I have tried appealing to your sense of charity.Your empathy. Your good will towards others.
This was foolishness on my part. Not because I think you lacking in such qualities - I do not think you a monster; I know you to be human.
As such, you are cautious. Suspicious. At times, down right fearful.
And you have much reason to be, for there are monsters in the world. Some very near.
So I implore you for your sake, where once I pleaded for mine: relent. Leave me be.
I am to be feared, not as I am, but as you threaten to make me.
You have only dealt in people, sir.
Monstrous though they may act, the act itself exhausts the men they are.
Monsters, however feel only relief. The effort for us, is quite the contrary.
Humanity is a weighted covering that pulls at my every fiber, and my only reward is that of being able to keep bearing its weight a little longer.
So allow me to keep my guise for a little longer still.
For since first I dawned it, these days have felt a peaceful dream, and should I be wakened from it, I fear we both should miss my sleep.
This is not a plea for mercy.
This is not a threat on your life.
It is a forecast of what will come, from further pressures made by you upon me.
A storm threatens to break, heed or flout: your fate is your own.
Saturday 31 March 2018
Day 136
A man sits before a grave, freshly dug.
He knows not of the body buried below.
He did know a woman though, filled with life.
She enjoyed dancing. She said it was the most impossible thing one could do, because it requires you to keep time and yet you lose track of it when you do it.
Deliriously paradoxical, she would describe it. Which was also a fitting description of her.
Deliriously paradoxical. This woman who loved going to bed, but loved to sleep in. Who loved to laugh, yet would consume tragic stories with earnest.
She would pour out love and praise as a faucet, yet couldn't stand to receive a single compliment.
A warrior without violent impulse.
An adventurer without mission.
A living saint.
This woman, the man had known in life. But she was gone now.
In her place: a stone slab, name etched upon the surface.
The last time she'd bid him farewell, he said he would think of her when soever he should dance.
She instructed him to dance more often, then.
A sweet sentiment at the time.
Now: he could not think of a world with music worth hearing.
Not with her unable to hear it . . .
Yet, with letter in hand, written by that woman, he is called upon to fulfill final set of tasks.
One such task is to enjoy himself while doing the others. Not to forget her - mind. That would be a rudeness, unbecoming of the man. He did smile at that bit.
No. Just look forward to a day when she is simply in another room, while he is in one too.
The paths diverge, but their having met can never be undone.
So journey onward. Envision a day when he should smile upon thinking of her and be not saddened so much by her absence.
The man eventually stands up, his instructions neatly folded and pocketed, before wiping the dirt from his pants.
He looks a last time upon the stone slab, then turns to leave.
He knows not of the body buried below.
He did know a woman though, filled with life.
She enjoyed dancing. She said it was the most impossible thing one could do, because it requires you to keep time and yet you lose track of it when you do it.
Deliriously paradoxical, she would describe it. Which was also a fitting description of her.
Deliriously paradoxical. This woman who loved going to bed, but loved to sleep in. Who loved to laugh, yet would consume tragic stories with earnest.
She would pour out love and praise as a faucet, yet couldn't stand to receive a single compliment.
A warrior without violent impulse.
An adventurer without mission.
A living saint.
This woman, the man had known in life. But she was gone now.
In her place: a stone slab, name etched upon the surface.
The last time she'd bid him farewell, he said he would think of her when soever he should dance.
She instructed him to dance more often, then.
A sweet sentiment at the time.
Now: he could not think of a world with music worth hearing.
Not with her unable to hear it . . .
Yet, with letter in hand, written by that woman, he is called upon to fulfill final set of tasks.
One such task is to enjoy himself while doing the others. Not to forget her - mind. That would be a rudeness, unbecoming of the man. He did smile at that bit.
No. Just look forward to a day when she is simply in another room, while he is in one too.
The paths diverge, but their having met can never be undone.
So journey onward. Envision a day when he should smile upon thinking of her and be not saddened so much by her absence.
The man eventually stands up, his instructions neatly folded and pocketed, before wiping the dirt from his pants.
He looks a last time upon the stone slab, then turns to leave.
Thursday 29 March 2018
Day 134
Atop the old tower, just below its mighty bell, our man stands upon a ledge.
