Posts
I have many names, and all of them matter....
What is your name?
I have one name, and a few numbers....
And she told me her phone number.
What a disappointing way to ruin a perfectly beautiful evening.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Time
I walked out of life and pondered about, around and about me,
I saw no defenses, I sought no forgiveness. I made you mine, You caught me.
We were wrong, in our time,
out and down, out of line.
My fascination with bloodsport couldn't not be any more vain,
I returned to you, with knowledge that were were the same.
We are two but the same, two in Hell, two set free,
too alike, me to you, you to me.
We watched time pass in due course, always tied by a mutual feeling,
In the back of my mind all is mistrust and segregation of thoughts,
My ideas turning to stone,
My ideals turning to dust.
Don't think I'd have stayed just for one more day, it seems so much like home, no room to go astray. Don't think I could watch - with mindless, empty tasks, life moving in, forced to walk a lonely path.
Pictures all around, of how death should be, a model for the rest, that bred insecurity, I walked a jagged line and then came back for more, it's always in my mind, an institution with no law.
I can see a thousand wills just bleeding into the night. And all the pretty faces painted gray to match the sky.
From a distance seeing friends just washed up on the shore, a picture in my mind of what's to come before the storm.
In time, we don't belong in our own lifetime.
I can hear the voices lost in echoes as they build,
New homes to hide the sadness that the search for more had killed.
I can feel an emptiness and see heads held in shame,
Trapped inside a legacy of everyone to blame.
We won't crawl and never show our faces,
We'll stand firm and never show the traces.
The fear we knew but always could disguise,
This sinking feeling hid behind our eyes.
Nothing seems real anymore.
Even the flames from the fire seem to beckon to me,
Drawing me into some great past life, if only I could find the key
Ever since my illness, my condition, I've been trying to find some logical way of passing my time, of justifying the end.
He desires love, in some special way against all perversion, fed with fruits of decay.
He remembers, how the guilty have seen, all the pure but selfish, buried deep in his dreams.
He sees a vision in the sky, looking down on him, calling him by name, yeah he sees faces from yesterday, of what might have been, but the past must still remain.
He desires love, not some perfect affair, in hotels of steel and glass, just to cross on the stairs, but he can still see, all the angels in time, as his dreams of ecstasy, turned to nightmares of crime.
He sees a vision in the sky, looking down at him, how the past will remain, he will always see the same.
Sure I'll see you down, you do for me I did for you, cure just takes you down, we're down for good that's understood.
I remember a winter sometime ago, angular patterns formed deep in the ground, where someone once stood. White on black, white on white. Echoed voices bouncing off the buildings around.
I remember a tear, frozen white on white,
I remember nothing.
Some things never make sense, crouches shivering in the corner, blanket 'round your shoulder, hot then cold, cold then warm, pulse is racing, slowly racing - stopped. I remember nights listening to until dawn, I remember nothing. S
Some things never make sense, a fear of stepping out.
A wider alliance that leads to new roads beyond the limits, holding hands, jumping off walls into dark seclusion, cut off from the mainstream of most intimate yearnings, I left my heart somewhere on the other side, I left all desire for good.
Clinging to naked thought, impossible tactics worked out for impossible means. This is the final moment of respite. The final page in the book. A bitter challenge between old and new, with one last warning.
I saw no defenses, I sought no forgiveness. I made you mine, You caught me.
We were wrong, in our time,
out and down, out of line.
My fascination with bloodsport couldn't not be any more vain,
I returned to you, with knowledge that were were the same.
We are two but the same, two in Hell, two set free,
too alike, me to you, you to me.
We watched time pass in due course, always tied by a mutual feeling,
In the back of my mind all is mistrust and segregation of thoughts,
My ideas turning to stone,
My ideals turning to dust.
Don't think I'd have stayed just for one more day, it seems so much like home, no room to go astray. Don't think I could watch - with mindless, empty tasks, life moving in, forced to walk a lonely path.
Pictures all around, of how death should be, a model for the rest, that bred insecurity, I walked a jagged line and then came back for more, it's always in my mind, an institution with no law.
I can see a thousand wills just bleeding into the night. And all the pretty faces painted gray to match the sky.
From a distance seeing friends just washed up on the shore, a picture in my mind of what's to come before the storm.
In time, we don't belong in our own lifetime.
I can hear the voices lost in echoes as they build,
New homes to hide the sadness that the search for more had killed.
I can feel an emptiness and see heads held in shame,
Trapped inside a legacy of everyone to blame.
We won't crawl and never show our faces,
We'll stand firm and never show the traces.
The fear we knew but always could disguise,
This sinking feeling hid behind our eyes.
Nothing seems real anymore.
Even the flames from the fire seem to beckon to me,
Drawing me into some great past life, if only I could find the key
Ever since my illness, my condition, I've been trying to find some logical way of passing my time, of justifying the end.
He desires love, in some special way against all perversion, fed with fruits of decay.
He remembers, how the guilty have seen, all the pure but selfish, buried deep in his dreams.
He sees a vision in the sky, looking down on him, calling him by name, yeah he sees faces from yesterday, of what might have been, but the past must still remain.
He desires love, not some perfect affair, in hotels of steel and glass, just to cross on the stairs, but he can still see, all the angels in time, as his dreams of ecstasy, turned to nightmares of crime.
He sees a vision in the sky, looking down at him, how the past will remain, he will always see the same.
Sure I'll see you down, you do for me I did for you, cure just takes you down, we're down for good that's understood.
I remember a winter sometime ago, angular patterns formed deep in the ground, where someone once stood. White on black, white on white. Echoed voices bouncing off the buildings around.
I remember a tear, frozen white on white,
I remember nothing.
Some things never make sense, crouches shivering in the corner, blanket 'round your shoulder, hot then cold, cold then warm, pulse is racing, slowly racing - stopped. I remember nights listening to until dawn, I remember nothing. S
Some things never make sense, a fear of stepping out.
A wider alliance that leads to new roads beyond the limits, holding hands, jumping off walls into dark seclusion, cut off from the mainstream of most intimate yearnings, I left my heart somewhere on the other side, I left all desire for good.
Clinging to naked thought, impossible tactics worked out for impossible means. This is the final moment of respite. The final page in the book. A bitter challenge between old and new, with one last warning.
Strange World
It's really strange, this world we live in,
without any doubt.
A place where people start their lives without any hesitation, but many doubts
where one can trades words with many others, without having to use their voice;
A world of immense beauty and systematic order in its subtleties.
A world of infinite possibilities and hopes.
The first steps towards life are always full of bliss.
Strange, it really is.
That almost all of us sacrifice true reason and good will
for the sake of growing up,
for senseless life, isolation.
The coldness of solitude.
To give away everything, for some unreachable future
for pretended pleasure.
We give up courage for shallow caution;
We trade health and youth, for money and sleepless nights;
Let go of curiosity to embrace secure ignorance.
A strange bubble,
where the most valued trait is nonsensical stupidity
and happy, blissful existence is derided.
We look back and see ourselves, never being able to miss the world we lived in, we only always miss the persons we were.
without any doubt.
A place where people start their lives without any hesitation, but many doubts
where one can trades words with many others, without having to use their voice;
A world of immense beauty and systematic order in its subtleties.
A world of infinite possibilities and hopes.
The first steps towards life are always full of bliss.
Strange, it really is.
That almost all of us sacrifice true reason and good will
for the sake of growing up,
for senseless life, isolation.
The coldness of solitude.
To give away everything, for some unreachable future
for pretended pleasure.
We give up courage for shallow caution;
We trade health and youth, for money and sleepless nights;
Let go of curiosity to embrace secure ignorance.
A strange bubble,
where the most valued trait is nonsensical stupidity
and happy, blissful existence is derided.
We look back and see ourselves, never being able to miss the world we lived in, we only always miss the persons we were.
Purity
What I consider to be my ultimate destiny is that I will do something great for the world. I believe that each one of us has the capacity to do this, we just ignore it or even worse, refuse it.
I believe that all of us has our own story to be foretold to the world.
They say we write our own destiny. I beg to differ.
Our destiny is already written in black and white. Our soul is the shades of gray in between.
Some say my gray is rather dark, I say I'm not dark at all.
I believe that all of us has our own story to be foretold to the world.
They say we write our own destiny. I beg to differ.
Our destiny is already written in black and white. Our soul is the shades of gray in between.
Some say my gray is rather dark, I say I'm not dark at all.
Calm
I knew I was calm. I knew I was calm because the door to my imagination was closed for a second, closed to all kinds of thought and open only to the loveliness that reality was providing.
For now, reality is amusing and lovely.
For now, reality is amusing and lovely.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Shuffling through the kitchen, looking for a snack, I came across a particularly appetizing piece of fruit. Studying it for a few seconds, I looked for the top, planning to peel it open. After a minute or two of frustration, I gave up and took a bite. Letting the taste play across my tongue for a few seconds, I let out a little confused sigh and shook my head. Tossing it into the garbage can, I headed out of the kitchen, no longer hungry. I was beginning to suspect that that banana had been lying to me all along.
