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Burden of proof. Is Nick burden gay. WARNING! LONG POST INCOMING! 13, 000+ WORDS! TL;DR AT THE BOTTOM! I don't know how to start this, so I'm going to just say it. Psyonix, I have lost all respect for you and I have never been more ashamed of a studio that I once loved. Before we get into the meat of the post, I want to give a little background on myself. Hi, I'm Legion2k. I've been playing Rocket League since September 6th, 2015, which was Season 1 for the game. I reached Gold 1, which nowadays doesn't sound impressive, but back then was a big deal. Since then, I've not only played every season, but I've reached the higher ranks every season. From reaching All-Star rating during the godawful Prospect, Challenger, Star, Champion system of yesteryear, to reaching upper Champion 2 consistently during the more modern and better understood ranking system we have today. In the almost 5 years of play, I've logged almost 1100 hours and have been involved with the competitive scene for quite a bit, even doing some casting for Nexus Gaming. I've loved Rocket League from the very first minute, but that love has soured as the years have gone by, and now I sit and watch as the studio I once loved goes down in flames and the game I love being dragged down with it. I will start off with some positives I have for you Psyonix. Changing the system of Prospect, Challenger, Star, Champion to the modern ranking system was a very good change. It was hard to describe my rank in Rocket League to friends who didn't play the game. I would have to guess the equivalent ranking in terms they knew. Another good change was the transparent goal posts. I know some people didn't like those changes, as it made goal-tending easier, but in my eyes, it created a more skilled playerbase, as you couldn't just cheese your way to a goal. With the transparent goalposts, you now had to think outside the box if you wanted to get past the goalie. Having the cars have the same turning radius and similar hitboxes was also a positive change in my opinion, as you wanted the game to be focused on the skill of the player rather than having their skill and success hindered by what car they were using. But that's where the positives end. It should come as no surprise that the "Golden Age of Rocket League" has long since been over. Your first couple of seasons were shaky to say the least. Rocket League was an unknown game and people hadn't really heard about you Psyonix. They were getting their feet wet to see if Rocket League was going to be the next massive success. Once you found your rhythm, that's when the boom happened. New players flooding in and falling in love with your game. DLC and other content being added that really added flavor to a game that was nothing more than car soccer. The esports scene, while small and a bit unorganized with all the different tournaments running, still showed an interest and desire for a competitive scene where the best in game would battle it out to be crowned King. But that died a long time ago. Once the Golden Age was over, there was a few ways your game could've gone. The first being a game that sees little growth for a bit, but maybe moves to another store front, and the numbers go back up and the quality of the game continues to rise, before fading into the sands of time as interest for the game falls and people move on. The second path is where your game has a declining playerbase, but there's still a dedicated crowd that will continue to play your game. I like to use Trackmania 2 Stadium as an example. What is essentially a European game with the second biggest following being here in the States, player numbers average anywhere from ~4000 players a day to ~7000 players a day, with peaks reaching well over 20, 000 during the ZeratoR Cup that comes around every year. The game is almost 7 years old, but the playerbase is still there, racing on custom tracks and content and even creating their own to continue that game's life. The rise the Trackmania Grand League (TMGL) is trying to reinvigorate the competitive scene and bring new players in. The last path is the one I unfortunately think you're going to head down. Your game did well and saw amazing growth and success, but is beginning its freefall, and you might not be able to stop it. And if you do stop it, it might be too late and the ground is a inch from your face, and no amount of begging will change that. The Epic acquisition was the first sign of what was to come. Partnering with a company that would give you a bigger paycut is always nice, but to essentially downgrade your partnership and store front is laughable. I feel as if you put Rocket League on the Epic Store