He is short of breath, having run to this very spot. Chased from everywhere else he could possibly hide.
But they will find him here. In time.
Capture is inevitable and our man knows this.
He holds a locket close to his heart, and seeks the courage to commit one final act of defiance.
One move his would-be captors could not have seen.
A last will and testament, made out in self sacrifice.
But what guarantee was there, that the message would make its mark?
Should he toss himself to the bottom of this wishing well, would his life be enough to purchase one last wish . . .?
The bell begins to toll and his resolve is summoned.
Locket to lips, he whispers his last words before forcing the artifact into his mouth.
He nearly gags more than once, but the bell's ringing masks the grotesque noises.
He forces his body to accept this last meal, despite its many attempts to expel it.
The last bell rings. The precious cargo is stowed.
He steps out into the open air, and for half a breath has the strangest hope that he might have been able to fly this entire time. And somehow forgot until this very moment.
Impossible to tell how long this comfort stays with our man, before his inevitable-
He is short of breath, having run to this very spot. Chased from everywhere else he could possibly hide.
But they will find him here. In time.
Capture is inevitable and our man knows this.
He holds a locket close to his heart, and seeks the courage to commit one final act of defiance.
One move his would-be captors could not have seen.
A last will and testament, made out in self sacrifice.
But what guarantee was there, that the message would make its mark?
Should he toss himself to the bottom of this wishing well, would his life be enough to purchase one last wish . . .?
The bell begins to toll and his resolve is summoned.
Locket to lips, he whispers his last words before forcing the artifact into his mouth.
He nearly gags more than once, but the bell's ringing masks the grotesque noises.
He forces his body to accept this last meal, despite its many attempts to expel it.
The last bell rings. The precious cargo is stowed.
He steps out into the open air, and for half a breath has the strangest hope that he might have been able to fly this entire time. And somehow forgot until this very moment.
Impossible to tell how long this comfort stays with our man, before his inevitable-
Wednesday 28 March 2018
Day 133
The smooth glass like surface of the lake is suddenly disturbed.
Dancing droplets fall and break upon the body's surface in a fantastic display of rings and ringlets, all growing and dissipating with every impact.
How much more beautiful is should all be if not for the massive shadow that lay dormant just beneath the surface.
A shadow whose slumber threatens to give way to waking with each gentle drop...
Sho should be to blame if one of the should wake it.
The rain cannot atone.
The watery cage was never designed to hold back a calamity.
Calamity, you see, is only ever a raindrop's width away from breaking free.
Yet in all these years, calamity has remained at rest.
Until you brought children out to play . . .
Dancing droplets fall and break upon the body's surface in a fantastic display of rings and ringlets, all growing and dissipating with every impact.
How much more beautiful is should all be if not for the massive shadow that lay dormant just beneath the surface.
A shadow whose slumber threatens to give way to waking with each gentle drop...
Sho should be to blame if one of the should wake it.
The rain cannot atone.
The watery cage was never designed to hold back a calamity.
Calamity, you see, is only ever a raindrop's width away from breaking free.
Yet in all these years, calamity has remained at rest.
Until you brought children out to play . . .
Day 132
We are all just stories, at the end of it all.
With books snapped shut behind casket covers.
This isn't metaphor. I have very little talent for metaphor.
There exists a growing library, began some time ago, in which the lives of every living person has been recorded in books.
Each book a person, each page a day in there life.
You live your life until the final page is filled out, at which point the bound cover is closed. With it, your mortality is realized.
One book, however, remains opened.
It has never closed in the history of the library, despite this book having had every page written and rewritten upon, numerous times.
It has never closed in the history of the library, despite this book having had every page written and rewritten upon, numerous times.
Well, not every page.
Not the final page.
That page remains blank, as well as far and away from the libraries many shelves ...
It was taken by the book's owner. And she has been avoiding death for a very long time.
And she is not nearly tired enough yet, to give up on the chase.
Sunday 25 March 2018
Day 131
I worry about that voice in my head.
The one that says have we done enough, yet?I'm afraid of it.
Afraid it will never be satisfied.
Afraid it will always stay with me.
Afraid of what it's repetition truly reflects on my own soul.
More than anything I'm afraid that it will never say what else can we do?
When do we become a good person?
When do we become good?