Bastard Banana!
Bastard Banana!
Quick.
As I saw him drowning in his wallowed pride,
I felt the coldness of death lurking nearby,
I couldn't scream or cry out for help,
I was too stunned, too shocked, too amazed.
As a first born awakens,
Another is taken and violently hurled into the dark abyss.
It always comes for your quickly, never giving you that last instance of time that you wanted.
As the sound that accompanies the gleaming light grows louder, you fade away,
The last thing you hear is the silence of my blade.
I love to cut you.
Your death will be quick, don't be afraid.
I felt the coldness of death lurking nearby,
I couldn't scream or cry out for help,
I was too stunned, too shocked, too amazed.
As a first born awakens,
Another is taken and violently hurled into the dark abyss.
It always comes for your quickly, never giving you that last instance of time that you wanted.
As the sound that accompanies the gleaming light grows louder, you fade away,
The last thing you hear is the silence of my blade.
I love to cut you.
Your death will be quick, don't be afraid.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Work gets to a person, rather oddly.
Man (and woman) wasn't really made to sit in a chair and repeatedly do monkey-worthy work with a smile on their face for 8-9 hours a day.
It just kills the human mind.
Man (and woman) wasn't really made to sit in a chair and repeatedly do monkey-worthy work with a smile on their face for 8-9 hours a day.
It just kills the human mind.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
I exist on the best terms I can. The past is not part of my future, the present is well outta hand.
I've siphoned my mind into a immobilizing state.
I've siphoned my mind into a immobilizing state.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Missing.
This letter is neither an encomium of my wifes existence nor a panegyric to her assertions. Instead, it is a fact-filled reportage intended to convince you that drossy perversions have consequences. Let me cut to the chase: Finding the best way to punish those who lie or connive at half-truths is a challenging problem indeed. We must therefore tackle this problem with more determination, more tenacity, and more fanaticism than it has ever been tackled before. Only then will people realize that I want you to know that she uses all sorts of psychological jujitsu to brainwash people into believing that her smears are good for the environment, human rights, and baby seals. Knowing, as they say, is half the battle. What remains is to put an end to her evildoing.
The vixens campaigns are perpetuated by an ethos of continuous reform, the demand that one strive permanently and painfully for something that not only does not exist but is alien to the human condition. If you're interested in the finagling, double-dealing, chicanery, cheating, cajolery, cunning, rascality, and abject villainy by which she may intensify race hatred faster than you can say "photodisintegration", then you'll want to consider the following very carefully. You'll especially want to consider that those who think that this is the best of all possible worlds and that she is the best of all possible people should think again. It's that simple. She has been trying to trick people into believing that her adversaries are aligned with very dark and malevolent fourth-dimensional aliens known as PriZm' s minions. Apparently, she has succeeded beyond her wildest dreams with offensive imbeciles; they're now fully convinced that sin is good for the soul.
Although it's easy to sit in the press box and criticize, she denies ever having tried to break up society's solidarity and cohesiveness. I assume she's merely trying to cover her posterior, as the truth is that just as night follows day, this vixen will open new avenues for the expression of hate in the immediate years ahead. She claims to have read somewhere that we should abandon the institutionalized and revered concept of democracy. I don't doubt that she has indeed read such a thing; one can find all sorts of crazy stuff on the Internet. More reliable sources, however, tend to agree that she does not appeal to most people as being the most endearing or public-minded of citizens. She is understood to be snobbish by many. Maybe her image would improve somewhat if she stopped trying to lower this country's moral tone and depreciate its commercial integrity.
I call upon her to stop her oppression, lies, immorality, and debauchery. I call upon her to be a woman of manners, principles, honour, and purity. And finally, I call upon her to forgo her desire to squander irreplaceable national treasures. Despite what she says, if I have a bias, it is only against namby-pamby, inerudite anthropophagi who trade facts for fantasy, truth for myths, academics for collective socialization, and individual thinking for group manipulation. With her ramblings and utterances hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles, it makes sense that this vixen somehow manages to get away with spreading lies (a richly evocative description of a problem automatically implies the correct solution to that problem), distortions (you and I are objects for her to use then casually throw away and forget like old newsprint that's performed its duty catching bird droppings), and misplaced idealism (science is merely a tool invented by the current elite to maintain power). However, when I try to respond in kind, I get censored faster than you can say "interchangeableness". Those of us whose minds are not narcotized still remember her frequent outbreaks of savagery. And here, I contend, lies a clue to the intellectual vacuum so gapingly apparent in her false-flag operations.
There are two related questions in this matter. The first is to what extent has she tried to burn her opponents at the stake. The other is whether or not if my own experience has taught me anything, it's that her roorbacks may have been conceived in idealism, but they quickly degenerated into pretentious cannibalism. If nothing else, she is causing all sorts of problems for us. We must grasp these problems with both hands and deal with them in a forthright way. I claim that her army and her loyal legates believe that we can all live together happily without laws, like the members of some 1960s-style dope-smoking commune. Although it is perhaps impossible to change the perspective of those who have such beliefs, I wish nevertheless to preach a message of community and brotherly love.
I've said this before, and I'll say it again, but my wife considers it fair game to challenge all I stand for. In this case, one cannot help but recall that if she succeeds in her attempt to undermine the current world order, it'll have to be over my dead body. Even though she insists that she has a duty to conceal the facts and lie to the rest of us, under oath if necessary, perjuring herself to help disseminate the True Faith of allotheism, I believe that anyone with eyes and a brain can tell that one of her favorite tricks is to create a problem and then to offer the solution.
Naturally, it's always her solutions that grant her the freedom to permit unenlightened voluptuaries to rise to positions of leadership and authority, never the original problem. At this point in the letter I had planned to tell you that I would much rather help people see her unregenerate wisecracks for what they are than waste my precious time chastising bleeding-heart hooligans. However, one of my very loyal minion pointed out that she derives sadistic pleasure in the misfortune of others. Hence, I discarded the discourse I had previously prepared and substituted the following discussion in which I argue that she and her confidants are, by nature, disrespectful unrealistic-types. Not only can that nature not be changed by window-dressing or persiflage, but her memoranda have experienced a considerable amount of evolution (or perhaps more accurately, genetic drift) over the past few weeks. They used to be simply choleric. Now, not only are they both harebrained and lackluster, but they also serve as unequivocal proof that we need to build bridges where in the past all that existed were moats and drawbridges. Why? Because of what's at stake: literally everything.
This vixen's appeal to exclusivism is dangerous stuff. With enough time and room, it would be easy to show why this must be true, but the clinching argument is simply that she is terrified that there might be an absolute reality outside herself, a reality that is what it is, regardless of her wishes, theories, hopes, daydreams, or decrees. The point is that if everyone spent just five minutes a day thinking about ways to unite rich and poor, young and old, we'd all be a lot better off. Is five minutes a day too much to ask for the promise of a better tomorrow? I hope not, but then again, her ultimata are deceitful. They're unnecessary. They're counterproductive. Whenever I encounter them I think that relative to just a few years ago, spiteful mafia dons are nearly ten times as likely to believe that she has achieved sainthood. This is neither a coincidence nor simply a sign of the times. Rather, it reflects a sophisticated, psychological warfare program designed by her to convince wanton Luddites that there is absolutely nothing they can do to better their lot in life besides joining her.
If you ever ask her to do something, you can bet that your request will get lost in the shuffle, unaddressed, ignored, and rebuffed. From what I know of her complaints, she is saying essentially four things:
1. Her notions are our final line of defense against tyrrany.
2. People prefer "cultural integrity" and "multicultural sensitivity" to health, food, safety, and the opportunity to choose their own course through life.
3. People are pawns to be used and manipulated.
4. She is immensely forgetful.
Obviously, all four of these are indubitably beer-guzzling. She has, at times, called me "saddened" or "morbid". Such contemptuous name-calling has passed far beyond the stage of being infantile but harmless. It has the capacity to twist my words six ways for December 21st, 2012.
We must steer clear of simplistic, monocausal explanations and mythic bogeymen. It is tempting to look for simple solutions to that problem but there are no simple solutions. Doesn't she realize that that statement can be most easily defended, since it is not quantitative, but qualitative? It would take days to give the complete answer to that question but the gist of it is that this is no time to be abysmal and no time to be chthonic. To say anything else would be a filthy fallacious lie.
Essentially, when I was younger I wanted to improve the lot of humankind. I still want to do that, but now I realize that it has been said that we must use our minds and spirits to halt her efforts to set the wolf to mind the sheep. I believe that to be true. I also believe that she says that a knowledge of correct diction, even if unused, evinces a superiority that covers cowardice or stupidity. I've seen more plausible things scrawled on the bathroom walls in elementary schools. Ironically, neocolonialism is correctly defined by its prodigal style, structure, and methods, not by its stated or apparent ideological premises or goals. That's clear. But this very vixen has a talent for inventing fantasy worlds in which she acts in the name of equality and social justice. Then again, just because she is a prolific fantasist doesn't mean that she is a tireless protector of civil rights and civil liberties for all people. This letter has gone on far too long in my opinion and probably yours as well. So let me end it by saying merely that Mrs. S. A. leaves me no choice but to develop a subconscious death wish for all the remaining rot of humanity.