and kept the Steam Store purchase, everyone would've been happy with that. I doubt that would've been possible due to what I can only assume is contracts. I will say that announcing the move before it happened was a lot better than just pulling the plug and running off, but the damage was done and all we had to do was wait. Then came the Blueprint Update, and dear god did you piss some people off. Now, I have been involved with the trading scene a bit. Few keys here and there for an item over there, it was a nice system. Key prices stayed the same, and everything was kept inside the game, meaning trading between players never left the confines of the game itself. I think that was a good decision, especially since there was the whole CS:GO Matchfixing scandel a few years earlier and you wanted to avoid that. But once you announced that crates and keys were getting offed and replaced with V-Bucks Credits and Blueprints, the trading scene went into Panic Mode and everything was thrown into the blender. Now I get it, Crates can be seen as a form of gambling, and I agree. If left unchecked, things can get a bit crazy financially speaking. But prices for items were completely through outta wack, being much higher than they were originally. Even after the community spoke out against the high prices, asking you to fix them, the prices were still too high. The Item Store being added is what I can only describe as a copy of Fortnite's Item Store. And seeing items come in and out doesn't really matter to me in all seriousness. I have my Heatwave, I have my Pulsus wheels, I have my Pixelated Shades, I'm happy. Now I get all of those before Epic was even widely-known. There's nothing more that I want in terms of customization. I might fool around and make a meme-loadout, but outside of the one off meme I drag my friends into, I don't need anything else. And the blueprints. Just, fuck the Blueprints. That's all I got to say. Your recent decision to end support for the Mac and Linux builds of the game is nothing short of ridiculous. I understand that Mac and Linux users make up a pretty small part of your playerbase, but they still matter. Imagine if Riot Games decided to pull the plug on Mac support for League of Legends, or if Valve decided that Mac and Linux users were no longer welcome onto the Global Offensive servers. Imagine the outrage that would follow from those communities. I went through your blog post on Steam when you made that announcement. I have never in all my life, seen a rating of 0 on a blogpost, and I'm sure it isn't actually 0, but sinking quite quickly into the negatives. I went through the comment section to read the reactions I already knew would be present. I saw one person stating they had just bought the game for their Mac, and now they not only will lose the ability to play with their friends, but also will not be getting a refund if you or Steam won't give it to them? Is it too much of a financial burden to fully reimburse those people? What's the point of Rocket League if you're not going to play online? Who in the hell boots up Rocket League to play the Season Mode? Or the Exhibition Mode against bots? I did see that those users will be able to download Rocket League on a PC that supports Windows 7 and beyond, but I don't think those same people will be purchasing a PC that can run Rocket League if they're already using a Mac or Linux, an OS they've probably outfitted to be their own. I know we all like to meme that Mac and Linux are basically non-existent, but they're more relevant and popular than you can imagine. While they aren't as popular as Windows, they're still popular enough to warrant support for games that were once only on PC. On top of that, some of those Mac and Linux users bought your Rocket Pass, and now that Pass is null and void in a month because you're ending support for those builds. Will they get their money back, or are you keeping it just like their 20 you initially got from them? You had it all Psyonix. Before Rocket League, nobody knew who the fuck you were. You had SARP, but that game didn't seem to get much attention. Ahead of its time? Sure, I don't see why not. But I had friends who played on PS3, not once did they talk about it, and this was when my friends and I would start talking about new games that we had found that we wanted to talk about. No one knew who you were, and Rocket League put you on the map and made "Psyonix" a household name. An indie developer that made a game so crisp and clean and stable that it would put the full-price, AAA big boys to shame. You had the world in the palm of your hand, and you dropped it. I will not be supporting you guys financially anymore. I made that decision when the Epic