When do we become?
The one that says have we done enough, yet?I'm afraid of it.
Afraid it will never be satisfied.
Afraid it will always stay with me.
Afraid of what it's repetition truly reflects on my own soul.
More than anything I'm afraid that it will never say what else can we do?
When do we become a good person?
When do we become good?
When do we become?
Saturday 24 March 2018
Day 130
Not that the man had a breadth of experience when it came to homicide, but before this night he would have wagered his victim to be the most troublesome while still breathing.
Yet here he was, chasing a slippery corpse down several flights of stairs. Trying to catch the thing before a hapless bystander should be taken out at the knees.
Oddly, this was more exercise than the deceased had ever experienced in life - just one of the many reasons our man had turned murderer.
It was not done in abidance to a warped code of morality, nor some skewed perception of justice.
More an act of pragmatism.
The newly baptized killer had reasoned that the world has need for saints and villains, but the sloths and glutinous of the species are simply taking up space. Space that should be made available for valuable players in the game to come . . . or in the case of his corpulent victim, an abundance of spaces.
Yet here he was, chasing a slippery corpse down several flights of stairs. Trying to catch the thing before a hapless bystander should be taken out at the knees.
Oddly, this was more exercise than the deceased had ever experienced in life - just one of the many reasons our man had turned murderer.
It was not done in abidance to a warped code of morality, nor some skewed perception of justice.
More an act of pragmatism.
The newly baptized killer had reasoned that the world has need for saints and villains, but the sloths and glutinous of the species are simply taking up space. Space that should be made available for valuable players in the game to come . . . or in the case of his corpulent victim, an abundance of spaces.
Thursday 22 March 2018
Day 128
The inventor smiled as her companion crowed loud enough to scatter the clouds around them.
Her flying machine worked.
More than worked, it defied expectations.
Wing to wing with lark and eagle alike, they flew and what's more they would make it home in time to tell the neighbors what rain tastes like before it falls.
For once, her imagined outcome of this moment were an underestimation. Her assumptions proved a pale imitation to the reality that was flight!
And yet . . .
Despite the joys of success and the prospect of proving herself to her peers, the inventor could not help but feel a twinge of remorse. For up here, where the horizon was no longer scenery to behold, but a destination to be met; she felt alive.
The open air felt more a home to her than solid ground ever did.
Ever would.
For she could no longer foresee a future with her and earth.
She would not be staying long when next they landed.
It was a decision her heart made for her the moment they missed the ground and began to soar.
Her flying machine worked.
More than worked, it defied expectations.
Wing to wing with lark and eagle alike, they flew and what's more they would make it home in time to tell the neighbors what rain tastes like before it falls.
For once, her imagined outcome of this moment were an underestimation. Her assumptions proved a pale imitation to the reality that was flight!
And yet . . .
Despite the joys of success and the prospect of proving herself to her peers, the inventor could not help but feel a twinge of remorse. For up here, where the horizon was no longer scenery to behold, but a destination to be met; she felt alive.
The open air felt more a home to her than solid ground ever did.
Ever would.
For she could no longer foresee a future with her and earth.
She would not be staying long when next they landed.
It was a decision her heart made for her the moment they missed the ground and began to soar.
Tuesday 20 March 2018
Day 127
But once light was brought into the cave, everything changed.
The roof was littered with crystals, now refracting and glittering in response to the torch.
And the shallow waters below, reflected the radiance above, creating two sets of starry skies for the companions to stare at in awe.
Holding hands, they shared this moment.
Beautiful, though it was, neither one could stop themselves wishing the others could have made it this far . . .
Slow falling tears caressed each of their smiling faces.
Their simultaneous devastation and wonderment could only live in this quiet place.
A place of beauty, and of sorrow.
Both empty and full.
After a brief eternity housed within several moments, she turned to him and said, "Look: there's a sky for each of us."
He smiled at the offer and replied, "If it's alright with you, I'd rather share mine."
The roof was littered with crystals, now refracting and glittering in response to the torch.
And the shallow waters below, reflected the radiance above, creating two sets of starry skies for the companions to stare at in awe.
Holding hands, they shared this moment.
Beautiful, though it was, neither one could stop themselves wishing the others could have made it this far . . .