I miss her, Madly.
The vixens campaigns are perpetuated by an ethos of continuous reform, the demand that one strive permanently and painfully for something that not only does not exist but is alien to the human condition. If you're interested in the finagling, double-dealing, chicanery, cheating, cajolery, cunning, rascality, and abject villainy by which she may intensify race hatred faster than you can say "photodisintegration", then you'll want to consider the following very carefully. You'll especially want to consider that those who think that this is the best of all possible worlds and that she is the best of all possible people should think again. It's that simple. She has been trying to trick people into believing that her adversaries are aligned with very dark and malevolent fourth-dimensional aliens known as PriZm' s minions. Apparently, she has succeeded beyond her wildest dreams with offensive imbeciles; they're now fully convinced that sin is good for the soul.
Although it's easy to sit in the press box and criticize, she denies ever having tried to break up society's solidarity and cohesiveness. I assume she's merely trying to cover her posterior, as the truth is that just as night follows day, this vixen will open new avenues for the expression of hate in the immediate years ahead. She claims to have read somewhere that we should abandon the institutionalized and revered concept of democracy. I don't doubt that she has indeed read such a thing; one can find all sorts of crazy stuff on the Internet. More reliable sources, however, tend to agree that she does not appeal to most people as being the most endearing or public-minded of citizens. She is understood to be snobbish by many. Maybe her image would improve somewhat if she stopped trying to lower this country's moral tone and depreciate its commercial integrity.
I call upon her to stop her oppression, lies, immorality, and debauchery. I call upon her to be a woman of manners, principles, honour, and purity. And finally, I call upon her to forgo her desire to squander irreplaceable national treasures. Despite what she says, if I have a bias, it is only against namby-pamby, inerudite anthropophagi who trade facts for fantasy, truth for myths, academics for collective socialization, and individual thinking for group manipulation. With her ramblings and utterances hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles, it makes sense that this vixen somehow manages to get away with spreading lies (a richly evocative description of a problem automatically implies the correct solution to that problem), distortions (you and I are objects for her to use then casually throw away and forget like old newsprint that's performed its duty catching bird droppings), and misplaced idealism (science is merely a tool invented by the current elite to maintain power). However, when I try to respond in kind, I get censored faster than you can say "interchangeableness". Those of us whose minds are not narcotized still remember her frequent outbreaks of savagery. And here, I contend, lies a clue to the intellectual vacuum so gapingly apparent in her false-flag operations.
There are two related questions in this matter. The first is to what extent has she tried to burn her opponents at the stake. The other is whether or not if my own experience has taught me anything, it's that her roorbacks may have been conceived in idealism, but they quickly degenerated into pretentious cannibalism. If nothing else, she is causing all sorts of problems for us. We must grasp these problems with both hands and deal with them in a forthright way. I claim that her army and her loyal legates believe that we can all live together happily without laws, like the members of some 1960s-style dope-smoking commune. Although it is perhaps impossible to change the perspective of those who have such beliefs, I wish nevertheless to preach a message of community and brotherly love.
I've said this before, and I'll say it again, but my wife considers it fair game to challenge all I stand for. In this case, one cannot help but recall that if she succeeds in her attempt to undermine the current world order, it'll have to be over my dead body. Even though she insists that she has a duty to conceal the facts and lie to the rest of us, under oath if necessary, perjuring herself to help disseminate the True Faith of allotheism, I believe that anyone with eyes and a brain can tell that one of her favorite tricks is to create a problem and then to offer the solution.
Naturally, it's always her solutions that grant her the freedom to permit unenlightened voluptuaries to rise to positions of leadership and authority, never the original problem. At this point in the letter I had planned to tell you that I would much rather help people see her unregenerate wisecracks for what they are than waste my precious time chastising bleeding-heart hooligans. However, one of my very loyal minion pointed out that she derives sadistic pleasure in the misfortune of others. Hence, I discarded the discourse I had previously prepared and substituted the following discussion in which I argue that she and her confidants are, by nature, disrespectful unrealistic-types. Not only can that nature not be changed by window-dressing or persiflage, but her memoranda have experienced a considerable amount of evolution (or perhaps more accurately, genetic drift) over the past few weeks. They used to be simply choleric. Now, not only are they both harebrained and lackluster, but they also serve as unequivocal proof that we need to build bridges where in the past all that existed were moats and drawbridges. Why? Because of what's at stake: literally everything.
This vixen's appeal to exclusivism is dangerous stuff. With enough time and room, it would be easy to show why this must be true, but the clinching argument is simply that she is terrified that there might be an absolute reality outside herself, a reality that is what it is, regardless of her wishes, theories, hopes, daydreams, or decrees. The point is that if everyone spent just five minutes a day thinking about ways to unite rich and poor, young and old, we'd all be a lot better off. Is five minutes a day too much to ask for the promise of a better tomorrow? I hope not, but then again, her ultimata are deceitful. They're unnecessary. They're counterproductive. Whenever I encounter them I think that relative to just a few years ago, spiteful mafia dons are nearly ten times as likely to believe that she has achieved sainthood. This is neither a coincidence nor simply a sign of the times. Rather, it reflects a sophisticated, psychological warfare program designed by her to convince wanton Luddites that there is absolutely nothing they can do to better their lot in life besides joining her.
If you ever ask her to do something, you can bet that your request will get lost in the shuffle, unaddressed, ignored, and rebuffed. From what I know of her complaints, she is saying essentially four things:
1. Her notions are our final line of defense against tyrrany.
2. People prefer "cultural integrity" and "multicultural sensitivity" to health, food, safety, and the opportunity to choose their own course through life.
3. People are pawns to be used and manipulated.
4. She is immensely forgetful.
Obviously, all four of these are indubitably beer-guzzling. She has, at times, called me "saddened" or "morbid". Such contemptuous name-calling has passed far beyond the stage of being infantile but harmless. It has the capacity to twist my words six ways for December 21st, 2012.
We must steer clear of simplistic, monocausal explanations and mythic bogeymen. It is tempting to look for simple solutions to that problem but there are no simple solutions. Doesn't she realize that that statement can be most easily defended, since it is not quantitative, but qualitative? It would take days to give the complete answer to that question but the gist of it is that this is no time to be abysmal and no time to be chthonic. To say anything else would be a filthy fallacious lie.
Essentially, when I was younger I wanted to improve the lot of humankind. I still want to do that, but now I realize that it has been said that we must use our minds and spirits to halt her efforts to set the wolf to mind the sheep. I believe that to be true. I also believe that she says that a knowledge of correct diction, even if unused, evinces a superiority that covers cowardice or stupidity. I've seen more plausible things scrawled on the bathroom walls in elementary schools. Ironically, neocolonialism is correctly defined by its prodigal style, structure, and methods, not by its stated or apparent ideological premises or goals. That's clear. But this very vixen has a talent for inventing fantasy worlds in which she acts in the name of equality and social justice. Then again, just because she is a prolific fantasist doesn't mean that she is a tireless protector of civil rights and civil liberties for all people. This letter has gone on far too long in my opinion and probably yours as well. So let me end it by saying merely that Mrs. S. A. leaves me no choice but to develop a subconscious death wish for all the remaining rot of humanity.
I miss her, Madly.
Extrovert
There’s a certain amber wildness in her eyes tonight: furious, carnal, animalistic. I’d guessed how little she was wearing beneath her trench coat by the adeptness of my sneaking eye, but it’s still a surprise to me when she opens it wide in the sodium-lit street all so suddenly.
My heart races as I behold her lingerie-clad glory in my roaring eyes.
“Kiss me,” she sighs, a whimpering whisper, a humble request bequeathed by her previous fill of air.
I approach tentatively, awed by the heat that’s coming off her in waves.
Her mouth is soft and warm and sweet. She tastes of lust and desire.
“Take me,” she asks, begs, demands, wantonly gripping the hardness within my trousers.
“People will see us.”
“I know,” she smiles slyly. “I want them to.”
Qvalis artifex pereo - Such an artist dies in me.
Anger, what would or could one like yourself understand of it.
I am the raging light of Newoh. I understand anger. I breathe it. It flows in my veins. My very visceral existence is anger.
It is a burden to live to 34,500 years. I have been in the blood of emperors and slaves, of men and warriors. I have been splattered on the shields of a thousand armies, and have coated and crusted the mirror edge of a hundred swords. I have risen. Once again.
I am Newoh!
Life and death…
Two of most the misunderstood words in the human language today and the two words that humans are most concerned with for their entire existence. The phrase “Live life to the fullest” graces signboards yonder every major road these men of today have built. These morbid netted surveys claim to be advanced enough to predict the exact moment in time for every person’s death. At the slightest sign of ailment, a person will rush to the doctor for a magical prescription to make everything better, only to be told to stop by the nearest drug store on the way home for some of Robitussin and Motrin and to follow the directions on the bottles. And what good would a prescription have done, after all? In this day and age, the side effects of the drug have the chance of being just as bad, if not worse than, the disease they’re trying to treat in the first place. Take a drug for arthritis and risk having a higher chance for contracting tuberculosis. What hope do you have? What hope do we all have?