acquisition was announced. I used to buy your DLC even if I wasn't going to use the cars that were involved. Maybe I played with them for a game or two, but that was it. I wasn't in it for the cars, I was in it because I wanted to support a developer that I believed in. I bought keys and got involved with the trading scene. I didn't care that I couldn't put it on the Steam Community Market, I was buying keys to support you and to be a part of the trading scene. I even spent money on the esports shop just so I could get the Cloud9 Player Banner. I know that my money doesn't mean shit to you. You're going after those people who will pour hundreds, if not thousands of dollars constantly into your games. I understand how the mobile game in-game purchase model works, and I wouldn't be all too surprised if that was the model you were following. Part of me thinks you don't really care about the community that made you the studio you were. Your only goal is to please your Epic Store Overlords and make them as much money as possible. After you made money hand over fist, you said "Fuck it. and kicked back in your beach chair while you relaxed in some far-off place. I want to know what it is you're doing at the office. I'm sure it's all content updates, or rather. Content Updates. which are really just microtransaction systems being added to game. Making new gamemodes is hard, I'll give you that. Rumble, Hoops, and Dropshot did pretty well in my opinion. Snow Day had some unique mechanics that added to the skill of the game. But those Ghostbusters mode, I don't think you broke 5000 players at its launch. But what about a volleyball mode? That's one gamemode I've seen suggested more times than I can count. Hell, there's a few volleyball maps on the Steam Workshop last I checked. And what about social media? Your Psyonix Twitter account hasn't posted anything since the Titanium White Dominus post, which was back in late December of 2019. Your Rocket League and RLEsports accounts are active though, but the Rocket League on may as well be on life support. The RLEsports one seems to be the most active, as they're posting clips from tournaments all the time. Maybe you'll get your head's outta your asses at some point, hopefully soon. You've been pissing off a lot of people, and I'm no exception. It's just a matter of time before everything comes crashing down and you're looked upon as the shell you are instead of the Great that you were. If you keep this up, you won't be remembered as the studio from San Diego that created something that rivaled, if not exceeded, AAA quality releases. The studio that against all odds made something that was hard to hate. But that won't happen. You'll be remembered as a studio who gave it all away to some greasy, slimy company just so you could earn a couple extra bucks. You'll be remembered as a studio who once cared about their playerbase but now only cares about squeezing as much money as possible for lackluster content releases and a bullshit microtransaction system. A studio that stopped caring. I'll still play your game, sure. I like Rocket League even after 12 seasons of play and over a thousand hours of my life being put into it. I'll still post every now and again on the subreddit, and I'll still make a montage every year. But I will not be giving you guys anything else. As a player, you're going to keep taking my hours, and I'll happily do that. But as a customer, you've lost me. You're a modern-day Icarus. The community spoke out against Epic when they were nabbing up studios for exclusivity rights, that should've been a warning. I know Steam sales have basically flat-lined, but there were still people who wanted to buy your game, a few of my friends as well. If you had added Rocket League to the Epic Store and kept it up on Steam, I'm sure everyone would've been a lot happier. And now you're cutting off support to other OS's and gutting the game on those platforms, essentially forcing players to either buy a PC or console and play it there or to fuck off with an inferior version of the game. Falls from grace are never easy to watch, and it hurts a lot more when that who falls was one you once cared about.! TL;DR! Psyonix, you have done nothing but continue to fuck up over the last year or so. You're pissing off a lot of people, and it's only a matter of time before you sink to the bottom of the ocean.
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Why x class CT not requires burden. Burden of truth season 3. Get it bro shit gives me goosebumps grew up a hard life I feel ur Muzik but never lost one like that sry to here ur loss keep it strong love your musick. 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥. I saw Burden at Sundance, and was captured with how poignant this film is. The tale is an incredible story- and has really effected me on many levels. Even though the story is 20 years old- the lesson is very timeless. Duty of competency and undue burden.
