There's a girl who passes me in the hallway every day. She nods at me. I nod back. We continue on with our business.
Fleeting human contact.
She seems to know me, and every time she nods, I wrack my brain, but I can't seem to remember. Oh God, who is she?
I can't seem to keep everything straight. I don't know whom I've decided to like or to hate.
And I'm just waiting for the day when someone will slap me or shake me and tell me that it's not real. That it's understandable to forget.
But it never happens. The day never comes. I forget which habits I was supposed to break or to show.
The girl seems to like me, but I don't know. I can't relate to her. I'd like to get to know her, but Jesus, all the time it takes.
And maybe that one day will come when she'll slap me and say "Hey fucker, who are you?"
And I won't know the answer.
So until then, I'll just smile and nod and pretend like I know.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Orchestration.
There are days, and then there are days like today. When it seems like everything is symbolic of my life and my entire existence, for better or for worse, and it makes me smile. Or frown. For better or for worse? I do not know. I don't think I ever will.
Walking, head bent, with my mind filled with thoughts to the brink. But managing. Somehow managing. And the wind blows, for the longest time. Watching the wind blow the leaves in little dances around my feet. Watching the world, in the cold, shivery way that it has, come alive. Watching as the trees sway, back and forth, like some kind of giant metronome. Watching as what I thought might stay, goes. Watching, watching watching, as my life happens.
Watching, doing, or making? And I wonder. My ideas are running around. I feel as though I could write pages and pages and pages of stories and plots and adventure. In my head. Onto the pages they would go, and make a masterpiece.
And I've been thinking. All throughout the night I thought, and drew mental images. Of people I know and people I don't. My head is full of strangers I've created whom I'm sure have interesting stories to tell if only they I would tell them. And people that would tell stories if only I could bring them to life. They are everywhichwhere. One of my biggest disappointments is that nobody will ever be able to see the things in my head as I do. I can never hope to create the art and the ideas I see and do them justice and make you understand that I think in colors, big and bold and loud and everything is Exciting. And you just want to stay because it it breathtaking.
I don't think I'm living up to my potential. Instead, I've found little potentials and I've been chasing them into the deep dark corners where they live and sometimes I forget to turn around and see where I've been going. Perhaps I am lost, but I am having an awfully big adventure. Shall I find my way back? What will I find? What if we could meet ourselves in the past and see how we'd changed? But perhaps that is for another day. Another day that isn't so blisteringly cold. So terrible and demanding. So fucking cruel.
Walking, head bent, with my mind filled with thoughts to the brink. But managing. Somehow managing. And the wind blows, for the longest time. Watching the wind blow the leaves in little dances around my feet. Watching the world, in the cold, shivery way that it has, come alive. Watching as the trees sway, back and forth, like some kind of giant metronome. Watching as what I thought might stay, goes. Watching, watching watching, as my life happens.
Watching, doing, or making? And I wonder. My ideas are running around. I feel as though I could write pages and pages and pages of stories and plots and adventure. In my head. Onto the pages they would go, and make a masterpiece.
And I've been thinking. All throughout the night I thought, and drew mental images. Of people I know and people I don't. My head is full of strangers I've created whom I'm sure have interesting stories to tell if only they I would tell them. And people that would tell stories if only I could bring them to life. They are everywhichwhere. One of my biggest disappointments is that nobody will ever be able to see the things in my head as I do. I can never hope to create the art and the ideas I see and do them justice and make you understand that I think in colors, big and bold and loud and everything is Exciting. And you just want to stay because it it breathtaking.
I don't think I'm living up to my potential. Instead, I've found little potentials and I've been chasing them into the deep dark corners where they live and sometimes I forget to turn around and see where I've been going. Perhaps I am lost, but I am having an awfully big adventure. Shall I find my way back? What will I find? What if we could meet ourselves in the past and see how we'd changed? But perhaps that is for another day. Another day that isn't so blisteringly cold. So terrible and demanding. So fucking cruel.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Untitled #7.
I took a walk tonight.
It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.
I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.
She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.
The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.
And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.
It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.
I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.
She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.
The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.
And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Invocation.
The clouds burst into pieces, small sharp shards of shrapnel piercing the air. The sun cascades in through the window and shuns away from the sky. It darkens outside. The temperature drops. Ice crystals form on frosted window panes. Breath vapors cling to the air, visibly shaking in fear.
The swing that I'm sitting on begins to shake as well. A rumbling begins to shake the very earth itself. I draw an aegis of courage from somewhere deep in the depths of my soul and try to face what is bound to come.
The ground splits open. A yawning chasm opens. Blinding darkness spews forth, enveloping the sun. The rainbows are covered with dark, heavy tones. A prismatic spray of darkness issues forth from the gash and begins to send runners towards the swingset. I inhale the frozen air. My aegis is insubstantial, founded upon myth and legend, and crumbles like dust. The tendrils begin to creep up the poles.
Where is the light? Is it sobbing somewhere, surrounded by shadows?
The rainbows have become tainted with brilliant shades of black. The chasm has fixed its signs on the earth. The darkness has left this place in ruin.
Black clouds pool on the edges of the chasm as the slash of a mouth overflows with chromatic ink.
And so it was there, sleeping dormant deep inside of me.
It lay there, bubbling silently from the gash, shrouding the entire city.
They retreated back into the netherworld. Gone, but not entirely gone. The sun isn't quite as bright as it used to be. Those rainbows aren't as prismatic as they should be.
And that playground has never been the same.
The swing that I'm sitting on begins to shake as well. A rumbling begins to shake the very earth itself. I draw an aegis of courage from somewhere deep in the depths of my soul and try to face what is bound to come.
The ground splits open. A yawning chasm opens. Blinding darkness spews forth, enveloping the sun. The rainbows are covered with dark, heavy tones. A prismatic spray of darkness issues forth from the gash and begins to send runners towards the swingset. I inhale the frozen air. My aegis is insubstantial, founded upon myth and legend, and crumbles like dust. The tendrils begin to creep up the poles.
Where is the light? Is it sobbing somewhere, surrounded by shadows?
The rainbows have become tainted with brilliant shades of black. The chasm has fixed its signs on the earth. The darkness has left this place in ruin.
Black clouds pool on the edges of the chasm as the slash of a mouth overflows with chromatic ink.
And so it was there, sleeping dormant deep inside of me.
It lay there, bubbling silently from the gash, shrouding the entire city.
They retreated back into the netherworld. Gone, but not entirely gone. The sun isn't quite as bright as it used to be. Those rainbows aren't as prismatic as they should be.
And that playground has never been the same.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Untitled #6
And the broken man sat down at a table and hung his head in his hands.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.
He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.
It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.
And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.
And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.
And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.
He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.
It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.
And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.
And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.
And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
November.
Rushing and racing and spinning in circles in life's fast forward motion.
And as we clung to hope, we fell to our knees. A thousand ancient spiders bit and scratched our legs. It seeped into our minds. It poisoned all our thoughts.
And now we move so fast that we forget our purpose. Racing and colliding so chaotic.
Spinning so fast that I'm frightened I might disappear in the blur of the
burning that caught on our legs that snatched us together while we weren't looking.
It sparks into emerald green spirals that twist on forever inside of your eyes.
And we began to laugh up a storm and melted away the speed, but as we cried, we tried to find the words that would
help with the decay of our hope. Upon the soft, spongy moss, we lay our heads and our hearts down. We smelled the earth and cried until we laughed and laughed until we cried.
And then we took our tears and mixed it with the burns that covered our legs.
And a soft November rain began to float down. The spiders curled.
Slow me down, November rain. Sweet rain.
And the burned legs did not move quickly. They did not twist or run in circles.