Every evening, people are shocked and horrified when they watch the news over dinner, only to discover that a new murder has occurred in their city. They’re disgusted by the media coverage, sympathetic for the family, and saddened by the loss of another human life. Every human life is worth more than words, right? And it’s wrong for one human being to take the life of another, isn’t it? Then why is it that when the “murderer” is captured and condemned to death, those same people who felt so powerfully for the loss of one human life, suddenly become excited to see revenge. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Any prior righteous thoughts about how wrong it is for a human to take the life of another (because that’s ultimately what’s happening, of course) are shoved out of their minds. That “monster” deserves to die because he killed someone...
Monster…
Yet another one of those misunderstood words, lost to the malleability and ductility of words. While it’s true that most humans grasp the basic concept of a monster—that they’re horrible, evil beings that live for no reason other than to wreck havoc upon the world—a mere murderer is nothing compared to what really lurks out there. The real killer was something much worse than the poor, uneducated fool that a “witness to the murder” happened to pick out of a line-up. It was something with claws and teeth, a creature lurking in the night that longs for nothing more than to tear into the warm, pliable body of a human and watch the light slowly drain from their eyes. That sort of thing, of course, would be considered a “monster” by a dictionary definition, as well.
Werecreatures, vampires, and even faeries in some cultures are considered to be “monsters,” but really… Who has time to believe in those sort of things anymore? People that turn into animals? Terrifying corpses that need blood to stay alive? Cute, little flying creatures that steal babies from their cradles and replace them with one of their own? But what really makes them live up to the category they’ve been filed in for the past several centuries? For most, the ways they look are enough to pack them into the “monster” file. Werecreatures are furry people. Vampires are half rotted corpses. Faeries are horribly grotesque little gnomes.
I have devoured libraries upon libraries, cramming every book I found in Alexanderia and Izmir. I have realized, that magic is far more powerful that pain.
What would you say if I told you that I was one of the few remaining people in the world with the blood of a Hunter running through their veins? That the moment I left my mother’s womb, the instinct to rid the world of evil—to kill—had already started to take root in my little mind? That I’m a part of the proverbial good that was put on this planet to rid it of the proverbial evil that threatens to take over?
Good and evil…
Two sides of the same coin, right? Good lives to rid the world of evil for some sense of self-righteousness, and evil lives to rid the world of good so they can take over and have a big party. Or is it the other way around? Is good really evil and evil really good? The “monsters” that run around killing mercilessly are considered “evil,” while myself and those just like me who run around and kill just as mercilessly are considered “good.” And what for? Human or monster, we’re all killing, stealing away someone else’s life for some reason or another. How is someone supposed to be able to tell the difference between good and evil? After more than a decade of intensive training, you’d think that I would know the difference pretty well, but in all honesty the grey area between them keeps growing and... I was once the left hand of God.
Now, I am Newoh, the dead artist.
Anger, what would or could one like yourself understand of it.
I am the raging light of Newoh. I understand anger. I breathe it. It flows in my veins. My very visceral existence is anger.
It is a burden to live to 34,500 years. I have been in the blood of emperors and slaves, of men and warriors. I have been splattered on the shields of a thousand armies, and have coated and crusted the mirror edge of a hundred swords. I have risen. Once again.
I am Newoh!
Life and death…
Two of most the misunderstood words in the human language today and the two words that humans are most concerned with for their entire existence. The phrase “Live life to the fullest” graces signboards yonder every major road these men of today have built. These morbid netted surveys claim to be advanced enough to predict the exact moment in time for every person’s death. At the slightest sign of ailment, a person will rush to the doctor for a magical prescription to make everything better, only to be told to stop by the nearest drug store on the way home for some of Robitussin and Motrin and to follow the directions on the bottles. And what good would a prescription have done, after all? In this day and age, the side effects of the drug have the chance of being just as bad, if not worse than, the disease they’re trying to treat in the first place. Take a drug for arthritis and risk having a higher chance for contracting tuberculosis. What hope do you have? What hope do we all have?
Every evening, people are shocked and horrified when they watch the news over dinner, only to discover that a new murder has occurred in their city. They’re disgusted by the media coverage, sympathetic for the family, and saddened by the loss of another human life. Every human life is worth more than words, right? And it’s wrong for one human being to take the life of another, isn’t it? Then why is it that when the “murderer” is captured and condemned to death, those same people who felt so powerfully for the loss of one human life, suddenly become excited to see revenge. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Any prior righteous thoughts about how wrong it is for a human to take the life of another (because that’s ultimately what’s happening, of course) are shoved out of their minds. That “monster” deserves to die because he killed someone...
Monster…
Yet another one of those misunderstood words, lost to the malleability and ductility of words. While it’s true that most humans grasp the basic concept of a monster—that they’re horrible, evil beings that live for no reason other than to wreck havoc upon the world—a mere murderer is nothing compared to what really lurks out there. The real killer was something much worse than the poor, uneducated fool that a “witness to the murder” happened to pick out of a line-up. It was something with claws and teeth, a creature lurking in the night that longs for nothing more than to tear into the warm, pliable body of a human and watch the light slowly drain from their eyes. That sort of thing, of course, would be considered a “monster” by a dictionary definition, as well.
Werecreatures, vampires, and even faeries in some cultures are considered to be “monsters,” but really… Who has time to believe in those sort of things anymore? People that turn into animals? Terrifying corpses that need blood to stay alive? Cute, little flying creatures that steal babies from their cradles and replace them with one of their own? But what really makes them live up to the category they’ve been filed in for the past several centuries? For most, the ways they look are enough to pack them into the “monster” file. Werecreatures are furry people. Vampires are half rotted corpses. Faeries are horribly grotesque little gnomes.
I have devoured libraries upon libraries, cramming every book I found in Alexanderia and Izmir. I have realized, that magic is far more powerful that pain.
What would you say if I told you that I was one of the few remaining people in the world with the blood of a Hunter running through their veins? That the moment I left my mother’s womb, the instinct to rid the world of evil—to kill—had already started to take root in my little mind? That I’m a part of the proverbial good that was put on this planet to rid it of the proverbial evil that threatens to take over?
Good and evil…
Two sides of the same coin, right? Good lives to rid the world of evil for some sense of self-righteousness, and evil lives to rid the world of good so they can take over and have a big party. Or is it the other way around? Is good really evil and evil really good? The “monsters” that run around killing mercilessly are considered “evil,” while myself and those just like me who run around and kill just as mercilessly are considered “good.” And what for? Human or monster, we’re all killing, stealing away someone else’s life for some reason or another. How is someone supposed to be able to tell the difference between good and evil? After more than a decade of intensive training, you’d think that I would know the difference pretty well, but in all honesty the grey area between them keeps growing and... I was once the left hand of God.
Now, I am Newoh, the dead artist.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I would love a change.
A change in life.
A change in time.
A change in death.
All else is faith and fate.
A change in life.
A change in time.
A change in death.
All else is faith and fate.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Too good.
No one ever saw. No one ever knew. Except for them. They always knew. It was lost in the back of their heads, but never completely forgotten. They would wait until the perfect moment to slip away, so they would never be missed. They would hide when those times happened, so they would never be found. It would become such a scandal otherwise. They would loose it all- everything they had worked so long and hard for. No; they could never be caught. They knew they should stop. Just in case. But, they wouldn’t. It just felt too-
Good.
Good.
Death, it seems calls out to me again. I cant figure out what cracked open idea is keeping me from putting the gun on my head, or more aesthetically inside my mouth and squeezing. Never pull the trigger, always squeeze. I recall the adrenaline of pain, of anger. Now I live the life of a living-dead flywheel kamakazi pilot. I just cant seem to feel. Its not even numbness, its something different.
Speed doesnt work for me anymore.
Smoke doesnt cut it anymore.
Sex is an hard-efforted stroll in the park.
Words are too malleable and ductile to be of much worth.
Thought is like the smoke from an incense stick, subdued by anger, attracted by enticement.
I have become what I feared, cold.
Crack this life open, all you will see is a lie,
Time has stopped for me, but I refuse to die.
Have you ever wished for death, yet life at the same moment?
I am numb.
Speed doesnt work for me anymore.
Smoke doesnt cut it anymore.
Sex is an hard-efforted stroll in the park.
Words are too malleable and ductile to be of much worth.
Thought is like the smoke from an incense stick, subdued by anger, attracted by enticement.
I have become what I feared, cold.
Crack this life open, all you will see is a lie,
Time has stopped for me, but I refuse to die.
Have you ever wished for death, yet life at the same moment?
I am numb.
Time.
