I had a dream last night. You again. You were there, but elusive again. I never saw your face clearly, but I feel like I know you.
Strange how I know you.
We were dancing. Spinning and whirling, like two bright pinwheels caught in a whirlwind of colour. But we danced through the colour, both followed and led. We spun and we twirled. For days, it seemed, and with every passing day, we grew tighter and tighter. Our ambitions worn loud and clear, as ribbons twisting around us.
Strange how I know you.
Months pass, and we're still dancing. Not tired, but invigorated, even. The colours seems to energize us, like the sun fuels a flower. And just as a flower unfolds, so did the petals of time. Because dreams can only last for so long. Slowly, we eased down. Slowly, the whirlwind died down. Slowly, we stopped. You look at me, and yet, I still cannot see your face. Not a word is spoken, but I know what you're saying. And of course I forgive you. So we hold on tight as dreams fade to dust. As painstakingly carved music slowly melts away. And in a instant that lasts forever, it's gone.
Strange how I know you.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Between A Rock And A Stone.
Run away with me. To those fields filled with knee-high grass that tickles your legs. With flowers that are as tall as you and I. Where the sun shines brightly every day and there isn't a cloud in the sky.
Run away with me. On a bus, where they can't tempt us. To a place free from society. Where no one can understand the pure bliss of being alone, because no one has ever been there.
Run away with me. To escape the strife of every day life. To escape the droll humour of bland individuals. To the only places where death and taxes aren't infinite.
Run away with me. To a place that doesn't exist. To a place that won't ever exist.
Because in an ideal world, humanity wouldn't exist.
Run away with me. On a bus, where they can't tempt us. To a place free from society. Where no one can understand the pure bliss of being alone, because no one has ever been there.
Run away with me. To escape the strife of every day life. To escape the droll humour of bland individuals. To the only places where death and taxes aren't infinite.
Run away with me. To a place that doesn't exist. To a place that won't ever exist.
Because in an ideal world, humanity wouldn't exist.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Untitled #1
Beyond the window screen rests the world. The two squirrels that usually chased each other around the tree are sleeping. Exhausted from the endless game of tag. The flowers have closed their petals, shying away from the moon, as though embarrassed to show their face. The wind blows softly in the sultry summer evening. And then the rain begins to fall.
The boy watches it all from inside. Although it is nearly impossible to see any of it, he knows it is there. He turns on some light music to break the silence. As he mills about his room, he sings along. He doesn't mind that his voice isn't perfect. He doesn't mind that his voice is carrying. He's enjoying himself, and that's all that matters.
As he watches from the window, the faint, soothing smell of ozone and rain floats in through the window. The boy sits back down and sighs. He has the beginnings of a headache. And he begins to cry. He cries until his cheeks are red and hot and soaking wet.
For he has realized that's it's all fruitless. It's beauty in the shit. And that is all it is; shit. No one will remember him when he dies. No one will notice his absence a few years later. He hasn't done anything noteworthy, nor will he in his entire lifetime. It's just one smooth line to a bleak finish. His superficial relationships will mean nothing when he is dead and gone. Time is redundant. All the races are simply racing to one big finish. So then what's the point of hanging around anymore?
And then it hits him. It doesn't matter in the end. It matters in life. There may be no life after death, no heaven, no reincarnation, but it doesn't matter. There is no point in being miserable during a point in your life when you should be having the time of your life. Slowly, the boy regains his composure. He wipes away his tears. He is firm in his resolution; he will continue existing simply for the pleasure of existing.
"Damn it," he thinks, "All this crying has made my headache even worse."
The boy watches it all from inside. Although it is nearly impossible to see any of it, he knows it is there. He turns on some light music to break the silence. As he mills about his room, he sings along. He doesn't mind that his voice isn't perfect. He doesn't mind that his voice is carrying. He's enjoying himself, and that's all that matters.
As he watches from the window, the faint, soothing smell of ozone and rain floats in through the window. The boy sits back down and sighs. He has the beginnings of a headache. And he begins to cry. He cries until his cheeks are red and hot and soaking wet.