We are the king's third son, and we cannot sleep. The words that we searched for were not home inside their tombs.
The sweet November rain gave hope to our legs, praying that disease would leave us.
We are the king's first son, and we drove our hearse straight through the rain.
And as we clung to hope, we fell to our knees. A thousand ancient spiders bit and scratched our legs. It seeped into our minds. It poisoned all our thoughts.
And now we move so fast that we forget our purpose. Racing and colliding so chaotic.
Spinning so fast that I'm frightened I might disappear in the blur of the
burning that caught on our legs that snatched us together while we weren't looking.
It sparks into emerald green spirals that twist on forever inside of your eyes.
And we began to laugh up a storm and melted away the speed, but as we cried, we tried to find the words that would
help with the decay of our hope. Upon the soft, spongy moss, we lay our heads and our hearts down. We smelled the earth and cried until we laughed and laughed until we cried.
And then we took our tears and mixed it with the burns that covered our legs.
And a soft November rain began to float down. The spiders curled.
Slow me down, November rain. Sweet rain.
And the burned legs did not move quickly. They did not twist or run in circles.
We are the king's third son, and we cannot sleep. The words that we searched for were not home inside their tombs.
The sweet November rain gave hope to our legs, praying that disease would leave us.
We are the king's first son, and we drove our hearse straight through the rain.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Answers in the Basement.
The darkened house loomed before us like some black colossus, hoisting the night sky high above it. We glanced at each other, both shivering with anticipation. Or fear? We couldn't differentiate the two. My hand found yours, the distance between our fingers shrinking to nothing in an instant, as did any doubt. With firm resolution, we stepped onto the cracked driveway. It had long been weathered; tiny green weeks poked their leaves through each rift in the concrete.
Everything was covered in frost. It was deathly quiet; almost like a cemetery.
And maybe we should have hesitated just a moment there. We should have stopped to raise the question. Should we be doing this? But the night was contagious. Any stillness that was in the air seemed to have wormed its way into our brains, stifling the part that should have been catechizing the situation.
We reached the maw of the terrible beast and stepped inside. The air itself seemed to have become stagnant. Abandoned cobwebs drifted in the zephyrs that were stealing in through the door. We exchanged glances once more. Should we be doing this? Of course.
And so we stole into the quiet home in the world of dreams, our scarves wrapped around our necks like nooses.
We slipped in the door and slammed it quietly shut behind us. Turning around brought more than we expected. We were in a den of thieves. Little silvery blue will-o-the-wisps flitted this way and that, snatching darkness and swallowing it whole.
Quiet interludes of piano drifted up from the staircase positioned in the center of the room. Requiem. Nocturne. Bolero. Minuet. Serenades of unknown composers twisted upon mobius strips, writhing and slinking up the stairs.
Bravery must be catching. In the instant that I found firm resolution, you squeezed my hand, reminding me that I was anything but alone. Trampling the mobius strips, we began our journey.
Books. Books upon piles of books upon pianos propped up upon books. Our dream has come.
Our hands flew to cover gaping holes in our faces and our knees rushed to plug the air gushing from the floorboards.
Our hands set their priorities straight, and reached for tomes instead.
This is how we stole through the den of thieves and began to rummage for answers in the basement. We perused the questions in our minds and pondered the answers in the freshly decrepit pages.
They've named cities after us. They've built statues of us and put them underwater.
They've fought wars over us.
They say it's all our fault. What's all our fault?
I don't know.
And this is the story of how we found the little girl in the basement in the quiet house in the world of dreams. Her pianos glowed -- it was the oddest thing. They were filled with candles. Even curiouser, the flames were the same from the den upstairs.
Upstairs, the sun had passed through the glass. The dark was blacker than black. A quiet requiem began to drift through the dark, catching on radio signals that were snagged in our hearts.
And this is the story of the little girl in the basement, who had been born with silver lilies gleaming in her eyes. She was sleeping for eternity by morning with her scarf around her neck. The lilies began to wisp away, curling up over her eyelids and dissipating into the musty, bookish air.
Forever is a long time. I know.
What did we do? I don't know. I really don't know.
And this is the story of how the earth made the heavens and waters collide with such a fury, it was incorrigibly calm. This is the story of how we never discovered what made us so delightfully distasteful. This is the story of the quiet house in the world of dreams. This is the story of the little girl this is the story of how we stole this is the story this is this is this is.
It is so simple, the way the pieces all fit together.
The final piece, the final understanding. Here's a scarf.
No sound at all.
Everything was covered in frost. It was deathly quiet; almost like a cemetery.
And maybe we should have hesitated just a moment there. We should have stopped to raise the question. Should we be doing this? But the night was contagious. Any stillness that was in the air seemed to have wormed its way into our brains, stifling the part that should have been catechizing the situation.
We reached the maw of the terrible beast and stepped inside. The air itself seemed to have become stagnant. Abandoned cobwebs drifted in the zephyrs that were stealing in through the door. We exchanged glances once more. Should we be doing this? Of course.
And so we stole into the quiet home in the world of dreams, our scarves wrapped around our necks like nooses.
We slipped in the door and slammed it quietly shut behind us. Turning around brought more than we expected. We were in a den of thieves. Little silvery blue will-o-the-wisps flitted this way and that, snatching darkness and swallowing it whole.
Quiet interludes of piano drifted up from the staircase positioned in the center of the room. Requiem. Nocturne. Bolero. Minuet. Serenades of unknown composers twisted upon mobius strips, writhing and slinking up the stairs.
Bravery must be catching. In the instant that I found firm resolution, you squeezed my hand, reminding me that I was anything but alone. Trampling the mobius strips, we began our journey.
Books. Books upon piles of books upon pianos propped up upon books. Our dream has come.
Our hands flew to cover gaping holes in our faces and our knees rushed to plug the air gushing from the floorboards.
Our hands set their priorities straight, and reached for tomes instead.
This is how we stole through the den of thieves and began to rummage for answers in the basement. We perused the questions in our minds and pondered the answers in the freshly decrepit pages.
They've named cities after us. They've built statues of us and put them underwater.
They've fought wars over us.
They say it's all our fault. What's all our fault?
I don't know.
And this is the story of how we found the little girl in the basement in the quiet house in the world of dreams. Her pianos glowed -- it was the oddest thing. They were filled with candles. Even curiouser, the flames were the same from the den upstairs.
Upstairs, the sun had passed through the glass. The dark was blacker than black. A quiet requiem began to drift through the dark, catching on radio signals that were snagged in our hearts.
And this is the story of the little girl in the basement, who had been born with silver lilies gleaming in her eyes. She was sleeping for eternity by morning with her scarf around her neck. The lilies began to wisp away, curling up over her eyelids and dissipating into the musty, bookish air.
Forever is a long time. I know.
What did we do? I don't know. I really don't know.
And this is the story of how the earth made the heavens and waters collide with such a fury, it was incorrigibly calm. This is the story of how we never discovered what made us so delightfully distasteful. This is the story of the quiet house in the world of dreams. This is the story of the little girl this is the story of how we stole this is the story this is this is this is.
It is so simple, the way the pieces all fit together.
The final piece, the final understanding. Here's a scarf.
No sound at all.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Shaken.
We are the Broken, the Few, the Damned. We are the dust under your feet and the shimmering stars above your head.
We are the fallen birds with broken wings. We are the fists of vengeance that pummel. We are the forces of nature that buffet and raze. We are the swirling clouds that block the sun and rain justice down upon mankind.
We are the channelers of life and dispellers of death.
We are the relinquished spirits whose requiems were lost in the dark.