Slow falling tears caressed each of their smiling faces.
Their simultaneous devastation and wonderment could only live in this quiet place.
A place of beauty, and of sorrow.
Both empty and full.
After a brief eternity housed within several moments, she turned to him and said, "Look: there's a sky for each of us."
He smiled at the offer and replied, "If it's alright with you, I'd rather share mine."
Day 126
So how long shall we live this way:
We wanderers without destination.
Sailors sans ship.
Adventurers in need of a quest.
Our bindles packed and ready for when that one day call rushes from destiny's lips directly into our eager ears.
Vindication for our patience in our waiting and preparing.
How long will we wait for it? How long can we wait . . .
Our 10 by 10 apartments filled with memories we never reopen and the furniture to bear it.
We occupy space, but only on its surface.
This isn't a home yet.
Yet, a home it never was meant to be.
Simply housing for the in between. Between the last adventure and the next.
If a match was left lit and it all went up, would we have any reason to run into the fire?
Plenty of reason to run from. Life is out there, here is would be just waiting to die . . . perhaps that's what complacency is. A fire burning too slow for us to feel he flame.
I would run from this room, this house, this city, this country, this world if the call to adventure summoned me away.
Because that is my life. Waiting to be called. Waiting . . .
I do not want my life to be well waited. I want it to be well lived.
So.
When do we drop the match?
We wanderers without destination.
Sailors sans ship.
Adventurers in need of a quest.
Our bindles packed and ready for when that one day call rushes from destiny's lips directly into our eager ears.
Vindication for our patience in our waiting and preparing.
How long will we wait for it? How long can we wait . . .
Our 10 by 10 apartments filled with memories we never reopen and the furniture to bear it.
We occupy space, but only on its surface.
This isn't a home yet.
Yet, a home it never was meant to be.
Simply housing for the in between. Between the last adventure and the next.
If a match was left lit and it all went up, would we have any reason to run into the fire?
Plenty of reason to run from. Life is out there, here is would be just waiting to die . . . perhaps that's what complacency is. A fire burning too slow for us to feel he flame.
I would run from this room, this house, this city, this country, this world if the call to adventure summoned me away.
Because that is my life. Waiting to be called. Waiting . . .
I do not want my life to be well waited. I want it to be well lived.
So.
When do we drop the match?
Monday 19 March 2018
Day 125
Just once, I'd like to see a conflict evolve into art.
An argument becomes a duet.
A fist fight becomes a dance off.
Screams become rainbows bursting forth from the mouths of red faced people.
Neither horror nor shock occurs, it is to be expected. We are capable of great beaut and great harm.
It's a shame we forget this whenever we are consumed by anger.
I don't want to fight you anymore.
Can't we just dance instead?
An argument becomes a duet.
A fist fight becomes a dance off.
Screams become rainbows bursting forth from the mouths of red faced people.
Neither horror nor shock occurs, it is to be expected. We are capable of great beaut and great harm.
It's a shame we forget this whenever we are consumed by anger.
I don't want to fight you anymore.
Can't we just dance instead?
Day 135
Yea. It's raining, and I'm biking.
Sure. It's a steep hill to climb, and I'm not even half way up.
Okay. Maybe my lungs are on fire, and I'm only just starting a 10 hour shift of running around cleaning up everyone's messes while trying not to murder a guest with there own discarded toothpick.
But none of that is getting me down.
Because the seductive bar tender with piercing blue eyes said that I look striking in my uniform.
So all that other stuff has become inconsequential.
That's how good days work, sometimes.
Something little perks you up and you're treading clouds the rest of the day.
Sadly, the opposite is also true for bad days . . .
A bad day will come when it'll come.
Until then, let's just live this day.
A good day.
Because I look striking, today.
Saturday 17 March 2018
Day 124
The sad truth dawned on the poor child, at last.
They weren't actually that good at playing hide and seek.
The others just didn't look that hard for them.
So they stayed hidden but never sought, never found and never given a chance to seek out others.
The game would eventually end, but they are hiding still. Waiting to be found.
See how cruel some games can be?
They weren't actually that good at playing hide and seek.
The others just didn't look that hard for them.
So they stayed hidden but never sought, never found and never given a chance to seek out others.
The game would eventually end, but they are hiding still. Waiting to be found.
