010s...an era of consumerism and prosperity.  See this Tyler Oakley t shirt?  It's a testament to the homegrown YouTube generation, a defiance of the crystallizing Hollywood industry..."
            Everyone is inherently different, no matter how much you conform to any given institution.  Those others, the martyrs, are never truly appreciated in their time. 
           

  
 

"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superiorto your former self."    -Ernest Heminway

                
“The sadness will last forever.”   ― Vincent van Gogh 

Yngnah (Repost) 2

 Years passed, and I grew stronger, harder.  Most began to forget that I was woman. 
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There is an uproar in Ragnar Lodbrok's great halls tonight.  It is because Ragnar, strongest and hardiest of rulers, has been taken by a man that can be no man.  What man hides behind stone walls and cannot bear to do his own killing?  Here in the North, we would tear him apart for cowardice.
  There is talk that this is the punishment of the new god.  But I look across the dusky firelight into the faces of Ragnar's sons and I cannot believe that a birthling god would dare cross such giants.  
   "Aella.  Aella."  the halls writhe with hatred, swelling beneath the chants of the Coward's name. Bjorn Ironside spits at his imagined foe and roars for blood.  His brothers join their voices to his, mingling with Thor's thunder outside.  The rain, always rain, cannot wash away such blood, such hate.  Only more blood can wipe clean the wrath of Odin-and of Bjorn.  The crowds call for the Coward's death, for Ragnar is much loved here.  
   I stand and cast aside my cloak, scratchy in the heat of the firepits.  I can feel the eyes of men, tracing, appraising.  They must wonder at a woman dressed in a man's leathers.  Those that know me look away as soon as they realize where their eyes have wandered.  The chicken-livered look away beneath my gaze, fearful of my ravaged face.  Now there is only one man whose eyes boldly fix themselves upon me. A rose blossoms between his eyes before he even has time to blink.  I yank my dagger out of his skull and bury it to the hilt in the soil beneath the rushes on the floor.  When I pull it out, it has been cleansed by the earth.  
    "Yngnah!" Bjorn bellows, thrusting a tree-like arm heavenward.  His eyes glint with humor, beneath his murderous rage.  "Sister-not, I see your anger tonight.  Do you not wish also to avenge Ragnar-king?  Will you join our Great Heathen Army?"  His query is directed to me, but is met by Ragnar's people with thunderous approval.  I kneel before him.  
     "I will fight."The hall erupts.  Lagertha rises, shakes free her famed golden locks, and kneels beside me. 
     "I will fight."  Our twin oaths bind us, our wrath unites us.  I notice that Ivar, wisest of Ragnar's sons, celebrates not with his brothers, but with his horn.  Lo, his eyes are filled with the same hate, the same fury as Bjorn, as Ubba, as Halfdan, and even as Lagertha.  But his glitter with an ice colder than the midnight sun.

Yngnah (repost)

The home is the sphere where a woman many reign supreme.  At least, where the care of such sundry items as child-rearing are concerned.  My mother passed such divine knowledge unto me, in the year of our lord, 912, before the Almighty saw fit to take her life.  My mother taught me things a woman ought to know, even as she lie expiring upon her straw pallet.  She had only me, and although a child still, I was old enough at least to send her off with a dog at her feet and her sword in her hand.  A longship we had no longer, and even if we had, I would not have been strong enough to defend it from thieves.  
    When my mother,the greatest of the shield maidens that had served the great Lagertha had descended beyond even the powers of Ineata, wisewoman of the village, I closed my eyes and laid my brow against her wasted arm.  I prayed to the gods of old, and the Christian one fore good measure, that she may be allowed into the Halls of Valhalla, although she had not died in battle. 
   I knew not the name of the man that sired me, but my mother told me once that he had not come with the wave upon waves of Christians, clad in their rough woolen smocks and shaven heads.  I would have gone to him, if I could have.  If i knew where he was, or even who he was.  I would ask him to learn me in the arts of the Ulfberht; I would ask him to help me become a shield maiden like my mother, most trusted warrior of Lagertha, wife of Ragnar Lodbrok.  
    My mother had not wished a raider and warrior's life for her daughter.  Had I not been born beautiful, it is likely I would have had my way.  Instead, for all my wit, I was cursed with a fair face.  I was raised not to fight, but to bear fighters.  My glories could come only from my sons.  
    A beautiful woman cannot be taken seriously, and an ugly woman cannot be trusted.  This I understood only upon reaching my fourteenth summer.  The pain in my flesh almost rivaled the pain of being alone, bereft of a mother.  This second pain I inflicted upon myself, for a woman scarred, at least, is neither beautiful nor ugly.