We are the bolts of energy crackling from the sky and the soft glow of the moon in the blackened evening.
We are the conjurers of dreams and obliterators of oblivion.
We are the Ruinous, and we are back for retribution.
We are the fallen birds with broken wings. We are the fists of vengeance that pummel. We are the forces of nature that buffet and raze. We are the swirling clouds that block the sun and rain justice down upon mankind.
We are the channelers of life and dispellers of death.
We are the relinquished spirits whose requiems were lost in the dark.
We are the bolts of energy crackling from the sky and the soft glow of the moon in the blackened evening.
We are the conjurers of dreams and obliterators of oblivion.
We are the Ruinous, and we are back for retribution.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Frightened.
Sand dribbles from my clenched fist, running though the tiny rivulets and creases in my hand.
Minuscule rocks tumble to the ground.
I wish I could live in music. I think my life would be so much better if what I called home was the cradle of a soft, lulling flat sign in a song, rather than this shitty, fucked up bubble that prevents me from achieving my potential. Chains.
I hope it's everything I hope it to be.
Sighing songs from sad, little, twinkling stars make the trees weep.
Weeping willows already exist.
And it all seems so silly.
I can't take this anymore. I can't fucking take it.
Amid the falling snow, I catch glimpses of something beautiful. I can't quite see. Who the hell can see forever?
These little birds love the white sounds emitted from clouds. Chirp chirp.
Dreams are easy to achieve if hope is all I'm hoping to be.
Minuscule rocks tumble to the ground.
I wish I could live in music. I think my life would be so much better if what I called home was the cradle of a soft, lulling flat sign in a song, rather than this shitty, fucked up bubble that prevents me from achieving my potential. Chains.
I hope it's everything I hope it to be.
Sighing songs from sad, little, twinkling stars make the trees weep.
Weeping willows already exist.
And it all seems so silly.
I can't take this anymore. I can't fucking take it.
Amid the falling snow, I catch glimpses of something beautiful. I can't quite see. Who the hell can see forever?
These little birds love the white sounds emitted from clouds. Chirp chirp.
Dreams are easy to achieve if hope is all I'm hoping to be.
Antisepholes.
Please remember me. Remember me when I'm dead and gone underground. When I've faded from each singular soul's mind. When my stain fades from the human lace entirely. Please. I'm begging you.
One cold, wintry, blisteringly frigid day, I'll take you there. I'll shock and awe and amaze you. It's an awful, flickering, terrible, beautiful sight.
That place where the cool, green waters cause the golden empyrean kingdom to droop and the shivery, cold, dank earth to rise up.
And thus, I go to the place where the water makes the heavens and the earth collide.
And it's a sad place. I'm all alone there. It's cold.
And everything there seems to represent my existence, for better or for worse?
I stand beneath a cherry tree -- naked, bare, exposed. I reach out to touch a blossom and I detonate in a mixed cavalcade of emotion. It manifests itself in cherry blossoms. And I fall to the damp soil, pretty in pink. A thing of the most bizarre nature. Of the most peculiar stature.
Please forgive me. I apologize if I took up too much of your time.
One cold, wintry, blisteringly frigid day, I'll take you there. I'll shock and awe and amaze you. It's an awful, flickering, terrible, beautiful sight.
That place where the cool, green waters cause the golden empyrean kingdom to droop and the shivery, cold, dank earth to rise up.
And thus, I go to the place where the water makes the heavens and the earth collide.
And it's a sad place. I'm all alone there. It's cold.
And everything there seems to represent my existence, for better or for worse?
I stand beneath a cherry tree -- naked, bare, exposed. I reach out to touch a blossom and I detonate in a mixed cavalcade of emotion. It manifests itself in cherry blossoms. And I fall to the damp soil, pretty in pink. A thing of the most bizarre nature. Of the most peculiar stature.
Please forgive me. I apologize if I took up too much of your time.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Untitled #5
Fuck you for doing this.
Fuck you for all the photographs you won't burn.
All the digital images you won't erase.
Trapping us together like rancid breath in a fucked up, snaggletoothed mouth.
Each photo a jagged, twisted, painful
memory.
Fuck you for calling us significant others.
Let's just say we were lovers and get the fuck out.
Fuck you for leaving me every morning.
I'd fall asleep with you
and wake up in the company of ghosts.
Fuck you for the things we did and didn't do.
Fuck you for every convoluted sunset.
Every cloud torn asunder by your love. How fucking romantic.
I'm under that same sky.
Those same stars.
And I hate it.
But most importantly, fuck you for loving me.
Fuck you for giving me everything.
For letting me give you everything.
There's one thing that I want to say, so I'll try to be brave.
Love is nothing but time and a friend that you lose. You expected it to be more.
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
Fuck you. Fuck you for everything.
and i love you.
Fuck you for all the photographs you won't burn.
All the digital images you won't erase.
Trapping us together like rancid breath in a fucked up, snaggletoothed mouth.
Each photo a jagged, twisted, painful
memory.
Fuck you for calling us significant others.
Let's just say we were lovers and get the fuck out.
Fuck you for leaving me every morning.
I'd fall asleep with you
and wake up in the company of ghosts.
Fuck you for the things we did and didn't do.
Fuck you for every convoluted sunset.
Every cloud torn asunder by your love. How fucking romantic.
I'm under that same sky.
Those same stars.
And I hate it.
But most importantly, fuck you for loving me.
Fuck you for giving me everything.
For letting me give you everything.
There's one thing that I want to say, so I'll try to be brave.
Love is nothing but time and a friend that you lose. You expected it to be more.
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
Fuck you. Fuck you for everything.
and i love you.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Drift.
I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.
I feel like I'm waiting for something that will never come.
This turns to that, and other eloquent phrases.
BOOM.
i wish i could help you, sad eyed girl. brown eyed girl. i can't. you seem happy. but i don't think you are. how could you be?
and i wish i could fill you up with air and lift you off your toes and fill you up with happiness and give you everything you want so you'll be happy
and then they'll be nothing left of me and i'll just
float
away
like puffs of a dandelion weed.
like bits of a dream.
i wish i could help you, mister mystery. you deserve so much, and you have a lot, but the one thing that you treasure the most, that you value with all of your being, that one little spark that people search for all of their lives, it's fading
and
i
can't
help
you.
i'm not supposed to. it's just not how it works. it's not like i could really do anything.
is it?
could i?
could i fill you up with happiness and wonderment and make you see everything for what is it, and maybe more? could i give you all that splendiferous awe and amazement at the beauty of life? but it's not your fault. no, it really isn't. but maybe if i try really hard, i can give you something
and maybe that something will fill you up and let me down and i'll
just
float away.
like magic dream bits.
like puffs of a cloud.
and i'm trying.
oh i'm trying and it's so hard it's apparent that i'm trying but trying only gets you so far
and maybe someday i'll finally
float
away...
I feel like I'm waiting for something that will never come.
This turns to that, and other eloquent phrases.
BOOM.
i wish i could help you, sad eyed girl. brown eyed girl. i can't. you seem happy. but i don't think you are. how could you be?
and i wish i could fill you up with air and lift you off your toes and fill you up with happiness and give you everything you want so you'll be happy
and then they'll be nothing left of me and i'll just
float
away
like puffs of a dandelion weed.
like bits of a dream.
i wish i could help you, mister mystery. you deserve so much, and you have a lot, but the one thing that you treasure the most, that you value with all of your being, that one little spark that people search for all of their lives, it's fading
and
i
can't
help
you.
i'm not supposed to. it's just not how it works. it's not like i could really do anything.
is it?
could i?
could i fill you up with happiness and wonderment and make you see everything for what is it, and maybe more? could i give you all that splendiferous awe and amazement at the beauty of life? but it's not your fault. no, it really isn't. but maybe if i try really hard, i can give you something
and maybe that something will fill you up and let me down and i'll
just
float away.
like magic dream bits.
like puffs of a cloud.
and i'm trying.
oh i'm trying and it's so hard it's apparent that i'm trying but trying only gets you so far
and maybe someday i'll finally
float
away...