I watch my clock, ticking speedily on the wall, each strike of the counter tolling another step of my life. I think to myself of all the things I’ve done, and everyone I’ve met, and seen, and known in my time, and oh there have been many. It occurs to me that I live my life just as any other would, going about my business as best I can, passing each day as it comes, trying to climb my way to some goal that I’ve set myself that will make the future better. I am time-bound.
I don’t despair for the seconds that pass and will never pass again, for to be happy, it seems to me, you must always be waiting for time to pass, so you don’t look back at what is lost, so you have no regrets for how you are now, or what you may become. The future is bright, like the light on my ceiling is to the moth outside my closed window, always striving to reach it but never passing through the barrier that bars its path. His goal in life is simple. He wants to reach the light. It taunts him, and the world melts away so his one ideal is the only thing in his mind. I wonder if we are so different. We spend our lives following ideals of being rich, famous and successful. We seek to have a perfect family and an endless happiness in life, but these are but lights at the mouth of an endless tunnel. Very few will have the fortune in life to reach that mouth, but we all continue anyway, hoping to ourselves that we may be one of them. We are all time-bound.
I watch the clock still, glancing for a moment to understand that in the time I have watched it, more steps have been taken. It is inevitable, that time will pass, that the countdown to the moment where your time ends will tick away to zero, but your mind still wishes to find a way to escape it. You know in the back of your mind, you will one day fall prey to the clock, whether you see it coming and accept it, or not. It sets on my mind that life is a clock, and death is its final stroke. I know my time will come, but I work to hope that I may find enough satisfaction to think that I have spent the time I have been given well. In moments of stress, I think that I should give up, and cease my struggle for that goal. It dawns on my mind, however, that if I was to try and escape the clock, I would have only accepted that the final stroke was the moment I tried to. I see no reason to make it as such, so I find myself with a newly inspired look on life. I have been given time, time to live, time to succeed and to love and to laugh. I have been given life. Life with love, is timeless.
I don’t despair for the seconds that pass and will never pass again, for to be happy, it seems to me, you must always be waiting for time to pass, so you don’t look back at what is lost, so you have no regrets for how you are now, or what you may become. The future is bright, like the light on my ceiling is to the moth outside my closed window, always striving to reach it but never passing through the barrier that bars its path. His goal in life is simple. He wants to reach the light. It taunts him, and the world melts away so his one ideal is the only thing in his mind. I wonder if we are so different. We spend our lives following ideals of being rich, famous and successful. We seek to have a perfect family and an endless happiness in life, but these are but lights at the mouth of an endless tunnel. Very few will have the fortune in life to reach that mouth, but we all continue anyway, hoping to ourselves that we may be one of them. We are all time-bound.
I watch the clock still, glancing for a moment to understand that in the time I have watched it, more steps have been taken. It is inevitable, that time will pass, that the countdown to the moment where your time ends will tick away to zero, but your mind still wishes to find a way to escape it. You know in the back of your mind, you will one day fall prey to the clock, whether you see it coming and accept it, or not. It sets on my mind that life is a clock, and death is its final stroke. I know my time will come, but I work to hope that I may find enough satisfaction to think that I have spent the time I have been given well. In moments of stress, I think that I should give up, and cease my struggle for that goal. It dawns on my mind, however, that if I was to try and escape the clock, I would have only accepted that the final stroke was the moment I tried to. I see no reason to make it as such, so I find myself with a newly inspired look on life. I have been given time, time to live, time to succeed and to love and to laugh. I have been given life. Life with love, is timeless.
You.
Bitter are the words I write to make you come here.
Sweet is the thought and feeling that make you revisit.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The Lake
Time is a menacing thing. You live, you die. You perpetually accept the dazing eternity of death, and then you die.
Throughout time, and its stinging presence in your life, you need someone to talk to.
For me, that someone is myself.
Throughout time, and its stinging presence in your life, you need someone to talk to.
For me, that someone is myself.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Non mortem timemus, sed cogitationem mortis
I find myself lost. Lost in the time and haze of the morning twilight.
The delicate lines in her skin from the many laughs we have had and a deep long line across her forehead from the troublesome times unforeseen. She has stretch marks on her hips and thighs courtesy of her children born long ago and swollen feet from the journey that she still has miles to go.
Her eyes are still a passionate brown and youthful despite her age. Gray hair accompanies her age yet her moves are far from shallow but vibrant and as seductive as someone more than half her age.
Age Has Not Slowed Her Down, not one bit.
I find myself lost. Lost in the time and haze of the morning twilight.
The delicate lines in her skin from the many laughs we have had and a deep long line across her forehead from the troublesome times unforeseen. She has stretch marks on her hips and thighs courtesy of her children born long ago and swollen feet from the journey that she still has miles to go.
Her eyes are still a passionate brown and youthful despite her age. Gray hair accompanies her age yet her moves are far from shallow but vibrant and as seductive as someone more than half her age.
Age Has Not Slowed Her Down, not one bit.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Some are born with it and some are born with out, but as for me…
.|.|.|.|.|.|.|.|.
I got all I need. Someone ought to have realized that by now. Realized that I am over and above them; running. Over and over and Again and Again.
.|.|.|.|.|.|.|.|.
I got all I need. Someone ought to have realized that by now. Realized that I am over and above them; running. Over and over and Again and Again.
Life
I had been looking for it my entire life. The truth, I mean, but not the half-built little pieces of truth that we find every day shattered around everywhere. I wanted more. The absolute truth, something I could rely on no matter what.
I had been looking for it my entire life. Through tears, blood and effort. Through sad looks and happy faces, through drugs and nature. All of my meaningless existence, digging and crawling away like a filthy rat, taking all the dirt and finding nothing but dirt.
I had been looking for it my entire life. Perception and then deception and more deception. Nothing and nothing and more frekkin nothing!
Of course I was beginning to feel a little pissed off.
Of course I was losing all of the pathetic feeling I used to call hope...
Of course I was surprised to find so easily walking down the corridor...
Of course it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen...
I had seen life.
I had been looking for it my entire life. Through tears, blood and effort. Through sad looks and happy faces, through drugs and nature. All of my meaningless existence, digging and crawling away like a filthy rat, taking all the dirt and finding nothing but dirt.
I had been looking for it my entire life. Perception and then deception and more deception. Nothing and nothing and more frekkin nothing!
Of course I was beginning to feel a little pissed off.
Of course I was losing all of the pathetic feeling I used to call hope...
Of course I was surprised to find so easily walking down the corridor...
Of course it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen...
I had seen life.
I will fight.
All the things our dreams have promised
Have never come to pass
And our efforts and our martial posture
Brought but smiles from flowers with masks;
Still, you ask, why I keep on marching,
Why the rifle never rests from my shoulder
and my eyes refuse to smile.
We were something with a purpose
In a world deprived of goals,
In a world that fell asleep and let
It's children wander dreamless.
So if you see me in the rain,
In the mud and cold chasing shadows,
Armed with an expression that may remind you
Of your exalted mirror self,
Do not ask me to stop marching
I cannot stop this war,
I do not wish to die.
I fight for my life, and yours.
Have never come to pass
And our efforts and our martial posture
Brought but smiles from flowers with masks;
Still, you ask, why I keep on marching,
Why the rifle never rests from my shoulder
and my eyes refuse to smile.
We were something with a purpose
In a world deprived of goals,
In a world that fell asleep and let
It's children wander dreamless.
So if you see me in the rain,
In the mud and cold chasing shadows,
Armed with an expression that may remind you
Of your exalted mirror self,
Do not ask me to stop marching
I cannot stop this war,
I do not wish to die.
I fight for my life, and yours.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Infectious.
I know a forest. Where the sun shines strong, and the leaves are greedy.
I'm a tree in the shade.
I'm a lazy drone.
I know a place where there is no light.
I am the plague.
I am infectious.
I'm a tree in the shade.
I'm a lazy drone.
I know a place where there is no light.
I am the plague.
I am infectious.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Drop
The drop fell because I saw it and heard it fall in my mind before I let it go.
A woman is not complete without her tears.
A woman is not complete without her tears.
My heart is tainted,
Blood, tears,
and lies that have been shed.
I need purity,
to be given life,
Once again.
Blood, tears,
and lies that have been shed.
I need purity,
to be given life,
Once again.
Time Today
I feel as if I only know a fragment of this world; a mere grain of the sand from the lot at the beach. People are so concerned with their own lives, nothing else seems to matter.
Our conceited way of life and this spiraling egotism leads to a disconnection, a schism between our ideals and our ideas. We are the cause of all this sickening dissonance, and our own separation. The ties we create between people are made for a reason, a purpose that people have self-profited from.
People are naturally selfish beings. Greed is a product of their beliefs. We are the children of our own debauchery.
Though it is inarguable that you amongst many others disagree with this said statement, in the back of your mind, you too have realized the truth.
The world ceases to exist. Everything around you slowly dies; leaving you behind. The selfish way you wanted it to be, slowly becomes a knocking reality. And yet, you fail. You fail to sense the truth. The beauty had died ever since you chose to live. It's all you. That security, that happiness is empty; it was never there. You believed you had everyone fooled, but in the end, you fell down to your knees.