For he has realized that's it's all fruitless. It's beauty in the shit. And that is all it is; shit. No one will remember him when he dies. No one will notice his absence a few years later. He hasn't done anything noteworthy, nor will he in his entire lifetime. It's just one smooth line to a bleak finish. His superficial relationships will mean nothing when he is dead and gone. Time is redundant. All the races are simply racing to one big finish. So then what's the point of hanging around anymore?
And then it hits him. It doesn't matter in the end. It matters in life. There may be no life after death, no heaven, no reincarnation, but it doesn't matter. There is no point in being miserable during a point in your life when you should be having the time of your life. Slowly, the boy regains his composure. He wipes away his tears. He is firm in his resolution; he will continue existing simply for the pleasure of existing.
"Damn it," he thinks, "All this crying has made my headache even worse."
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Lunar Tears.
Poor little moon. Sad little moon, in the big, black sky. You're all alone, sans some stars. But they aren't much comfort. When the morning comes, you watch them trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass. Running out, one by one. Falling softly, like snow. Please don't hang your head and cry.
And when the sun comes out and chases away the stars, you remain. You feel like dying. But you don't. You sleep. Simply sleep. And when you do, the tears fall. Not stardust, but little moonstones. Falling softly, like snow.
You may sleep, but you will never die.
And when the sun comes out and chases away the stars, you remain. You feel like dying. But you don't. You sleep. Simply sleep. And when you do, the tears fall. Not stardust, but little moonstones. Falling softly, like snow.
You may sleep, but you will never die.
Monday, August 18, 2008
When The Curtain Falls.
Airplanes crashing. Fires flashing. Lights in the sky. Lightning crackles. A small bang, then a massive boom. Hundreds dead. Debris fall to the ground like a forgotten child's toy. But does it really matter?
Dark alleys lit by dim lamps. Misty clouds hang like a drape over a window. Think about how many women have been raped here. Screams echo. The fear is almost tangible. But does it really matter?
Splash. Splish. Ribbit. Petite frogs beat out a living on their lily pads. How sad. A burning lake lit by a giant mass on incandescent gas. The frogs won't stand a chance. Who cares?
And there she stands. That poor, bespectacled woman. She's about to hang, but she singing. Guess she's not afraid. What's that she's saying? "...All I ever wanted was a little bit of love to take the pain away. But I love you to death. I guess this is what I get." But it's too late now. That poor woman. There she goes. Snap. And her glasses clatter to the floor. I guess it doesn't matter anymore.
Fireworks in the air. Bang. Ka-boom. Flashes of gold, silver, and red. Spirals of green and blue. Pinwheels of orange and yellow. The happiest time of their life. Watching from the top of a grassy hill, surrounded by flora. Only caring about the present. But they'll grow apart. They'll find someone new. They'll grow old. And eventually, they'll die. And it doesn't really matter.
The woman plays it perfectly. The man struggles to even hold the bow. The woman's strings glisten with harmonic sound, while the man's screech like a banshee. Smirking, the woman shows off. She'll get what she has coming to her. But she doesn't matter. Who cares?
Holding a marble to the sun. A vast comparison. But to be able to view the world through a tiny bead of glass is beautiful. Blends of orange and gold tint the world into a perpetual sunset. Breathtaking. And it doesn't matter.
A little girl is celebrating her ninth birthday with her best of friends. As they laugh, they promise each other they'll be friends forever. But they'll grow apart. They'll find new friends. Chances are they won't ever see each other again. But I suppose it doesn't really matter.
And then there's him. Watching the fireworks from the city. Wondering if there's someone out there, waiting for him. And as he watches, he wonders. About life. About death. Whether or not he'll ever do something noteworthy. Whether he'll be famous. And then he realizes it doesn't matter. It didn't ever matter. And it won't ever matter.
Because we are superficial. We are minuscule compared to the rest of the universe. We are simply ants on a hunk of rock the revolves around a huge ball of incandescent gas. Nothing happens when we die. Nothing good or bad comes of our actions. It doesn't really matter what we do in this life.
Because, ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. That is all.