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Spacing burden formula. Is money a burden. Ano ang kahulugan ng while mans burden. The burden of cholera in africa have been underestimated. Burden hugh. Burden of freedom myles munroe. Is Eric Burden still alive. Who is Eric Burden. Hello! This is my first post. For the past four months, I've been working on this novel called "Piano Player. I've never been confident enough to share my writing. I would highly appreciate it if any of you would take the time to give me some feedback. Especially in the transition tense transition right at the beginning. The novel explores the following question: Technology will replace white-collar and blue-collar jobs, but what happens when technology replaces the artist? ∆ January snow falls like brilliant crystals against the dejected hue of solar-powered streetlights. It blows a veil of silver and settles down on Berlins streets in a drab glaze of myriad footprints. And it is late, far too late for any decent individual to wander. I hear them, drones and robots, a constant hum that never sleeps, never stops. I walk south through Kreuzberg and into Neukölln. Drunken steps hit the ground, and they echo on derelict buildings redolent of conflict and uncertainty. Curtains veil wary eyes, two fingers curl the edge, they peek into the night. The houses disperse into the frost-covered fields of Tempelhofer Feld. I cut through to the other side, turn one last corner, and stand at the prisons gate. One bleach-blonde guard scrutinizes my presence, seating behind his fish tank office flooded with light. My breath leaves me in white puffs of whiskey-ridden smell, twirling up, fading into the dull gray. I wait in penitence. Winter winds lash down. I shudder, tuck my hands into my jacket, and stare at the soviet like façade – purposeful, devoid of warmth – shining a few faint lights. I fix my eyes on one of the countless windows, hoping one concrete canvas reveals Julians face. Midnight strikes. A handful of lights remain. Guards change shift. Robots patrol and drone like oversized steel cicadas. The new guard dozes on and off behind the glare of security screens. The city sleeps, and my hope drowns with the uneventfulness. I trudge back home. Wet footsteps beat hard against the sidewalk and break the eerie silence. The new year weighs heavy on the shoulders of my conscience. It has arrived with the foul aftertaste akin to frequent hangovers and bad decisions. I enter my apartment, and in darkness, walk down to the living room. Julians metronome sits on the table. I flick it. Tick Tack. Eighty beats per minute trace my steps onto the couch. I plunge down and place my hands over my face. A hum develops into a crescendo of anxiety. I reach for an open flask. My lips wrap around its mouth, expectant of a liquid embrace, but it fuels the paintbrush of my memory. I stare at the ceiling and reminisce about the diamond fleck of recondite skies. A piano echoes in the dusty corners of my mind. Julians face rises out of the melody of the years. It was Mother who introduced him for the first time: ∆ “Alex, ” Mother said walking into my room and toward my bed. “Maria will bring her son today; he is out on summer vacations, ” she brought her face closer to mine, fixed my pillow, and stepped away. Her perfume of lavender remained. “You ought to be nice to him. Understood? ” I nodded with exasperation and sank back to nineteenth-century France with Dumas. Mother closed the door behind her. Twenty pages later, I shut my eyes and let my pubescent imagination wander desirously. The words froth, an image rises, and it holds against time: hair black as jet, velvet eyes, her skin brown, like bronze that soaks up the sun, a pure and full shape… Heavy footsteps, quick and unfamiliar, impinged upon the wooden floor. Their echo spilled through the door. Puzzled, I opened my eyes. Being a curious child and bedridden at twelve years of age, I learned that one could differentiate a persons gait – many times I wondered if loudness and frequency were directly proportional to someones personality. I raised my eyes above the worn-out pages and saw with disbelief the cherubic face of a boy peeking out of the doors edge. It was late in the afternoon, the golden hour poured in through the window and cast a hazel hue on his almond-shaped eyes and curls falling on his forehead. We made eye contact. He stepped inside. “Hey, Im Julian, ” he said. “Your mother told me I could have a look at your book