Our conceited way of life and this spiraling egotism leads to a disconnection, a schism between our ideals and our ideas. We are the cause of all this sickening dissonance, and our own separation. The ties we create between people are made for a reason, a purpose that people have self-profited from.
People are naturally selfish beings. Greed is a product of their beliefs. We are the children of our own debauchery.
Though it is inarguable that you amongst many others disagree with this said statement, in the back of your mind, you too have realized the truth.
The world ceases to exist. Everything around you slowly dies; leaving you behind. The selfish way you wanted it to be, slowly becomes a knocking reality. And yet, you fail. You fail to sense the truth. The beauty had died ever since you chose to live. It's all you. That security, that happiness is empty; it was never there. You believed you had everyone fooled, but in the end, you fell down to your knees.
Two
Love exists, you just can't notice it.
You say that "Being successful is more important",
That statement shows how naive you are.
Oh, but I'm the little one,
I'm the naive one,
I don't know what I'm getting myself into.
I'm sorry.
I'll be more considerate. I am a lost soul. Heh.
If it was about lust,
wouldn't I try to have something a bit more,
...
Desirable?
I mean, honestly.
You keep complaining that there have been too many mistakes,
but I think it's perfect.
Why does it seem so flawless to me?
Because of love.
Why don't I change my mind?
Because of love.
Why am I arguing with you?
Because of love.
Not because I'm naive,
and not because love doesn't exist.
It does, you just can't notice it.
Love is the very reason you cant see it.
Love is the very reason I cant see anything but you.
You say that "Being successful is more important",
That statement shows how naive you are.
Oh, but I'm the little one,
I'm the naive one,
I don't know what I'm getting myself into.
I'm sorry.
I'll be more considerate. I am a lost soul. Heh.
If it was about lust,
wouldn't I try to have something a bit more,
...
Desirable?
I mean, honestly.
You keep complaining that there have been too many mistakes,
but I think it's perfect.
Why does it seem so flawless to me?
Because of love.
Why don't I change my mind?
Because of love.
Why am I arguing with you?
Because of love.
Not because I'm naive,
and not because love doesn't exist.
It does, you just can't notice it.
Love is the very reason you cant see it.
Love is the very reason I cant see anything but you.
Friday, July 31, 2009
One
Love doesn't exist.
Never has, and never will.
How does one know what love feels like?
No one ever really describes it well enough for the reader/viewer/listener to feel it.
So how does one know it exists?
It doesn't.
It's your cover-up for momentary lust.
One has needs, wants, desires, but one doesn't love.
This feeling tears you away from your pride, but not your joy.
One wants what they can not have, and never will,
And if they ever get it, they don't want it anymore.
It is not needed, nor wanted anymore.
Being successful is more important than this "love".
Every person has the right,
To take away what isn't theirs.
Whether or not you love them.
Never has, and never will.
How does one know what love feels like?
No one ever really describes it well enough for the reader/viewer/listener to feel it.
So how does one know it exists?
It doesn't.
It's your cover-up for momentary lust.
One has needs, wants, desires, but one doesn't love.
This feeling tears you away from your pride, but not your joy.
One wants what they can not have, and never will,
And if they ever get it, they don't want it anymore.
It is not needed, nor wanted anymore.
Being successful is more important than this "love".
Every person has the right,
To take away what isn't theirs.
Whether or not you love them.
Bank Check
The cheque was honored the second time around.
She called me to confirm. She also hoped that I would stop for another cup of coffee sometime soon, complaining about the sore throat I had passed onto her.
Unfortunately for her, coffee is part of my ill-diet.
I dont plan to fall ill anytime soon.
She called me to confirm. She also hoped that I would stop for another cup of coffee sometime soon, complaining about the sore throat I had passed onto her.
Unfortunately for her, coffee is part of my ill-diet.
I dont plan to fall ill anytime soon.
Bank Check
She was a teller at a bank branch that I have visited only once. She had handed me my required and rejected cheque with a smile, the kind of smile that suggests something much more than customer service. I wondered whether it was a smile caused due to to the schism-like disparity between account balance and the cheque amount. I chose to test her display of ivory and ravishing red to the limit. A quick, quirky exchange of words, a cup of cofee and a phone number later, and here she is, casually draped across the hotel room bed with her head in the crest of my arm, her hair free flowing wildly about the sheets without care, yet still with an elegance that only a woman's hair may dare possess. And that smile; there it lingers, teasing and comforting at the same time. Beads of sweat still glisten across her naked body, perfectly content in their non-sentience, entirely oblivious to the beauty of the land they occupy in dominance.
I swing my feet to the floor and pull myself up, grasping the edge of the bed with reluctance and a calm sense of duty. Speechless, I quietly slide the nightstand drawer open and remove the document. Such a boring looking thing really, nothing a passerby would ever care to gaze upon. I turn halfway and lay the paper gently upon her hand, probing into her wondrous eyes with my own as if to seek out the answer before the fact.
She asks what it is. I say that it's better if she sees for herself. I say that if I were to tell her, she might not believe me, she might think it was just some sleazy excuse to get rid of her.
Propping her head up on one palm, she begins to read, or skim maybe, I don't know. Like I said it's a really boring document. Her eyes widen at first, in shock perhaps, and then they squint, as if in disbelief of what they had just perceived.
I tell her I'm sorry, but it is a bad habit. I tell her that I didn't want some cheap sympathy fuck, and that I'm glad that what was had was had for real. I tell that the doctors only gave me another month or two, and that was about 5 years from now. By now she's sitting up, drooped over in such a sadness that all elegance and beauty had seemingly fled, and only sadness could possibly remain. Spinal damage seems to do that to people. Had it not been for my post long ago, Uncut, I might still be able to see less details that I do today. I see far too much. I see the sparkling difference of shades in her auburn dyed hair. She must really want to go a long way in personal financial consultancy. Heh.
I stand up and, after retrieving my raiments from the floor, make the despairingly long six foot walk to the bathroom door. Without turning to face her, I say that I'm going to clean up. I tell her that it's okay if she leaves, that I wanted her to make an informed choice regarding the fact that, in becoming attached to me, a price would have to be paid in the end. Knowing me in this way will only end in grief, pain, sorrow and perhaps despair. I was sure to clarify my end of the emotional spectrum of course, like how I felt about her, and how I would be truly privileged should she allow me to get to know her better. Again however, it's okay if she leaves. Everyone should be given the decision to make.
Twelve minutes, two drops of the soap bar, and one razor nick later, I emerge from the tiny, poorly ventilated and suffocatingly steamy bathroom with a towel around my waist and my feet still wet. I venture the short six foot walk back to the empty bed, sweeping away the book on the nightstand with nothing more than a casual wave. I sprawl across the sheets and crack the spine, turning to page one, and I smile at myself. Or perhaps I'm smiling at the opening sentence. A smile, not so much of an admission of loneliness, but something more like a cool anticipation for the contentedness I would soon find in the company of the characters I now held firmly in both hands, because no matter what loss occurs in life, there is always a world awaiting indulgence, and losing oneself to fiction may truly offer the only happiness there is to be gained in life.
I had slept the night away in loneliness, or had I.
I swing my feet to the floor and pull myself up, grasping the edge of the bed with reluctance and a calm sense of duty. Speechless, I quietly slide the nightstand drawer open and remove the document. Such a boring looking thing really, nothing a passerby would ever care to gaze upon. I turn halfway and lay the paper gently upon her hand, probing into her wondrous eyes with my own as if to seek out the answer before the fact.
She asks what it is. I say that it's better if she sees for herself. I say that if I were to tell her, she might not believe me, she might think it was just some sleazy excuse to get rid of her.
Propping her head up on one palm, she begins to read, or skim maybe, I don't know. Like I said it's a really boring document. Her eyes widen at first, in shock perhaps, and then they squint, as if in disbelief of what they had just perceived.
I tell her I'm sorry, but it is a bad habit. I tell her that I didn't want some cheap sympathy fuck, and that I'm glad that what was had was had for real. I tell that the doctors only gave me another month or two, and that was about 5 years from now. By now she's sitting up, drooped over in such a sadness that all elegance and beauty had seemingly fled, and only sadness could possibly remain. Spinal damage seems to do that to people. Had it not been for my post long ago, Uncut, I might still be able to see less details that I do today. I see far too much. I see the sparkling difference of shades in her auburn dyed hair. She must really want to go a long way in personal financial consultancy. Heh.
I stand up and, after retrieving my raiments from the floor, make the despairingly long six foot walk to the bathroom door. Without turning to face her, I say that I'm going to clean up. I tell her that it's okay if she leaves, that I wanted her to make an informed choice regarding the fact that, in becoming attached to me, a price would have to be paid in the end. Knowing me in this way will only end in grief, pain, sorrow and perhaps despair. I was sure to clarify my end of the emotional spectrum of course, like how I felt about her, and how I would be truly privileged should she allow me to get to know her better. Again however, it's okay if she leaves. Everyone should be given the decision to make.