Dark alleys lit by dim lamps. Misty clouds hang like a drape over a window. Think about how many women have been raped here. Screams echo. The fear is almost tangible. But does it really matter?
Splash. Splish. Ribbit. Petite frogs beat out a living on their lily pads. How sad. A burning lake lit by a giant mass on incandescent gas. The frogs won't stand a chance. Who cares?
And there she stands. That poor, bespectacled woman. She's about to hang, but she singing. Guess she's not afraid. What's that she's saying? "...All I ever wanted was a little bit of love to take the pain away. But I love you to death. I guess this is what I get." But it's too late now. That poor woman. There she goes. Snap. And her glasses clatter to the floor. I guess it doesn't matter anymore.
Fireworks in the air. Bang. Ka-boom. Flashes of gold, silver, and red. Spirals of green and blue. Pinwheels of orange and yellow. The happiest time of their life. Watching from the top of a grassy hill, surrounded by flora. Only caring about the present. But they'll grow apart. They'll find someone new. They'll grow old. And eventually, they'll die. And it doesn't really matter.
The woman plays it perfectly. The man struggles to even hold the bow. The woman's strings glisten with harmonic sound, while the man's screech like a banshee. Smirking, the woman shows off. She'll get what she has coming to her. But she doesn't matter. Who cares?
Holding a marble to the sun. A vast comparison. But to be able to view the world through a tiny bead of glass is beautiful. Blends of orange and gold tint the world into a perpetual sunset. Breathtaking. And it doesn't matter.
A little girl is celebrating her ninth birthday with her best of friends. As they laugh, they promise each other they'll be friends forever. But they'll grow apart. They'll find new friends. Chances are they won't ever see each other again. But I suppose it doesn't really matter.
And then there's him. Watching the fireworks from the city. Wondering if there's someone out there, waiting for him. And as he watches, he wonders. About life. About death. Whether or not he'll ever do something noteworthy. Whether he'll be famous. And then he realizes it doesn't matter. It didn't ever matter. And it won't ever matter.
Because we are superficial. We are minuscule compared to the rest of the universe. We are simply ants on a hunk of rock the revolves around a huge ball of incandescent gas. Nothing happens when we die. Nothing good or bad comes of our actions. It doesn't really matter what we do in this life.
Because, ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. That is all.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Night Reconnaissance.
I really love this time of night. The world is wrapped in a shroud of yellow haze. Nothing looks tangible, and anything seems possible.
I'm just waiting for the day when the garden gnomes come to life and the pixies appear at twilight.
I'm just waiting for the day when the garden gnomes come to life and the pixies appear at twilight.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
In Sickness And In Health.
My friend, despite her best efforts, gets shakes in the night. She moans and she groans and screams when she wakes. Sometimes, she can't wake, but somehow she does, and it just goes to show that you can't trust the diagnosis. They say that she's born with it. It's predispositional.
My friend has problems with winter and autumn. The doctors give him prescriptions, and they shine bright lights on him. They give big mirrors and tell him to stare. They're try to cure something that might not be there. They say he can't help it. They say it's genetic. They say you can catch it, but sometimes you're born with it.
My friend is forgetful. He forgets where he lives, who we are, who he is. They do all sorts of tests and exercises to make him remember. The doctors say he hit his head while getting out of bed, but I don't believe them. We don't live in a fairy tale world where children's rhymes are plausible.
My friend is sad. She's a wreck, she a mess. The doctors have done all sorts of tests, but they've decided it had something to do with grandfather's grandmother, who was saving war soldiers that probably infected her. Still, through her misery, she manages. She strips in the city for cash, and gives them her best shows.
My friend has problems with blubber and image. She thinks she's too fat, but it's dangerously low. Vomiting would solve all her problems, or so she thinks. She hasn't gone to the doctors, but the diagnosis is obvious. They say you can catch it, but sometimes, you're born with it.