collection. ” I flung my head to make him turn to the shelves on the wall. “Wow… you must be filthy rich, ” he said. I sighed and let the book fall on my chest. Dumas would have to wait, I thought. Julian walked to the shelves and ran his hand over their spines. “How did you get all of these? ” he asked. “They belonged to my family, ” I answered. Julian kept his eyes on the shelves. “Have you read any? ” “A few. ” He took a book out of the shelf, flicked through its pages, and sniffed into it. “All of them on a screen though, ” he said. “Look up to the right corner, ” I pointed with my finger, “you can find the first editions there. ” Julian tilted his head back. “Impressive, ” he said. “You can find a ladder behind the door, but I dont have the key to open the glass. ” Julian propped the ladder against the shelves, climbed up, and had a closer look at the gilded books. “Do you get any offers from collectors or museums? ” He asked. “I do. ” “What is the most valuable book? ” “In terms of what? ” “Value? ” Julian climbed down the ladder and looked inquiringly from the bottom of the bed. “Father acquired a Gutenberg bible once, I guess thatd be the most expensive. But to me, the most valuable one is Alice in Wonderland first edition, or actually, Grandpa bought The Tales of Beedle The Bard. He was from the Harry Potter generation and was a huge fan. ” “Youre lucky. ” “Is that so? ” I looked down at my body covered with a dark-blue quilt. Julians eyes followed. “Oh, man, ” he walked to the side of the bed, “Im sorry about what happened, ” he said without a hint of the condescending pity adults often used and which I hated so much. “Its alright, it already sank in. At least Ill get one of those new prostheses. ” “And any cool scars? ” “Nah, not really. ” “Can I see? ” He lifted the bedsheets before I could answer. “SHIT, ” he said out loud in fascination instead of fright of the stump of leg cut short above the knee. “Yep. ” “How did it happen? My mom didnt want to tell me. ” He let go of the quilt. “Drunk driver. ” “No way. ” “I blame the government. It should be compulsory to have the automatic driver on. ” He shrugged his shoulders and said: “At least you survived. ” “Father didnt. ” “Damn, ” he placed a hand on my shoulder. “What were you doing on the street? ” He asked. “We were driving our road bikes; we didnt hear the car coming. I guess thats the only con about electric cars – at least if people are still allowed to drive them – they are extremely silent. ” Julian pursed his lips and moved them to one side. He walked around the bed and stopped in front of the window. “Thats a nice garden you have there. What did your father do? ” “Both Mother and Father were entrepreneurs, they founded a couple of companies together. ” Julian kept his eyes on the window. “Your mom is my therapist, ” I continued, “but what about your dad, what does he do? ” “He used to be an architect. ” “Used to? ” “He died about three, four years ago, cant really remember, ” he turned and explored the rest of the room with his eyes. “Oh, what happened? ” “Suicide, ” he said without any burden in the word. “Im so sorry, ” I said with the same condescending air I hated so much. An awkward silence grew between us and I stumbled for words and questions to break it. Julian sat down on the side of my bed, leaned forward to my nightstand, and opened it. “He lost his job, ” he mumbled with his face buried in the drawer, “he hung himself after a few years of an unsuccessful search to find something else to do. ” “Oh, ” I repeated idiotically, but other thoughts crossed my mind: articles, reports, statistics. Suicide is a normality nowadays, I wanted to say, just like diabetes. Suicide and diabetes had recently been declared a world-wide crisis. I did my research many days later and found out that Julians dad had been a successful and rather passionate architect. To his misfortune, architecture was one of the first fine arts to lose ground to technology. 3D printing, governments prohibition of using real wood and other raw materials, robot labor, and cheap access to splendorous AI-created designs were a few factors that contributed to an oversupply of ready-to-work flesh and bone architects. And it was those who belonged to the fine arts that had a more grandiose downfall, unlike those who didnt. For instance, the drunk driver that ran over me was a has-been FX trader. There was no grandiose downfall for him, just the slow descent into pitiful chemical numbness. “What happened to the drunk driver? ” Julian asked. He took out an unsolved Rubiks cube and began working on it. “Prison, ” I answered, put a bookmark in my book, and closed it. “Can you believe that he only got sentenced to fifteen years? ” “Only? ” The