Monday, August 3, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Solitude.
Is anyone actually still out there?
Oblivion is a powerful tool of adaptation to reality because it destroys, little by little, the surviving past in us that is constantly in contradiction with it...
Oblivion is a powerful tool of adaptation to reality because it destroys, little by little, the surviving past in us that is constantly in contradiction with it...
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Why am I not dying?
This life is too busy for me. I can't keep up with all of these events. There's too much going on. Too much to cram in my little head. Too much that I don't comprehend.
I've tried to write more, but it hasn't worked out. It all turns out the same. The same themes. The same obscurity. The same "ghosts." But I don't know what these ghosts are. Well, that's not exactly true. I do know. I just can't describe them.
That's a lie, too. I can. I just don't want to. At least, not right now.
I doubt anyone reads this. Well, maybe it'll provide good entertainment on those early morning crises that I seem to have so frequently. Because I'm so fucking pretentious.
Oh, well.
This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
I've tried to write more, but it hasn't worked out. It all turns out the same. The same themes. The same obscurity. The same "ghosts." But I don't know what these ghosts are. Well, that's not exactly true. I do know. I just can't describe them.
That's a lie, too. I can. I just don't want to. At least, not right now.
I doubt anyone reads this. Well, maybe it'll provide good entertainment on those early morning crises that I seem to have so frequently. Because I'm so fucking pretentious.
Oh, well.
This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Glimmer.
It's unnaturally frigid outside for this time of year.
I wish things would stop. If only for one night.
I lay in the grass, watching the stars twinkling out some cryptic message.
It's so cold tonight...
These ghosts that have haunted me for too long are learning how to breathe. One glides down and lands beside me, light as a feather, but thickening. That voice. That incessant whisper in my ear that has followed me for far too long. And the eyes.
The eyes. So...brilliant. Like fireflies in a jar. But changed, somehow. Two gleaming pearls. Two scintillating whirlpools, sucking any scrap of warmth that might have remained in my body. I shivered as a gust of wind shook the night and buffeted the grass.
Neighborhood attempts to dream, while all around them, silently, my ghosts glimmer and shake.
The figure floats on the breeze, eyes rippling, trapped in limbo; not quite yet solid, but still ghostly. Ghastly existence.
It's a beautiful, flickering sight.
And with the first crack of the breaking dawn, I, like a specter, drifted into the night.
I wish things would stop. If only for one night.
I lay in the grass, watching the stars twinkling out some cryptic message.
It's so cold tonight...
These ghosts that have haunted me for too long are learning how to breathe. One glides down and lands beside me, light as a feather, but thickening. That voice. That incessant whisper in my ear that has followed me for far too long. And the eyes.
The eyes. So...brilliant. Like fireflies in a jar. But changed, somehow. Two gleaming pearls. Two scintillating whirlpools, sucking any scrap of warmth that might have remained in my body. I shivered as a gust of wind shook the night and buffeted the grass.
Neighborhood attempts to dream, while all around them, silently, my ghosts glimmer and shake.
The figure floats on the breeze, eyes rippling, trapped in limbo; not quite yet solid, but still ghostly. Ghastly existence.
It's a beautiful, flickering sight.
And with the first crack of the breaking dawn, I, like a specter, drifted into the night.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Can't I?
stars above. the smell of dead leaves. the colour of damp earth stretches across the horizon. over the horizon. mist looms by itself over yards and streets. the smell of death pervades the air.
What am I saying?
What am I saying?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Stormy.
Thunder rumbles in the distance -- a quiet but fierce power. The trees are restless.
A flash of light illuminates hidden secrets in the flora. Foxfire dances in and out of the shadows.
And with a crack, the sky opens wide and spits out a deluge. Drop upon drop upon drop...
Streets fill with water. Drains overflow. Flowering trees are shattered and crash to the ground. Gale force winds buffet the flowers who were brave enough to venture forth. Should have stayed underground.
and not a ghost in sight
A flash of light illuminates hidden secrets in the flora. Foxfire dances in and out of the shadows.
And with a crack, the sky opens wide and spits out a deluge. Drop upon drop upon drop...
Streets fill with water. Drains overflow. Flowering trees are shattered and crash to the ground. Gale force winds buffet the flowers who were brave enough to venture forth. Should have stayed underground.
and not a ghost in sight
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Stardust.
The ghosts came back again.
In the pouring rain, I walked down my street. It was nearly pitch black, but the street lights were cold and brilliant.
And from every street corner, they came. Whispering. whispering...
and the time came. the dancers fell through the ice. tears fell up. down. raining.
it looks like acid rain tonight. this misery that they bring is ephemeral.
and a shockwave blasted through the city. the sky gleamed and changed to white. crack. crack. boom.
and the sky began falling. pieces of white. fragments of stars. stardust. moondust.
and the city froze. when such wonders fall glittering from the sky, how can one ignore it?
and somewhere. somewhere in the city, someone's dreaming ends. their eyes are wide open. crazed ambition fills their glassy gleam. their eyes fill with it.
and all of their blind ambition left them deaf with perfect vision...
how on earth did they end up in the fireplace?
I can't stand it anymore. I simply collapse. These ghosts will not leave me.
And a shockwave echoes through the city. The stardust falls.
Such wonderful, glittering misery.
In the pouring rain, I walked down my street. It was nearly pitch black, but the street lights were cold and brilliant.
And from every street corner, they came. Whispering. whispering...
and the time came. the dancers fell through the ice. tears fell up. down. raining.
it looks like acid rain tonight. this misery that they bring is ephemeral.
and a shockwave blasted through the city. the sky gleamed and changed to white. crack. crack. boom.
and the sky began falling. pieces of white. fragments of stars. stardust. moondust.
and the city froze. when such wonders fall glittering from the sky, how can one ignore it?
and somewhere. somewhere in the city, someone's dreaming ends. their eyes are wide open. crazed ambition fills their glassy gleam. their eyes fill with it.
and all of their blind ambition left them deaf with perfect vision...
how on earth did they end up in the fireplace?
I can't stand it anymore. I simply collapse. These ghosts will not leave me.
And a shockwave echoes through the city. The stardust falls.
Such wonderful, glittering misery.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Untitled #4
Words colours figures twisting anguish softness reds and browns lace cloth clouds comfort time stops frame eyes spheres prints souls life feeling emotion looping dripping draping misshapen.
And it was beautiful beyond description.
And it was beautiful beyond description.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Untitled #3
I went for a walk again this morning. I kept expecting to run into someone I knew, or at least someone. I kept hoping that we would see each other from far away, then slowly draw closer, and each of us would wonder why the other was out so early. Then we'd begin talking, out of pure curiosity.
But I didn't see anyone.
This is a terrible place to meet people.
But I didn't see anyone.
This is a terrible place to meet people.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Night's Requiem.
I took a walk again tonight. It was a frigid night.
There's a field in the neighborhood. I found myself there, for no particular reason.
There was frost on the asphalt.
Up in the sky, the moon gleamed in a pool of black ink. So bright. Pale as a bone. Cold as ice.
In the empty field, the moonlit grass stretched into a dark haze of trees. Not a soul in sight. Not even ghosts.
I laid down in the center of the field. The chilly night air blew through the grass, creating rippling waves.