With me, I'm well. I mean well. Well, I mean I'm in hell. But I still have my health -- at least that's what they tell me. But if wellness is this, what in hell's name is sickness? I've gone to the doctors, but they can't tell me what's wrong. But I know there's something there, and I've been wondering what is inside of me. I can't run from it. I can run from the pity. I can run from my life. I can run from the law. I can run from the country. I can run from the city. I can run into debt. I can run from it all. I can run for the office. I can run from responsibility. I can run until I'm gone. I can run using every last ounce of energy. But I cannot run from myself.
My friend has problems with winter and autumn. The doctors give him prescriptions, and they shine bright lights on him. They give big mirrors and tell him to stare. They're try to cure something that might not be there. They say he can't help it. They say it's genetic. They say you can catch it, but sometimes you're born with it.
My friend is forgetful. He forgets where he lives, who we are, who he is. They do all sorts of tests and exercises to make him remember. The doctors say he hit his head while getting out of bed, but I don't believe them. We don't live in a fairy tale world where children's rhymes are plausible.
My friend is sad. She's a wreck, she a mess. The doctors have done all sorts of tests, but they've decided it had something to do with grandfather's grandmother, who was saving war soldiers that probably infected her. Still, through her misery, she manages. She strips in the city for cash, and gives them her best shows.
My friend has problems with blubber and image. She thinks she's too fat, but it's dangerously low. Vomiting would solve all her problems, or so she thinks. She hasn't gone to the doctors, but the diagnosis is obvious. They say you can catch it, but sometimes, you're born with it.
With me, I'm well. I mean well. Well, I mean I'm in hell. But I still have my health -- at least that's what they tell me. But if wellness is this, what in hell's name is sickness? I've gone to the doctors, but they can't tell me what's wrong. But I know there's something there, and I've been wondering what is inside of me. I can't run from it. I can run from the pity. I can run from my life. I can run from the law. I can run from the country. I can run from the city. I can run into debt. I can run from it all. I can run for the office. I can run from responsibility. I can run until I'm gone. I can run using every last ounce of energy. But I cannot run from myself.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Idle Days.
The innumerable number of experiences I could have daily is incomprehensible. Ridiculous. I could go fly a kite. Meet someone new. Bungee jump. Do things I cannot even fathom, because I have conditioned not to be able to fathom them. But I am here, idling my days away. I am dressing the same way, speaking the same way, thinking the same things, reacting the same way, and so on and so forth. And it is getting very tiring indeed. I grow weary of this bubble. I was to see something new. Meet someone new. Do something new. I want to be new. I want to leave this all behind, somehow. Leave it all behind, and bring with me the ones I hold dear. But I cannot, because of legal restrictions, amongst other reasons. Variety is the spice of life, they say. My pasta has been seasoned with oregano for far too long. It's time to add something new. Some parsley. Bay leaves would be a nice touch.
But I digress. I am not stating that I know how to do this. I am not declaring that I have all the answers. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each and every moment of my life, or how to take advantage of them. I am just tired of the same wheel spinning. The thread being woven. I want to add some colour. I am tired of letting things that I cannot control dictate my life.
Very tired, indeed.
But I digress. I am not stating that I know how to do this. I am not declaring that I have all the answers. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each and every moment of my life, or how to take advantage of them. I am just tired of the same wheel spinning. The thread being woven. I want to add some colour. I am tired of letting things that I cannot control dictate my life.
Very tired, indeed.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Thrice.
It used to be so easy. Now this fucking mess we're in -- what can I do?
Walking through the city at night. Mindless, more or less. Not a care in the world. The winter leaves blanket all my doubts. All the glimmering, neon lights on glistening streets gather in the dark. There's a stilted stillness growing in my heart. Something is not at ease. It's tied to a brick with cement in it's shoes, sinking down. Down. Down. A landslide slowly rushing to the sea.
If you could only give me time to ease my spinning head, I'm sure I could if I would only try. Try. Try. I'm burying secrets in the soil, fed by all the reckless shit you fed me. All our stories we could have told are unwinding. I am the soil left unsettled by all these stories you leave behind. There's no beginning with us now; only ends. All our paintings, our beautiful paintings of sunsets on the ocean, they're burning. And you. You're burning down each bridge I wish to cross. Burn, burn. Burn.