Twelve minutes, two drops of the soap bar, and one razor nick later, I emerge from the tiny, poorly ventilated and suffocatingly steamy bathroom with a towel around my waist and my feet still wet. I venture the short six foot walk back to the empty bed, sweeping away the book on the nightstand with nothing more than a casual wave. I sprawl across the sheets and crack the spine, turning to page one, and I smile at myself. Or perhaps I'm smiling at the opening sentence. A smile, not so much of an admission of loneliness, but something more like a cool anticipation for the contentedness I would soon find in the company of the characters I now held firmly in both hands, because no matter what loss occurs in life, there is always a world awaiting indulgence, and losing oneself to fiction may truly offer the only happiness there is to be gained in life.
I had slept the night away in loneliness, or had I.
Realization
The paper calls out to me like the despairing siren of a police car chasing death and havoc.
Everything is neutrally dead, or perhaps death itself. I feel as if I am not moving and wading through water and that too in slow motion.
I see you, from above, walking around your own mind in its cataclysmic state. I peer into your dark eyes that see hazy and distorted renditions of the fallacious world you hold so dear. I see your mind, and I see how you react when I cave in the walls a bit more.
You do realize that every time you see a crow near me, it takes a message of death from me to my victim. I am never so human. You are lucky.
Everything is neutrally dead, or perhaps death itself. I feel as if I am not moving and wading through water and that too in slow motion.
I see you, from above, walking around your own mind in its cataclysmic state. I peer into your dark eyes that see hazy and distorted renditions of the fallacious world you hold so dear. I see your mind, and I see how you react when I cave in the walls a bit more.
You do realize that every time you see a crow near me, it takes a message of death from me to my victim. I am never so human. You are lucky.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Till the death.
These floundering scars, my fingernails bitten to the skin. I try and try again to break down your defenses. My lips are chapped by the screams I shout out in silence at you. I bite into my arm every time I am driven to the edge. You are not making the best of things, you are making me the best of mad men. You fail to see how I can endure even death and use the Lyriac. All those that live under light, fear that spell.
Your eyes are transparent, there is nothing more to see in them. You have nothing to give me, you are empty. You have been broken long before you were able to stand my onslaught. I shall take eternity to put you back together, and another eternity to break you yet again.
You're shredding me apart, with your bloody spiteful speeches.
So all I'm trying to do now, all I have left to give to you,
Is my everything, the broken reminents of my falls
And I hope you can pull down the woe
I'm hoping you take away the walls.
To you, Ethos. You are soon to fight me till the death.
Your eyes are transparent, there is nothing more to see in them. You have nothing to give me, you are empty. You have been broken long before you were able to stand my onslaught. I shall take eternity to put you back together, and another eternity to break you yet again.
You're shredding me apart, with your bloody spiteful speeches.
So all I'm trying to do now, all I have left to give to you,
Is my everything, the broken reminents of my falls
And I hope you can pull down the woe
I'm hoping you take away the walls.
To you, Ethos. You are soon to fight me till the death.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Breath of Fresh Air.
An open bottle of red waits for my attention.
Breathing away, it is, as the experts say.
I was once a man that could divine the Jezebel in an cupid-struck angel.
I’m not here to judge, even less to care.
I am only getting by, doing the bare minimum.
Breathing away, it is, as the experts say.
I can barely breathe. Bloody flu.
Breathing away, it is, as the experts say.
I was once a man that could divine the Jezebel in an cupid-struck angel.
I’m not here to judge, even less to care.
I am only getting by, doing the bare minimum.
Breathing away, it is, as the experts say.
I can barely breathe. Bloody flu.
I feel blood.
Ages after and beyond the last time I felt the deafening thump, as I remember it, of my heart - I felt it today. I received a letter from a friend, accompanied with her voice.
It is flattering to know that your breath staggers at my mention and thought. It is flattering, and it amuses me, invites me, distracts me and most probably will make me bite down on her very flesh.
Last night the lilac glow of the sky was tinged with the angry orange that has always fascinated me. The Romans believed it to be a sign of change. Dont we all change at every instant of our lives. The glowing ember of my joint, the twirling calligraphy of the smoke that it exudes, and the swift dissipation of my blow into the night wind ; it all signaled one thing and one thing alone.
Time has come to return to my true self. Time has come to become the predator that I have always been. These chains, theses restrictions and constraints shall once again fall victim to their creators demise. I shall once again kill society.
I close my eyes, and picture the frame. Her hair, sparkling wet from the water and mixture of spray. Tied up, in a tight highly placed pony-tail. The thought of pulling it incites me, but I resist. Work first, play later. Skin, flattened due to the layer of powder and creame for just the right surface for light to bounce off.
And of course the grey business suit, grounded by glossy black stilettos. Id want the shirt to be elaborately frilled, or perhaps even plain would do, but the shade would have to be a mellow pink, just enough so to capture the difference in the earthly glow of sparkling red lips. A look in arabic tainted eyes that requests the permission to bite down hard, and perhaps never let go. Perhaps even draw blood. Fingernails tainted with either black or red.
And from then and there, I play.
There is something that I always request of those that are photographed by me. Submission to my desire.
I am rarely wrong, and hence I am rarely rejected that request.
It is flattering to know that your breath staggers at my mention and thought. It is flattering, and it amuses me, invites me, distracts me and most probably will make me bite down on her very flesh.
Last night the lilac glow of the sky was tinged with the angry orange that has always fascinated me. The Romans believed it to be a sign of change. Dont we all change at every instant of our lives. The glowing ember of my joint, the twirling calligraphy of the smoke that it exudes, and the swift dissipation of my blow into the night wind ; it all signaled one thing and one thing alone.
Time has come to return to my true self. Time has come to become the predator that I have always been. These chains, theses restrictions and constraints shall once again fall victim to their creators demise. I shall once again kill society.
I close my eyes, and picture the frame. Her hair, sparkling wet from the water and mixture of spray. Tied up, in a tight highly placed pony-tail. The thought of pulling it incites me, but I resist. Work first, play later. Skin, flattened due to the layer of powder and creame for just the right surface for light to bounce off.
And of course the grey business suit, grounded by glossy black stilettos. Id want the shirt to be elaborately frilled, or perhaps even plain would do, but the shade would have to be a mellow pink, just enough so to capture the difference in the earthly glow of sparkling red lips. A look in arabic tainted eyes that requests the permission to bite down hard, and perhaps never let go. Perhaps even draw blood. Fingernails tainted with either black or red.
And from then and there, I play.
There is something that I always request of those that are photographed by me. Submission to my desire.
I am rarely wrong, and hence I am rarely rejected that request.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Inventory
CPU: Intel C2D Q9550 E0 (2.83Ghz @ 3.8Ghz) 12MB 1333Mhz
Mobo: Asus P5Q + Mosfet change
Ram: Corsair DHX CMS2 DDR2 800mhz (Oc'ed) @ 1.9 V
GPU: XFX 9800GX2 Black Edition 1GB
Display: Sony Trinton G520 20 " CRT + 40" Samsung 650 1080p LCD
Sound: Onboard 8Channel HD + Genius HS-03U USB Gaming Headset (With Force Feedback) + Edifier m3000 2.1
Optical: Sony DRU810 and Samsung s222 SCSI DVD RWs
HDD: 2x 1TB Caviar Black + 500 Gig Caviar Blue ( soon to be 3 TB Cav Black)
PCI: DLink Wireless-N Rangebooster 650 + Asus MyCinema TV Capture Card
Air Cooling: 2x 140mm 56cfm Aerocool Blue Led Silent + 4x CM Blue Led 30cfm + 1x CM Black (used with a cm blue led in push-pull config) + 1x 80mm + 100cfm Slot Blower
Water Cooling: CoolIt Domino ALC (Advanced liquid cooling with 140 x 150 mm radiator)
PSU: Cooler Master Ultimate 700 Watts
Casing: CM690 Semi Modded (Paint / Decals to be done)
Scanner: VistaScan Astra 3000 + Negative Scan attachment
Printer: Samsung 1610 BW
Handy Cam: Canon HS-40
Phone: Sony k790i
Camera: Olympus E410 + Olympus E3 (18-180mm f3.5-f5.6, 50mm f2.0, 40-150mm f4-f6.8, 14-45mm f3.5-f5.6) + 4GB Extreme III CF card
Internet: 4Mbps PTCL + 3Mbps Nayatel
Laptop: HP DV-5 1015 (C2D 2.0 p7350, 4GB DDR2 Ram, 320GB, 9200GS 256MB, Blue-Ray Rom)
They do say that I am obsessed with technology.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Rebirth.
I am in pain, in agony, in anguish, confused, angry and hurt.
I am me again. I am alive.
The Raven lives.
I am me again. I am alive.
The Raven lives.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Victory
To dream of victory, before its advent, is the ability you must lose. Your enemy feels only as much as you do. Do not try to control the enemy, control yourself and your enemy will have to restrain himself in reflection.
Make your enemy move, even if he is moving in for the kill, and you will see his weaknesses and his strengths.
Victory is not in control, but in fatigue of your foe.