And the ghosts descended. As did sleep.
When I woke up, the sun was barely tinting the sky a dark blue.
I couldn't stay there all night.
As I walked home, I kept my eyes on the brightening sky.
And as I walked past the cold, bright streetlamps, the night came flooding back.
The ghosts. Frost. Weeds. Grass. Bone. Frigid. Soul. Trees. Waves.
But then the vision became too vivid to bear.
I was on the ground. It was quiet as a graveyard.
And then I realized it.
There was no one here.
And as I lay on the ground, the ghosts descended again. I didn't move.
And I spent the dawn in the company of ghosts.
There's a field in the neighborhood. I found myself there, for no particular reason.
There was frost on the asphalt.
Up in the sky, the moon gleamed in a pool of black ink. So bright. Pale as a bone. Cold as ice.
In the empty field, the moonlit grass stretched into a dark haze of trees. Not a soul in sight. Not even ghosts.
I laid down in the center of the field. The chilly night air blew through the grass, creating rippling waves.
And the ghosts descended. As did sleep.
When I woke up, the sun was barely tinting the sky a dark blue.
I couldn't stay there all night.
As I walked home, I kept my eyes on the brightening sky.
And as I walked past the cold, bright streetlamps, the night came flooding back.
The ghosts. Frost. Weeds. Grass. Bone. Frigid. Soul. Trees. Waves.
But then the vision became too vivid to bear.
I was on the ground. It was quiet as a graveyard.
And then I realized it.
There was no one here.
And as I lay on the ground, the ghosts descended again. I didn't move.
And I spent the dawn in the company of ghosts.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Early Morning.
I woke up this morning alone. I had slept in the presence of ghosts.
Outside, the morning's darkness was so cold and shivery. Silhouettes of monsters rose right and left.
No. Trees. Just trees.
I wonder if I'll see anyone. But doubt scampers in and out of the shadows.
Little clouds of exhalation form outside my mouth. Obfuscations of the dim light of the streetlights.
And all around, this city holds secrets that I need to discover. That I need to find. A hidden treasure here.
A secret there.
And even in the darkness, I can see every colour. I can see every shape, every twisting mass. Every single secret.
It's all around me. Like music in the cold morning air.
Outside, the morning's darkness was so cold and shivery. Silhouettes of monsters rose right and left.
No. Trees. Just trees.
I wonder if I'll see anyone. But doubt scampers in and out of the shadows.
Little clouds of exhalation form outside my mouth. Obfuscations of the dim light of the streetlights.
And all around, this city holds secrets that I need to discover. That I need to find. A hidden treasure here.
A secret there.
And even in the darkness, I can see every colour. I can see every shape, every twisting mass. Every single secret.
It's all around me. Like music in the cold morning air.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
A Box of Clouds.
A Box of Clouds
Characters-
Katie - A girl plagued by nightmares.
Damien - A child molester.
Living Mannequin - A part of Katie's dream world.
Note: There is no spoken word unless otherwise indicated.
Scene I
(Lights up on a podium, center stage, decorated in a way that is reminiscent of a carnival. March In A Minor begins to play. DAMIEN, wearing a mask, enters through the studio doors, carrying an old fashioned megaphone and a sandwich board sign with an old advertisement for a carnival on it. He carries them to the stage, places the sandwich board next to the podium, and places the bullhorn on the podium. He exits through the studio doors again, then enters with a large cage, big enough for a human to fit under, and LIVING MANNEQUIN, who is also wearing a mask, in tow. DAMIEN drags LIVING MANNEQUIN to the other side of the podium and quickly places the cage over her. KATIE, who is also wearing a mask, enters S.R. and crosses to the cage and begins pointing and laughing with the laughter in the song. DAMIEN picks up the megaphone and when the man in the song begins speaking, DAMIEN begins to address the audience as though he were the one speaking.
On the line "...to peel back your cranium!", DAMIEN crosses to LIVING MANNEQUIN, lifts the cage off, and then tears her mask off. KATIE mimes screaming when the recording screams. LIVING MANNEQUIN tears the mask off of DAMIEN. She begins choking DAMIEN, and the pair falls to the floor. All the while, KATIE is laughing with the recording. At the end of the song, the lights fade to black.)
Scene II
(Lights up on KATIE. She is lying unconscious center stage, with the only source of light being an old, yet very intricately designed lamp, which is resting on a nondescript desk D.S.R. A small chalkboard is resting up against the front of the desk -- visible to the audience -- with words that read "DO NOT TURN OUT THE LIGHT." Four signs, 'THIS WAY', 'THAT WAY', 'ONE WAY', and 'OTHER WAY', in respective order from U.S.L., are pointing offstage in four different directions. A loud thump startles KATIE into consciousness. Bleak sounding calliope music begins to play. The lights come up slowly.
As KATIE slowly begins to regain her composure, the thump is heard again. KATIE stands up and looks around, examining her surroundings. She starts to exit "THAT WAY", but is brought back onstage by LIVING MANNEQUIN. LIVING MANNEQUIN sidesteps her and exits "THIS WAY". KATIE tries to follow her, but something stops her; an invisible wall. She places her hands on the wall, then crosses to the desk and sits in the chair, frustrated. The thump is heard again, louder this time. She stands and begins to search in depth in the four directions.
KATIE exits "THAT WAY", then enters with a small ragdoll with scissors stuck in the torso. KATIE crosses to the desk, sits in the chair, and begins to examine it. A small girl's laughter echos around the room. KATIE stands, places the doll on the desk, and exits "One Way". The calliope music stops. KATIE stumbles back onstage, clearly distraught by something. The music resumes. KATIE regains her composure, then exits "Other Way". She enters with a small, ornate hand mirror. Upon further examination, she discovers that the mirror's surface is cracked and is missing a fragment.
The thump is heard once again. KATIE begins to storm off "THAT WAY", but is stopped by DAMIEN. He hands her a "Have You Seen This Child?" poster with KATIE's face on it. DAMIEN exits "Other Way". KATIE stares at the poster for a few seconds, then crumples it up, crosses to the desk, and yanks open one of the desk drawers. She makes as though to throw the poster inside, but is stopped by something. From inside the drawer, KATIE withdraws an envelope. She looks at the envelope confusedly, turning it this way and that, trying to make sense of it. Finally, defeated, she hands it to one of the audience members and motions for them to open it and read it.
AUDIENCE MEMBER: (Reading the letter) It's either this or that way. It's one way or the other. Try to find the pieces to fit inside the cracks. But the pieces don't fit together so well, with all the breaking and all the fitting back.
KATIE thanks the audience member by shaking their hand, then takes the letter back. She studies it very carefully, trying to decipher some clue from it. She thinks deeply for a few moments, then picks up the mirror. The thump is heard again. She looks off "THIS WAY" and notices something. She bolts off "THIS WAY", and is pushed back onstage by LIVING MANNEQUIN. From out of "OTHER WAY" comes DAMIEN. DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN meet center stage and begin to waltz. KATIE stands S.R., mouth open with horror. DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN's dance gradually increases in intensity and the music begins to skip. With each skip, DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN jolt as if they are marionettes whose strings are breaking, one by one. After all the "strings" have broken, DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN fall to the floor, unconscious, and the calliope music stops. KATIE runs over to them and checks their pulses.