Walking through the city at night. Mindless, more or less. Not a care in the world. The winter leaves blanket all my doubts. All the glimmering, neon lights on glistening streets gather in the dark. There's a stilted stillness growing in my heart. Something is not at ease. It's tied to a brick with cement in it's shoes, sinking down. Down. Down. A landslide slowly rushing to the sea.
If you could only give me time to ease my spinning head, I'm sure I could if I would only try. Try. Try. I'm burying secrets in the soil, fed by all the reckless shit you fed me. All our stories we could have told are unwinding. I am the soil left unsettled by all these stories you leave behind. There's no beginning with us now; only ends. All our paintings, our beautiful paintings of sunsets on the ocean, they're burning. And you. You're burning down each bridge I wish to cross. Burn, burn. Burn.
Friday, August 8, 2008
The End In Retrospect.
Split it. Down the middle. The tower. The sky. And ground. The world. Our world. You can have Germany, I'll take Australia. You can have North America, but keep you hands off Europe. The public stares. Watches. You, the anachronism. I say "Just let her crash and burn, the attention just encourages her."
But I'm sick. I might be catching, so don't touch me. You'll start believing you're immune to gravity and such.
You can do it!
God --
A, B, C --
Posture!
Walk it!
Do it sideways!
You can do it!
Posture!
Straight line!
Now!
J, K, L --
Good!
Left foot!
Right foot!
Do it the way I showed you!
Posture!
Good!
Q, R, S --
Walk!
Left foot!
Good!
You can do it!
Straight line!
Posture!
That's right!
X, Y, Z!
Good!
How strange, though. There's this thing that's like talking except you don't talk. Silent whispers. Filling a void. Dying of shock. Relinquishing what once was for what now is. Oblivion, a powerful tool.
But I digress. The public is insane. Bonkers. Mad. Everyone is texting like there is no tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, I love communicating. I just hate all the shit we're missing.
But fight it all you want, it's fruitless. It's all in the way of progress. That statement's truth or falsity is moot.
Mad world. Every time you turn around, your soul is sold to the highest bidder. Then they turn around and merger. Merger, merger, murder. The one who mergers most can and will take it all.
But I digress. Furthermore. Nevermore. I'm split down the middle, like our world. And the full set, half off the price they're asking. I'm half biology and half corrective surgery. I'm half underwater. A fraction left up to dispute. I suppose you'll notice something funny if you spend too much time here. But if you listen closely, you'll manage to notice the difference between the halfs and the half nots. This half runs as fast as it can run, but the other comes tumbling after.
Forever relinquished to madness's clutches. You never will find the magic words to change this fact.
But I'm sick. I might be catching, so don't touch me. You'll start believing you're immune to gravity and such.
You can do it!
God --
A, B, C --
Posture!
Walk it!
Do it sideways!
You can do it!
Posture!
Straight line!
Now!
J, K, L --
Good!
Left foot!
Right foot!
Do it the way I showed you!
Posture!
Good!
Q, R, S --
Walk!
Left foot!
Good!
You can do it!
Straight line!
Posture!
That's right!
X, Y, Z!
Good!
How strange, though. There's this thing that's like talking except you don't talk. Silent whispers. Filling a void. Dying of shock. Relinquishing what once was for what now is. Oblivion, a powerful tool.
But I digress. The public is insane. Bonkers. Mad. Everyone is texting like there is no tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, I love communicating. I just hate all the shit we're missing.
But fight it all you want, it's fruitless. It's all in the way of progress. That statement's truth or falsity is moot.
Mad world. Every time you turn around, your soul is sold to the highest bidder. Then they turn around and merger. Merger, merger, murder. The one who mergers most can and will take it all.
But I digress. Furthermore. Nevermore. I'm split down the middle, like our world. And the full set, half off the price they're asking. I'm half biology and half corrective surgery. I'm half underwater. A fraction left up to dispute. I suppose you'll notice something funny if you spend too much time here. But if you listen closely, you'll manage to notice the difference between the halfs and the half nots. This half runs as fast as it can run, but the other comes tumbling after.
Forever relinquished to madness's clutches. You never will find the magic words to change this fact.
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