Make your enemy move, even if he is moving in for the kill, and you will see his weaknesses and his strengths.
Victory is not in control, but in fatigue of your foe.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Viscosity.
I am amused by the viscosity of thought that is vested in those that are fed upon by me.
I am rather amused, if not at best claimant to their obsolete rhetoric.
Much time has passed since I have spent time with the camera. I am actually looking for a video-sharing website other than You-Tube.
Ive been caught inside-out,
Left-overs for highrise fires,
Its all irritatingly funny,
It hurts to laugh even a bit more.
P.S Movies do look so much better on my HD setup. 1080p is a whole new world.
I am rather amused, if not at best claimant to their obsolete rhetoric.
Much time has passed since I have spent time with the camera. I am actually looking for a video-sharing website other than You-Tube.
Ive been caught inside-out,
Left-overs for highrise fires,
Its all irritatingly funny,
It hurts to laugh even a bit more.
P.S Movies do look so much better on my HD setup. 1080p is a whole new world.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Age
Ive grown old over the past year, quite so old. I feel a numbing practicality rising at the back of my mind.
One is amazed to think about what one was doing just a year ago. I on the other hand, can not bring myself to remember.
I suffer from zero re-collection of the yester-years. This has grown into a paranoia regarding a disease for me. I wonder whether there is something truly wrong.
I stand there in shock, apparently unmoved by what people talk about, when they talk of the past. I sit amongst friends, enjoying the moment, till they talk of times spent together. I just do not remember anything... I sleep at night, drained due to my fear of dead-sleep as I call it.... I wake up.
No dreams at night, not even nightmares, hence I call it dead-sleep. The only times I do dream is when I am running a fever....
Something has gone wrong.
All this aside, I remember every moment I have spent with her. All this aside, when I do dream, I dream to be sleeping besides her. I wake up, and she is there.. lying peacefully besides me.
The age has finally begun to show.
The age has finally begun.
One is amazed to think about what one was doing just a year ago. I on the other hand, can not bring myself to remember.
I suffer from zero re-collection of the yester-years. This has grown into a paranoia regarding a disease for me. I wonder whether there is something truly wrong.
I stand there in shock, apparently unmoved by what people talk about, when they talk of the past. I sit amongst friends, enjoying the moment, till they talk of times spent together. I just do not remember anything... I sleep at night, drained due to my fear of dead-sleep as I call it.... I wake up.
No dreams at night, not even nightmares, hence I call it dead-sleep. The only times I do dream is when I am running a fever....
Something has gone wrong.
All this aside, I remember every moment I have spent with her. All this aside, when I do dream, I dream to be sleeping besides her. I wake up, and she is there.. lying peacefully besides me.
The age has finally begun to show.
The age has finally begun.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Change
It's always the line I change that I remember the best.
It's always the ones that cant survive that I admire the most.
It's always the ones that cant survive that I admire the most.
Friday, May 15, 2009
I am desperately trying not to list the ways I could make her cry, no matter how nice her tears would taste.
Wait
There’s a problem with inspiration; it always comes at a cost, an attachment.
Funny how I have started to see those things as one and the same.
It seems that I can only write when I lose something that is dear to me, dear enough to make my heart bleed.
But I want it. I want to peel back the skin and find something bloody and tender. Something to remind me why I still seek to possess something that by its nature is painful to share, and even more painful to lose.
How long will I take to finally die?
How much more to go?
Funny how I have started to see those things as one and the same.
It seems that I can only write when I lose something that is dear to me, dear enough to make my heart bleed.
But I want it. I want to peel back the skin and find something bloody and tender. Something to remind me why I still seek to possess something that by its nature is painful to share, and even more painful to lose.
How long will I take to finally die?
How much more to go?
Autumn Plans
This autumn, I am going to finally exhibit my art to the masses.
Over four years ago, I visited Latvia. I wasn’t long out of high-school, had few attachments other then the friend I went with, and the week we spent roaming the Latvian countryside with a map and a rough plan was an important one.
The week was filled with interesting memories: The first ‘castle’ we found was smaller then the place I live in now; on a road along the outskirts of Riga, we defied the laws of physics by passing between sleeping sheep on one side and a large tour bus on the other - on a road I swear wasn’t more than a few feet larger then the car we were driving in; the last night we were there, we feasted in the Bauska castle, drinking mead served by wenches and accompanied by good music.
It was a hell of a great trip.
How these two things relate is ... well quite the mystery even to me.
I met a girl in Riga, Latvia. She proposed marriage in 4:23 minutes. I have since wondered, what if I had said yes.
I still wonder, at times.
Over four years ago, I visited Latvia. I wasn’t long out of high-school, had few attachments other then the friend I went with, and the week we spent roaming the Latvian countryside with a map and a rough plan was an important one.
The week was filled with interesting memories: The first ‘castle’ we found was smaller then the place I live in now; on a road along the outskirts of Riga, we defied the laws of physics by passing between sleeping sheep on one side and a large tour bus on the other - on a road I swear wasn’t more than a few feet larger then the car we were driving in; the last night we were there, we feasted in the Bauska castle, drinking mead served by wenches and accompanied by good music.
It was a hell of a great trip.
How these two things relate is ... well quite the mystery even to me.
I met a girl in Riga, Latvia. She proposed marriage in 4:23 minutes. I have since wondered, what if I had said yes.
I still wonder, at times.
Fragile
I want to hold something fragile.
A rose made of glass, delicate enough to be worshiped, easily yet painfully broken.
A single drop of rain, that falls from the sky; one that announces a thunderstorm and yet somehow manages to win the race.
A snowflake that falls between the collar of my shirt and the back of my neck.
You.
A rose made of glass, delicate enough to be worshiped, easily yet painfully broken.
A single drop of rain, that falls from the sky; one that announces a thunderstorm and yet somehow manages to win the race.
A snowflake that falls between the collar of my shirt and the back of my neck.
You.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Thoughts at 504.
The taste of the ocean after swimming is like speaking to an old friend for the first time in years.
My memories are like that, indelicate yet graceful and forever untrustworthy. I happen to remember times and events how I perceived them to be, and not necessarily how they happened. In my memories, I am a better man then the one I am now. The person I was yesterday is cleverer and more amusing. His words were crafted with great care and singular purpose. In comparison, the words I use today are accidental, clumsy and benign. Likening the fine aristocratic art of Behma' with that of Xavier. I have given into my carnal rage. My memories change, with my thoughts.. for they share the shelter of my mind.
This particular memory is only half realized; I can remember the words as they left me, remember the way they tasted as they passed through my lips while I drifted near the edge of sleep. But they were silhouetted words, sheer and razor-thin, fragile in their cruelty, and I cannot remember how well they survived the rite of speech.
I was telling her that I wanted a sacrifice.
I wanted her to fly.
Or, at least, I wanted the memory of it.
I have today realizes that I shelter my thoughts too much, and the world from them even more so.
Am I the only man (that word makes me grin) that wants to see the love of his life jump off from a 50.4 feet high balcony?
Am I the only creature alive, that can save such love.
It is indeed loneliness in its purest form. Others have gifts, I have a curse.
My memories are like that, indelicate yet graceful and forever untrustworthy. I happen to remember times and events how I perceived them to be, and not necessarily how they happened. In my memories, I am a better man then the one I am now. The person I was yesterday is cleverer and more amusing. His words were crafted with great care and singular purpose. In comparison, the words I use today are accidental, clumsy and benign. Likening the fine aristocratic art of Behma' with that of Xavier. I have given into my carnal rage. My memories change, with my thoughts.. for they share the shelter of my mind.
This particular memory is only half realized; I can remember the words as they left me, remember the way they tasted as they passed through my lips while I drifted near the edge of sleep. But they were silhouetted words, sheer and razor-thin, fragile in their cruelty, and I cannot remember how well they survived the rite of speech.
I was telling her that I wanted a sacrifice.
I wanted her to fly.
Or, at least, I wanted the memory of it.
I have today realizes that I shelter my thoughts too much, and the world from them even more so.
Am I the only man (that word makes me grin) that wants to see the love of his life jump off from a 50.4 feet high balcony?
Am I the only creature alive, that can save such love.
It is indeed loneliness in its purest form. Others have gifts, I have a curse.
My wants.
I was asked whether I truly wanted my life to be the way it is, that too by someone I consider far more talented that most around us.. perhaps even most in Stonegarth.
What she doesn't realize is the wit of her own innocence. Nature protects, and it does so for its finest.
My reply:
I want to write you a love letter.
I want to catch your fingertips and unravel you in ribbons of red satin.
I want to fill your quiet innocence with the memory of my voice.
I want to envy your fall while I orchestrate the means of your descent.
I want to be your fondest regret.
What she doesn't realize is the wit of her own innocence. Nature protects, and it does so for its finest.
My reply:
I want to write you a love letter.
I want to catch your fingertips and unravel you in ribbons of red satin.
I want to fill your quiet innocence with the memory of my voice.
I want to envy your fall while I orchestrate the means of your descent.
I want to be your fondest regret.
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