KATIE starts to sob. She collapses to the ground in despair, then slowly becomes more angry than hopeless. She begins throwing a fit. She beats the bodies of LIVING MANNEQUIN and DAMIEN with her fists, then stands up and moves her tantrum to the desk. She shreds the letter into pieces, then throws it into the air. She jerks open one of the desk drawers and gasps. She slowly reaches into the drawer and extracts a mirror fragment. KATIE picks up the mirror off of the desk and holds the fragment to the hole in the mirror's surface. Absentmindedly, she starts to exit "ONE WAY", but trips over the lamp's cord and falls to the ground, dropping the mirror. She stands up, brushes herself off, then looks down. Her eyes widen. She picks up the dropped mirror -- the handle has snapped off. Furious, KATIE drops the mirror pieces and scoops up the lamp's cord in one fluid motion. She very visibly unplugs the lamp. As the lamp goes out, so does the spotlight.)
DAMIEN: (From the dark)There is no way out. You may think there could be a way out of this, but there isn't. You may think that all your problems can be solved by looking in the other direction. Well, you're wrong. Dead wrong.
Intentions may be good. Intentions may be bad. But they always end up coming back to haunt you.
Yours thoughts can fester in the darkest chasms of your soul. They'll keep screaming at you until the only you want is for them to get out. Your personal demons, well, they can scheme like professionals. But humans have this thing called hope. It can tear them apart. It can build them up. It can do marvelous things. It's no mystery why the lot of you tell yourselves that everything's going to be alright. (Beat) You should stop lying to yourselves.
Scene III
(Lights up on an abandoned playground. There is a small slide S.R. Various objects, such as chalk, a jump rope, ect. are scattered around the stage. KATIE, dressed in a jacket, a mid-length skirt, a tank-top, and sandals enters S.L. bouncing a small ball. Slide by The Dresden Dolls begins to play. At this point, all of KATIE's and the rest of the character's movements should become very fluid and graceful, as if the whole thing were a dance. The ball should be one that would be used for a outdoor game, such as four square or wall-ball. KATIE bounces the ball a couple times, then looks up and notices the slide. She drops the ball in front of the slide, climbs up the ladder to the top, and begins to slide down it. When she gets to the bottom, she accidentally hits the ball off S.L. She chases after the ball, exiting S.L. for a few seconds, but then backs up onto the stage again, followed by DAMIEN. KATIE begins to run away from him, but he catches her arm and makes eye contact on the line "...Wants to take her for a ride."
KATIE breaks away from DAMIEN and begins to run off S.R., but stops and turns to face him. She slowly crosses to him and looks at him tentatively. They embrace at the line "...And he tells her he'll take her away where it's safe..." and DAMIEN very noticeably crosses his fingers at the line "...And, of course, it is a lie."
They break apart and LIVING MANNEQUIN enters S.R., crosses to KATIE and removes her jacket, leaving her in the skirt and tank-top. KATIE crosses to Damien and begins to play pattycake with him. As this is happening, LIVING MANNEQUIN is standing upstage of the pair, sloppily applying lipstick, blush, ect. KATIE pays no attention to her. After a little while, they stop and KATIE motions for DAMIEN to bend over. She whispers something into his ear, then crosses to S.R. in front of the slide and begins mouthing numbers. DAMIEN appears irritated at first, but he hides it, crosses to the slide, and crouches behind it, although still very visible. KATIE stops counting and begins to search for DAMIEN. She enters the audience and looks up and down the aisles, but to no avail. Dejectedly, she turns back to the stage, spots DAMIEN, and excitedly runs to him.
She grabs his hand and pulls him U.S.L., picks up her ball, and begins to play catch with him. LIVING MANNEQUIN crosses to KATIE, takes her hand, and gently leads her to the slide. KATIE climbs to the top of the slide and LIVING MANNEQUIN removes her sandals. KATIE slides down the slide around the line "...But she's coming. She's coming. She's coming". LIVING MANNEQUIN crosses to center stage, faces the audience, and begins to address the audience as though she were the one speaking. At the line "...a good decade before the bell rang?", LIVING MANNEQUIN turns away from the audience, distressed.
At the line "As she starts to draw nearer," KATIE moves into the audience and hides behind an audience member, but is still very visible. DAMIEN appears irritated to see that KATIE has disappeared, but then glances into the audience, and his expression softens into a ominous smile. He crosses to KATIE and leads her by the hand to the slide. KATIE appears wary of DAMIEN, struggling somewhat against his grasp. DAMIEN half helps her, half pushes her to the top of the slide, then crosses to the bottom of the slide and crouches with his arms spread, as if to catch her.
At the beginning of the "Don't worry, I've got you" lines, KATIE begins to slowly slide down the slide. When KATIE is about halfway down the slide, LIVING MANNEQUIN notices the scene, rushes to KATIE's side, and begins pleading with her, but KATIE doesn't notice. When KATIE reaches the bottom of the slide at the last "Don't worry, I've got you", LIVING MANNEQUIN places herself between DAMIEN and KATIE. KATIE and LIVING MANNEQUIN make eye contact, then KATIE frantically tries to stand up and run away. Before she can run away, though, at the line 'The orange man's got you," DAMIEN throws LIVING MANNEQUIN aside, picks KATIE up and half drags, half carries her offstage. LIVING MANNEQUIN, paralyzed with horror, is unable to do any thing and simply stares after them. She dissolves into tears. Blackout.
The lights come up on the abandoned playground. On the last line (...Wants to take her for a ride), KATIE's ball bounces onstage. Blackout.)
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Echo Gallery.
Walk through this echo gallery. Shadows of individuals rest here, succumbed to their inner thoughts. And while the hall is a secret, the world's critical gaze judges those that reside inside.
Look at this girl. Jackie, her name was. Jackie, the Maiden of Anguish, you might call her now. She's just a statue now. And now, only in her wildest dreams is she human.
And from her rocky face, her dry eyes shed tears of pebbles.
Her face was sculpted from her body, a bust from the rest. The artist; herself.
She only wanted to look pretty for the world.
But now, the curator of the gallery covers them all in silky clothes to keep them from staining.
What's the point of looking pretty if nobody's watching anymore?
But she's not pretty anymore. No, she had a scarring accident. Someone tipped her over while visiting and her face received a fatal chip.
Horribly disfigured, she welcomes the curator's cloth. She might be taken down from the gallery, because who likes imperfection among perfection?
Isn't it sad that beauty is based on chips and flaws and dents?
But now, she sits in a pensive state. She wonders if she could have changed her destiny. Who knew that she would have sold herself to this awful place?
Look at this girl. Jackie, her name was. Jackie, the Maiden of Anguish, you might call her now. She's just a statue now. And now, only in her wildest dreams is she human.
And from her rocky face, her dry eyes shed tears of pebbles.
Her face was sculpted from her body, a bust from the rest. The artist; herself.
She only wanted to look pretty for the world.
But now, the curator of the gallery covers them all in silky clothes to keep them from staining.
What's the point of looking pretty if nobody's watching anymore?
But she's not pretty anymore. No, she had a scarring accident. Someone tipped her over while visiting and her face received a fatal chip.
Horribly disfigured, she welcomes the curator's cloth. She might be taken down from the gallery, because who likes imperfection among perfection?
Isn't it sad that beauty is based on chips and flaws and dents?
But now, she sits in a pensive state. She wonders if she could have changed her destiny. Who knew that she would have sold herself to this awful place?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Eden.
The spirits, they are restless. There is something ill at ease. I watch them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Look into the garden.
The branches, they are swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There is something ominous about them.
The spirits create a raging tempest of memories soon forgot. I watch it from my window -- a storm of swirling silver is mirrored in the glass.
The wind picks up. An unearthly whistling fills the air.
Thunder crashes.
The fall of water from clouds forms a silver sheet. It crashes upon the roses and strips them bare of colour.
It is often warned that weather is a force to be reckoned with. It is heavily laden with omens, both good and bad.
Go into the garden to calm the spirits. The rain pours from the sky like blood from an open wound into the garden, staining it a silvery-blue.