tip of his tongue stuck out of the corner of his lips. “His lawyer got a good deal by claiming the unfit psychological state in which his client found himself. He was depressed about losing his job, living under universal income and all of that. ” The Rubiks cube clanked furiously. “Depressed, huh? ” “Mother didnt let me follow the trial, but I still read it all. The defenders cited a recent study. It correlated suicide occurrences and depression to a certain wage loss against the universal income set in place by the government. The bigger the difference, the stronger the depression. He was in finance, the bastard made shitloads every year just in bonuses. ” Julian stopped, inspected the cubes faces, and asked, “How long do you have to be in bed? ” He turned the corners. “Your mother said I have about nine more months before they can put the prosthesis. ” “Really? ” “Fractured spine and pelvis and many nerves were shattered. ” “Cant they cure that easily now? ” “It takes a while for the body to – what word did they use? – connect to the new system. ” “There, ” he placed the solved Rubiks cube on the top of the nightstand. “It took you a while, ” I said competitively and smiled, “I can do it in less than two minutes. ” “Show me? ” “Its not fair now, I cant move my arms and hands with the same speed as before. ” Julian grabbed the book on my chest. “What are you reading? ” He asked not to diverge the conversation because it distressed him but because the topic had already bored him. “The Count of Montecristo, ” I answered. “Its the second time I read it. ” “In French? Fancy. ” “Have you read it? ” “Yes. ” “Did you like it? ” “Loved it. ” “Good. ” Julian stood up, opened the closet, and stepped inside. “Do you inspect a strangers room like that all the time? ” “I believe someones room tells everything about that person. ” He yelled from the inside while lifting an explanatory hand in the air. “I am just trying to see who you really are. ” “Couldnt you ask? ” My clothes rustled. “So, you read a lot? ” Julian asked without minding my comment. ” He stepped out and asked: “Do you write as well? ” “Nah, no one reads anymore, at least no new fiction. There is no point in bothering. ” He grimaced the same way an adult would at a naïve child. “You know its true, ” I said to break his silence, “everyone is in a hurry, downloading five-minute condensed reads and claim theyve read the whole thing. No author deserves that. Well, maybe only the self-help book authors. ” He kept his grimace. “What do you like to do? ” I asked defensively. “Music. Im a piano player, ” he said proudly. “Have you seen the grand piano in our studio? ” “No, I havent, ” he said, his eyes fully open. “Steinway & Sons made in the nineteenth century. Its in great conditions though, someone–” “–you have a Steinway & Sons? ” He asked almost screaming. “Third door to your left, double oak doors. Leave the doors open, I want to hear you play. ” “Yeah! ” He hurried to the door. “Im Alex by the way. ” “I know, ” he replied and walked out of the room. I made a short attempt to go back to Dumas. The studios doors flung open. The pianos stool screeched against the wooden floor. Julian played: the grand pianos strings vibrated, its sound distinct and real, traveled through the air, burst in through the door, flowed around me, percolated through my skin, dug deep into the most primitive facet of my brain, and ebbed away. And through a shiver, the music aroused my benumbed soul after numerous surgeries and months in the hospital. The words jumped out of the pages. Overwhelmed and close to tears, I shut my eyes. The song took me on a voyage far away from home, to places which literature could only describe in whispers. The song ended, I opened my eyes and composed myself. Julian walked into my room, placed his hands on the bed, and leaned toward me. “Did you like it? ” He asked. “It was alright, ” I said, trying to keep my cool. “I made it. ” “Are you serious? ” “I composed it when my Pa died. ” “Oh, ” a deep regret choked my pride, “its magnificent, Im sure he wouldve loved it. ” “Do you play? ” He asked and leaned against the wall. “Mother played when she was younger. I took some classes, but it was not really my thing. I also had a terrible teacher when I was very young – Greta – she was one hundred kilos of pure evil. ” “Whats your thing then? ” “I love reading and being outdoors. Lately, Ive been reading more as you can guess. ” He pursed his lips to the corner of his mouth and thought for a second. “I dont see the point of reading so much if youre not going to write anything, ” he said. “Well I do, ” I answered truculently. It was one of my biggest problems, some sort of competitive personality grounded on insecurity