"Seeing as to how humanity races for direct and straight-to-the-point information, the request cannot be challenged. No detours can be taken, and no imagination can arise. Essays like this one that you are about to read are of the utmost practical matters. But then again, that is what we all so much ask for these days. Is it not? I wrote the words above for a reason, not for show. The reason being is that I like to personally dig into things deeper than the… Average Joe. I believe the writing style that I use is quite interesting. The first two lines of this paragraph rhymed. And the first paragraph of this essay is a complex work that I always try to create. That is art, well at least to me anyway; spontaneity. Now onto the main point, why am I like this? You may ask what influences or experiences have most shaped my life, or the circumstances of my upbringing and the like. Well, have we room and time for truth? Okay then, I'll tell you. Read attentively and read this in completion. Like a sentence, in which words rely on each other, this essay relies in very much the same manner. Three years down from where we stand today, the sky was gray. The day went on, as it always did. It was the day before Valentines Day, February the thirteenth. But that was not ordinary, for the superstitious I must add, for that was a Friday. Oh Friday the thirteenth! What could happen? Nothing ever happened, so why would anything ever happen? But it did. Truth: waiting for the bus, my friend and I chatted. From out of nowhere, a group of around thirty children appeared around the bus station. Their leader demanded the uninvolved aside, but then again… Who was involved? So the informed move aside, and the confused look around. I fall under the latter, and my friend, I believe, is there with me too. False accusation is placed on my friend for having hit one of them and the war that would last me years was about to begin. Their fists, empty of guilt fly, and words, none with shame are said. Then from the gray colored day, a spot of red is seen. Blood perceived by my eyes, I could only ask the sons of the past generation to stop. Who knew a question was ever "stupid?" But that question must have been stupid to them, for it shook their wildest dreams. They asked, "Who the fuck do you think you are asking me to stop?" and it woke up a part of me. Maybe then I found myself. For my fists then flew, and the unfair way the world works unfolded. Beaten like animals, my friend and I, and look who the real animals were. And all this was done for what? Those thirty or so children know what they were doing. They knew that there was no reason. Then you ask, "So how did this change you?" or, "What did you learn from this experience?" Good question, but not good enough. Those questions are the ones that I should be asking you. So now you have truth and that is what you asked for. And now you want to show me pity… Oh dear… Sometimes you have to be careful of what you ask. Its best to shut up sometimes and accept people as is. This essay, what is it for, for a grade? For a way to know me? Or was it really just a different way of saying, "Hello, can I look into your past? Maybe I can find something in there to make fun of, to criticize, to think about." What does my life grade as? Or then again, can we really grade a life? So there you have it, are you happy?"
---Sherwin Maxino's response to the question of: "What influences or experiences have shaped your life?" 10.29.06
"Seeing as to how humanity races for direct and straight-to-the-point information, the request cannot be challenged. No detours can be taken, and no imagination can arise. Essays like this one that you are about to read are of the utmost practical matters. But then again, that is what we all so much ask for these days. Is it not? I wrote the words above for a reason, not for show. The reason being is that I like to personally dig into things deeper than the… Average Joe. I believe the writing style that I use is quite interesting. The first two lines of this paragraph rhymed. And the first paragraph of this essay is a complex work that I always try to create. That is art, well at least to me anyway; spontaneity. Now onto the main point, why am I like this? You may ask what influences or experiences have most shaped my life, or the circumstances of my upbringing and the like. Well, have we room and time for truth? Okay then, I'll tell you. Read attentively and read this in completion. Like a sentence, in which words rely on each other, this essay relies in very much the same manner. Three years down from where we stand today, the sky was gray. The day went on, as it always did. It was the day before Valentines Day, February the thirteenth. But that was not ordinary, for the superstitious I must add, for that was a Friday. Oh Friday the thirteenth! What could happen? Nothing ever happened, so why would anything ever happen? But it did. Truth: waiting for the bus, my friend and I chatted. From out of nowhere, a group of around thirty children appeared around the bus station. Their leader demanded the uninvolved aside, but then again… Who was involved? So the informed move aside, and the confused look around. I fall under the latter, and my friend, I believe, is there with me too. False accusation is placed on my friend for having hit one of them and the war that would last me years was about to begin. Their fists, empty of guilt fly, and words, none with shame are said. Then from the gray colored day, a spot of red is seen. Blood perceived by my eyes, I could only ask the sons of the past generation to stop. Who knew a question was ever "stupid?" But that question must have been stupid to them, for it shook their wildest dreams. They asked, "Who the fuck do you think you are asking me to stop?" and it woke up a part of me. Maybe then I found myself. For my fists then flew, and the unfair way the world works unfolded. Beaten like animals, my friend and I, and look who the real animals were. And all this was done for what? Those thirty or so children know what they were doing. They knew that there was no reason. Then you ask, "So how did this change you?" or, "What did you learn from this experience?" Good question, but not good enough. Those questions are the ones that I should be asking you. So now you have truth and that is what you asked for. And now you want to show me pity… Oh dear… Sometimes you have to be careful of what you ask. Its best to shut up sometimes and accept people as is. This essay, what is it for, for a grade? For a way to know me? Or was it really just a different way of saying, "Hello, can I look into your past? Maybe I can find something in there to make fun of, to criticize, to think about." What does my life grade as? Or then again, can we really grade a life? So there you have it, are you happy?"
---Sherwin Maxino's response to the question of: "What influences or experiences have shaped your life?" 10.29.06