The petals, they have fallen from the roses to the ground. The bare branches shake in fear.
I look upon the ghastly sight of destruction by gales and rains.
My eyes fill with water. I've fallen to the ground.
The ground begins to shake. I'm as frightened as the trees.
A yawning chasm opens, enveloping the breeze.
I wonder if this chasm will swallow all my fears. The silver sheets of water drain slowly to the deep.
The petals, they have vanished. Swept away with the silver.
I'm left alone with the trees; what little use they serve. They quail in fear, huddling masses of brown and grey.
The weeping willows sob, their time has come at last. They fall into the chasm, into a dark vortex of silver and pink.
The spirits, they have vanished. Drawn into some endless pit. The weather is an omen -- the storm is not relenting.
The future is looking grim. My eyes have flooded over. I'm swallowing the wind, the water, and my tears.
The garden, it is helpless. It's drawn into the chasm. The silver sheets of water are ever relentless.
The spirits, they were restless. There was something ill at ease. I watched them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Looked into the garden.
The branches, they were swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There was something ominous about them.
Something ominous.
I never should have gone into the garden.
Look into the garden.
The branches, they are swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There is something ominous about them.
The spirits create a raging tempest of memories soon forgot. I watch it from my window -- a storm of swirling silver is mirrored in the glass.
The wind picks up. An unearthly whistling fills the air.
Thunder crashes.
The fall of water from clouds forms a silver sheet. It crashes upon the roses and strips them bare of colour.
It is often warned that weather is a force to be reckoned with. It is heavily laden with omens, both good and bad.
Go into the garden to calm the spirits. The rain pours from the sky like blood from an open wound into the garden, staining it a silvery-blue.
The petals, they have fallen from the roses to the ground. The bare branches shake in fear.
I look upon the ghastly sight of destruction by gales and rains.
My eyes fill with water. I've fallen to the ground.
The ground begins to shake. I'm as frightened as the trees.
A yawning chasm opens, enveloping the breeze.
I wonder if this chasm will swallow all my fears. The silver sheets of water drain slowly to the deep.
The petals, they have vanished. Swept away with the silver.
I'm left alone with the trees; what little use they serve. They quail in fear, huddling masses of brown and grey.
The weeping willows sob, their time has come at last. They fall into the chasm, into a dark vortex of silver and pink.
The spirits, they have vanished. Drawn into some endless pit. The weather is an omen -- the storm is not relenting.
The future is looking grim. My eyes have flooded over. I'm swallowing the wind, the water, and my tears.
The garden, it is helpless. It's drawn into the chasm. The silver sheets of water are ever relentless.
The spirits, they were restless. There was something ill at ease. I watched them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Looked into the garden.
The branches, they were swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There was something ominous about them.
Something ominous.
I never should have gone into the garden.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
What We Had Was a Beautiful Tapestry.
Don't I know you?
We measured the time with hands entwined, counting the moments that left us in a haze.
Alone...
You left me.
But of course I forgive you. I've seen how you live. You have fears and needs to appease. But we helped each other. We banished those fears. We filled those needs. And like a phoenix, we rose from the ashes of your former life. We picked up the pieces, rose up towards the sun, with ambitions and dreams wrapped around us like brightly coloured ribbons.
But the ghosts in the attic, they never quite leave.
I could have sworn I know you.
It's a distance that's filled with the greatest of ease. The distance between our fingers. We fit into each other like puzzle pieces, with your hand in mine.
With each passing day, the history we made drew us tighter and tighter together, confirming our belief that some sort of miracle brought us together in this celestial waltz. Rising up towards the sky, dancing through time and space. Through the colours of the seasons. Through the brightly coloured ribbons.
But somehow, this time spent together was ephemeral. The petals of time slowly unfolded, revealing what the fates had planned for us. Whether we liked it or not, we accepted it as part of Time's decree.
So we just held on fast while the moments we had faded away into the caverns of our minds. And all of the memories we had eroded to dust. All of the time and space between us grew into a huge chasm.
We learn to accept the past as lessons that were painstakingly and exquisitely crafted. As thread that we use to spin the stories of our lives. The tales of the love and hate, the happiness and sorrow, captured in thin lines. Brightly coloured lines. Forever immortalized in a tapestry to hang on our walls.
Because we don't realize how much faith we have in our lives unless our prizes have been somehow elusive.
Yes, I thought I knew you from somewhere...
We measured the time with hands entwined, counting the moments that left us in a haze.
Alone...
You left me.
But of course I forgive you. I've seen how you live. You have fears and needs to appease. But we helped each other. We banished those fears. We filled those needs. And like a phoenix, we rose from the ashes of your former life. We picked up the pieces, rose up towards the sun, with ambitions and dreams wrapped around us like brightly coloured ribbons.
But the ghosts in the attic, they never quite leave.
I could have sworn I know you.
It's a distance that's filled with the greatest of ease. The distance between our fingers. We fit into each other like puzzle pieces, with your hand in mine.
With each passing day, the history we made drew us tighter and tighter together, confirming our belief that some sort of miracle brought us together in this celestial waltz. Rising up towards the sky, dancing through time and space. Through the colours of the seasons. Through the brightly coloured ribbons.
But somehow, this time spent together was ephemeral. The petals of time slowly unfolded, revealing what the fates had planned for us. Whether we liked it or not, we accepted it as part of Time's decree.
So we just held on fast while the moments we had faded away into the caverns of our minds. And all of the memories we had eroded to dust. All of the time and space between us grew into a huge chasm.
We learn to accept the past as lessons that were painstakingly and exquisitely crafted. As thread that we use to spin the stories of our lives. The tales of the love and hate, the happiness and sorrow, captured in thin lines. Brightly coloured lines. Forever immortalized in a tapestry to hang on our walls.
Because we don't realize how much faith we have in our lives unless our prizes have been somehow elusive.
Yes, I thought I knew you from somewhere...
Monday, February 16, 2009
Inkwells.
I don't want to sleep tonight. I want to take a walk in the falling snow.
...there's no snow...
I want to lay in fields of green-turning-white.
For some reason, all the world is alive tonight. I guess the cold, in a strange, invigorating way, breathes life. La vie.
The wind picks up. The windows shake.
Loud, though. I guess I won't hear the dawn break.
I cannot bear it any longer. I dash outside.
Neighborhoods with sporadic trees. The world pulses. The rhythm of la vie. The rhythm of my pulse. Together, just one beating heart.
I throw my head up to the sky. Clouds of ink float above, quietly. My breath catches.
And strangely, slowly, all around, I watch the snow fall to the ground.
Each silent flake is like a drum, beating out an ephemeral cadence.
Morning light upon the clouds. Drops of light fall to the ground.
The drums are still beating. Puddles of light ripple from centers of gold.
I never heard the dawn break.
...there's no snow...
I want to lay in fields of green-turning-white.
For some reason, all the world is alive tonight. I guess the cold, in a strange, invigorating way, breathes life. La vie.
The wind picks up. The windows shake.
Loud, though. I guess I won't hear the dawn break.
I cannot bear it any longer. I dash outside.
Neighborhoods with sporadic trees. The world pulses. The rhythm of la vie. The rhythm of my pulse. Together, just one beating heart.
I throw my head up to the sky. Clouds of ink float above, quietly. My breath catches.
And strangely, slowly, all around, I watch the snow fall to the ground.
Each silent flake is like a drum, beating out an ephemeral cadence.
Morning light upon the clouds. Drops of light fall to the ground.
The drums are still beating. Puddles of light ripple from centers of gold.
I never heard the dawn break.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Beginnings.