or a desire to prove myself, to prove that I was not incomplete. I thought of life as a poker game where one could bluff or play behind a real hand. With Julian, I often felt I was the one bluffing, the one that put the chips on the table with a knot inside the throat and a thick drop of sweat rolling down my temple. Julian was a rare child that lived a straightforward life and with a clear goal in mind. His dreams provided the solid footing upon which virtue an action took root. He didnt have many friends, not because he was misanthropic, but because like me, he found most people uninteresting. Also, by nature or habit, his words escaped him without a filter. “Im sorry, ” he said without any sign of negativity and slapped my shoulder, “its just that I knew I wanted to play music from the first moment I saw my dad play the piano. ” His easiness embarrassed me, but I was too proud to say sorry. “Are you studying at a conservatory or something? ” I asked. “No, they are way too expensive, ” he leaned against the wall next to my bed and crossed his arms, “especially with only one income in the house. I have an old digital piano at home and occasionally one music theory professor comes to my house. My dad taught me the basics when I was young, thats all I needed. ” “Wouldnt you prefer to practice on a real piano? ” “Of course, I would. ” “Why dont you come here to practice? ” “Shouldnt your mom have a say on that? ” “It will be alright; she worries I dont hang out with kids my age anymore because of the whole situation going on, ” I waved my arm over my body, “besides, the rooms in the house are soundproof, she wont even notice youre here. ” “Julian? ” Someone called from the door; it was Maria, his mom. He stood straight at the sound of her voice. “Youre a guest, you cannot walk around the house without permission. Did you ask if you could use the piano? ” “Yes, mom, Alex said I could play it. ” “Its alright, Maria, ” Mother said standing next to her, “Julian is a very talented kid, I wish I could play like that when I was his age. ” “Mother, ” I said, “I told Julian he could come every day to practice in our piano. ” “Oh? ” Mother answered. “Did you like the piano, Julian? ” “I did, Mrs. Winterstein. ” “Well? ” Mother glanced at Maria. “Wed be happy to have you practicing here whenever you want. ” “No, no, ” Maria said. My heart sunk. “Hed be bothering you all day; he has a piano at home already. ” “But mom! Its not nearly the same as a real piano. ” “I think it is a good idea, ” Mother said, “it will be good for Alex to have some company. ” I looked at Maria anxiously waiting for her response. Julian walked up to Maria, grabbed her arm, threw a desperate glance and begged childishly: “pleeeeaaassse. ” “Mm…” Maria pursed her lips and looked at Julian. “I guess its fine if youre okay with it, ” she said to Mother and then turned to Julian. “But youll have to listen to Claire every second that you are here, okay Julian? ” “Yes! I promise! ” I was ecstatic. “We are already late with our therapy, ” Maria addressed me, “its better if you leave the room, Julian, we have a lot of work to do today. You can play some other time. ” “Could you play while I do my therapy, Julian? ” I asked. “It would help a lot. ” Julian looked at Mother. “Is that okay with you Mrs. Winterstein? ” Mother smiled. “Of course, ” she answered, “Id love to hear you play again. ” Maria grimaced. “What do you want me to play, Alex? ” “What can you play? ” Julian shrugged his shoulders. “Anything you want really, ” he said, “just name it. ” “Something that would help me through the therapy. ” “Is it that bad? ” Julian asked. “Does it hurt? ” “Dude…” I said and stared at him. He raised his eyebrows. “Its a bitch. ” “Alexander! ” Mother screamed, glanced at me with her liquid-blue eyes, and flared her nostrils. Julian guffawed. Maria snorted a restrained laugh. “I know exactly what to play, ” Julian interrupted before Mother could say anything else. Mother sighed. “I think these two are going to get along quite well, ” she said and lifted a finger at me, “dont you dare say another bad word in front of Maria, Alexander. Understood? ” “Sorry. ” Mother led Julian to the studio, and I could hear her muffled whispers showing Julian around the house. The door remained open. Maria and I were left alone and worked on my mobility. She used her confident hands and a few tools to guide my limbs up and down. It felt as if my joints were filled with razor edge gears that tore at the very fabric of my soul. My face reddened, my eyes brimmed with tears, and I drowned my screams. “Its okay if you want to cry, Alex, ” Maria said, “you are brave enough as it is. ” But I walled all signs of weakness against Marias awe-inspiring beauty – an Aztec Cleopatra, a queen, a goddess to my mythical El Dorado. I had a massive crush on her, a fact I would later confess to Julian. A fact he replied to with a quick punch to my gut, leaving me grounded in the floor sore several minutes. And the truth was that I did write in those days: mediocre poetry, seen by no one, expressing my passion for Maria, for her creamed coffee-colored skin, cascading black hair, dark eyebrows, full lips, a pinch of a nose, brown eyes, and svelte figure. Julian was on the fairer side of the spectrum like his dad, but he had gotten her eyes and nose. Finally, the pianos strings rang once more and inundated the house with its music. I let the notes carry me away throughout the excruciating yet delightful therapy. The songs were courageous, hopeful: cooling water to the agony in my nervous system and sparks that kindled my soul anew. A crescendo of syncopating notes, flight or fight response, a shiver down my spine. Maria stretched my leg, its hair bristling in the air. I screamed. ∆ That was the beginning of our symbiotic relationship. I had my bed moved to the studio. Julian played every day, writing on empty music sheets, crafting Rosetta Stones to the language of the soul. The piano was a complete extension of his hands, his tongue, his mind. He was one of those kids that nourished the fools idea that genius lay not in hard work but in an unseen touch of the divine reserved only for a few. And his music did not only stimulate the path to my physical recovery, but it also sparked literature to life. I read thousands of words while he rang innumerable notes. He played Debussy when I read Flaubert, Bach, when I read Goethe, and at eleven years of age, he played as good as Gonzalo fucking Rubalcaba jamming out his caravan from Cuba to the streets of Cartagena when I read Marquez. I was lucky to be born in a wealthy household and with a family who loved books. Unlike most people nowadays, I had access to a tangible library where I would spend hours discovering their hidden secrets – ideas, fusing with the musty smell emanating from their worn-out yellow pages, turning into bitter-sweet poison, and seeping in through my eyes. I cursed and loved those books, for they had made a romantic out of me. A Don Quixote doomed to live with a thirst that could only be slaked through everything that ebbed away with time and faded into modernity. I yearned for the beauty of old and the extraordinary. And at the epicenter of it all, there was Julian: the quintessential ineffability that, like a whisper of wind, preserved the ember of life burning, burning, burning. The pursuit of beauty became the implicit crucible of our friendship. Yes, I was a romantic, and Julian too – him by nature, I by conviction. At heart, I grew up to be a sensualist, a Lord Byron minus poetry, revolution, syphilis, and gonorrhea but with far more excesses than his eighteenth-century lust could visualize; Julian a stoic, a Marcus Aurelius minus all his wealth, a surplus of solemnity, building empires in the air. All our lives, I was the spectator, Julian, the artist – a dying breed. Through Julian, I learned that artists are madmen walking a pathway of insanity, distilling chaos into the purest form of beauty through pen, brush, or keys. It is them that satiate the hunger for forbidden fruit: meaning. Their pathway goes through the madhouse and often culminates there. I longed for the madness, madness I could only live vicariously, so I held on to Julian as he went down the rabbit hole. Perhaps I shouldve stopped him, perhaps it was my fault, but by selfishness or instinct of self-preservation, I let him fall deeper into the abyss, waiting for his star to burst against the bottom and splash me with the dust and plasma that stars are made of, all so I could have a glimpse, a taste of wonder.
What is a burden ratio. What does my yoke is easy & my burden is light mean. 8 months have past and Its still the best one.
What puts a burden on another person. Duty of competency and undue burden for attorneys. I just finished watching this film at the Traverse City Film Festival, I absolutely cannot rave enough about this film! the cinematography, the acting, the dialogue, everything is absolutely spot on! It is so intense that you, as the viewer, can feel the struggle that Mike Burden is going through and it just captures you and sucks you right in. especially if you know anything about the backstory on it and what really happened. To be honest this film emotionally drained me, I am literally exhausted from watching it. I would even have to go as far as to giving it 6 out of 5 stars, this is one of those do not miss movies.
Brown man's burden compared to white mans burden.