A labyrinth of moments, each different from the next. Everywhere I turn, a new beginning begins, but they never find a finish.
The walls are nothing.
I walk to the horizon.
Another maze. It's all so surprising, but entrance is granted.
I wonder if it's different.
It isn't.
Up in the sky, the moon is swept around. Swaying over the ocean. The waves keep crashing. The moon still keeps moving. Almost like clockwork. Like a wind-up doll.
And through it all, the maze keeps going.
Another patch of sky. The moon has vanished. Or shrank.
But now the stars sign. Twinkling out a life that could be mine.
If only their light could shine enough for me to make it through the maze.
Sudden darkness.
Glancing up to the heavens -- the sky has clouded over.
There's no spark of Leo or Orion.
Winds from far off countries have taken echos of their stories, but all that is heard is whistling. Crashing. Misting. As the moon comes down from dreaming, and the crashing waves stop sleeping, one can only wonder if this is only dreaming.
An unseen blockage is an illusion. A turn taken to begin a new beginning -- still looking for an answer, but never finding the finish. The wrong turn is taken, and lost is found.
Lost, a dark line is made, hopefully in search of the way back to the moment.
It could be left or right.
It could be in or out.
It's either this or that way.
It should be one direction.
But the turn that was taken, the turn that is being made, the turns to come, they don't hold the answer. The stars are gone. The ocean has melted into darkness. The moon is weeping somewhere.
This might be the end.
Or this could be just the beginning.
The walls are nothing.
I walk to the horizon.
Another maze. It's all so surprising, but entrance is granted.
I wonder if it's different.
It isn't.
Up in the sky, the moon is swept around. Swaying over the ocean. The waves keep crashing. The moon still keeps moving. Almost like clockwork. Like a wind-up doll.
And through it all, the maze keeps going.
Another patch of sky. The moon has vanished. Or shrank.
But now the stars sign. Twinkling out a life that could be mine.
If only their light could shine enough for me to make it through the maze.
Sudden darkness.
Glancing up to the heavens -- the sky has clouded over.
There's no spark of Leo or Orion.
Winds from far off countries have taken echos of their stories, but all that is heard is whistling. Crashing. Misting. As the moon comes down from dreaming, and the crashing waves stop sleeping, one can only wonder if this is only dreaming.
An unseen blockage is an illusion. A turn taken to begin a new beginning -- still looking for an answer, but never finding the finish. The wrong turn is taken, and lost is found.
Lost, a dark line is made, hopefully in search of the way back to the moment.
It could be left or right.
It could be in or out.
It's either this or that way.
It should be one direction.
But the turn that was taken, the turn that is being made, the turns to come, they don't hold the answer. The stars are gone. The ocean has melted into darkness. The moon is weeping somewhere.
This might be the end.
Or this could be just the beginning.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Passion. Freedom. Love.
Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going?
The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.
Silver willows. Shades of blues. Green and golden. Summer snowflakes.
Stargazer lilies have closed their eyes.
Some are known as freedom. Some as passion. Some as love.
Passionate love.
And all the while, the clouds are drifting. Collecting. Breaking.
Tall grass waving. Luna smiles upon her children.
The world has gone to sleep.
And from all around, the flowers' secrets drift through the air.
Like wood nymphs. Will-o-the-wisps. Foxfire.
Stargazer lilies have turned their faces to the moon.
Dawn breaks.
Freedom.
Morning glories yawn for hours.
Roses sip their coffee.
And from all around, the flowers tell a story.
About the one the moon loves.
Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going? The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.
All in a golden afternoon.
The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.
Silver willows. Shades of blues. Green and golden. Summer snowflakes.
Stargazer lilies have closed their eyes.
Some are known as freedom. Some as passion. Some as love.
Passionate love.
And all the while, the clouds are drifting. Collecting. Breaking.
Tall grass waving. Luna smiles upon her children.
The world has gone to sleep.
And from all around, the flowers' secrets drift through the air.
Like wood nymphs. Will-o-the-wisps. Foxfire.
Stargazer lilies have turned their faces to the moon.
Dawn breaks.
Freedom.
Morning glories yawn for hours.
Roses sip their coffee.
And from all around, the flowers tell a story.
About the one the moon loves.
Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going? The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.
All in a golden afternoon.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Untitled #2
I took a walk today.
I went to the park of an elementary school. I don't remember the name.
The playground was abandoned.
Sitting on one of the swings, I passed the time. Counting blades of grass. Watching the clouds change. Observing breath clouds.
I spent the day in the company of ghosts. I woke up alone.
It was dark.
I began to walk home. Drops began falling from the sky. The clouds were crying.
Streetlight by streetlight, I counted. I began to talk to you, saying things I would never say directly.
Lightning crackled. Thunder boomed. Everything froze.
I hate the seasons here.
I went to the park of an elementary school. I don't remember the name.
The playground was abandoned.
Sitting on one of the swings, I passed the time. Counting blades of grass. Watching the clouds change. Observing breath clouds.
I spent the day in the company of ghosts. I woke up alone.
It was dark.
I began to walk home. Drops began falling from the sky. The clouds were crying.
Streetlight by streetlight, I counted. I began to talk to you, saying things I would never say directly.
Lightning crackled. Thunder boomed. Everything froze.
I hate the seasons here.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The North Wind.
A late January day, and it's a hazy shade of gray. Head bent, but ever onward. Bent legs, bent mind. Scorching heat encased inside biting cold. Where have the leaves gone? The trees look naked.
And the wind begins to blow. Birches, elms, and willows begin to bend. Out of the blue. The gray. Corpses of leaves blow past. The world, in its cold way, started coming alive.
And the trees began to stretch. Cold wind chills to the bones.
There's no one here. Anywhere.
And I felt cold. I felt lonely. I felt frightened.
Fleeting memories of people gone by. Unchained recollections sink to the bottom of the lake. Links break. Ropes snap.
And the moments stretch on and on. Almost as long as the trees.
And in an instant, it's gone. Pebbles to the bottom of a pond. Recalling anything is a chore if there is nothing left to remember. A difficult task, indeed.
Sad eyes are closed. Like gates. Out of sight, out of mind. Water pools at the edges of the eyes. Tears, one might say. But they never fall. They rest there, harbingers to what once was. Or what might have been. Or what is. Cool recollections meet cold wind.
White lace begins to dance down from the heavens. Curious. Cold wind meets cool lace. Scorching heat meets icy frost. Biting frost.
The lake is solid. The pebbles have iced over. Tears have turned to chilly glass. Eyes are frozen.
Blue clocks without hands.
And the wind begins to blow. Birches, elms, and willows begin to bend. Out of the blue. The gray. Corpses of leaves blow past. The world, in its cold way, started coming alive.
And the trees began to stretch. Cold wind chills to the bones.
There's no one here. Anywhere.
And I felt cold. I felt lonely. I felt frightened.
Fleeting memories of people gone by. Unchained recollections sink to the bottom of the lake. Links break. Ropes snap.
And the moments stretch on and on. Almost as long as the trees.
And in an instant, it's gone. Pebbles to the bottom of a pond. Recalling anything is a chore if there is nothing left to remember. A difficult task, indeed.
Sad eyes are closed. Like gates. Out of sight, out of mind. Water pools at the edges of the eyes. Tears, one might say. But they never fall. They rest there, harbingers to what once was. Or what might have been. Or what is. Cool recollections meet cold wind.
White lace begins to dance down from the heavens. Curious. Cold wind meets cool lace. Scorching heat meets icy frost. Biting frost.
The lake is solid. The pebbles have iced over. Tears have turned to chilly glass. Eyes are frozen.
Blue clocks without hands.
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