See how cruel some games can be?
Day 123
The scene is a simple one, but it require a little setup.
So:
Miles is a bigger guy. He looks imposing and is actually very strong. Also tough.
But he's a gentle giant, who would rather beat himself up, than let anyone else get hurt.
Probably why he's a professional wrestler - entertainment: not Olympic.
Miles is a jobber, he takes falls and gets beat up by hero characters in order to help get them over in the eyes of the fans. Miles is well practiced at taking a bump from smaller guys.
So Miles found this cat hiding from the rain, and brought it home.
After drying it off, he realizes the cat wasn't a cat, it's a shape shifter.
But the shapeshifter isn't a shapeshifter, either. They're in a shapeshifter's body, that used to belong to a body snatcher, who took their body, which was that of a warrior mage. Now, they need Miles' help to stop this body snatcher, before a terrible curse is unleashed on the entire town.
. . . fast forward to Miles fighting this shapeshifter, who chooses to swap bodies with Miles, due to being bigger and stronger.
Something kind of snaps in Miles ...
A man who has allowed himself to be beaten down all his life, who makes his living taking hits, now finds himself face to face with . . . himself.
He's confused, out of body experiences do that to a person.
He's no longer himself. Because he's starring at himself.
He's seeing himself as others see him.
All he can do is ask why? Why does everyone want to hurt you? Why do you let them? Why don't you tell them to stop?!
None of this is said aloud of course.
Words can't fully articulate this odd mix of inward outward loathing.
He strikes the face that was once his own. Then again. And again.Striking down the shell that was once his own.
His crooked teeth, his lazy eye, his bald head.
Every blow is a release of his own self loathing.
Why are you ugly?
Why are you fat?
Why are you the way you are?
He stands over his own body with fists raised, finally able to see himself as all the bullies of the world have seen him his entire life.
Why don't you tell them to stop? Why don't you want them to stop?
The fire in his new eyes are extinguished by tears.
Just tell me to stop . . . tell me to stop hurting you.
So:
Miles is a bigger guy. He looks imposing and is actually very strong. Also tough.
But he's a gentle giant, who would rather beat himself up, than let anyone else get hurt.
Probably why he's a professional wrestler - entertainment: not Olympic.
Miles is a jobber, he takes falls and gets beat up by hero characters in order to help get them over in the eyes of the fans. Miles is well practiced at taking a bump from smaller guys.
So Miles found this cat hiding from the rain, and brought it home.
After drying it off, he realizes the cat wasn't a cat, it's a shape shifter.
But the shapeshifter isn't a shapeshifter, either. They're in a shapeshifter's body, that used to belong to a body snatcher, who took their body, which was that of a warrior mage. Now, they need Miles' help to stop this body snatcher, before a terrible curse is unleashed on the entire town.
. . . fast forward to Miles fighting this shapeshifter, who chooses to swap bodies with Miles, due to being bigger and stronger.
Something kind of snaps in Miles ...
A man who has allowed himself to be beaten down all his life, who makes his living taking hits, now finds himself face to face with . . . himself.
He's confused, out of body experiences do that to a person.
He's no longer himself. Because he's starring at himself.
He's seeing himself as others see him.
All he can do is ask why? Why does everyone want to hurt you? Why do you let them? Why don't you tell them to stop?!
None of this is said aloud of course.
Words can't fully articulate this odd mix of inward outward loathing.
He strikes the face that was once his own. Then again. And again.Striking down the shell that was once his own.
His crooked teeth, his lazy eye, his bald head.
Every blow is a release of his own self loathing.
Why are you ugly?
Why are you fat?
Why are you the way you are?
He stands over his own body with fists raised, finally able to see himself as all the bullies of the world have seen him his entire life.
Why don't you tell them to stop? Why don't you want them to stop?
The fire in his new eyes are extinguished by tears.
Just tell me to stop . . . tell me to stop hurting you.
Friday 16 March 2018
Day 122
AMAZING INVENTIONS!!!
Swords that turn into candy, that way every time the fighting is about to get out of hand, we eat candy instead.
Sleeves made from the same material as all our childhood blankets: every hug becomes softer and warmer.
A universal hand signal that everyone on the planet knows, that says we can skip past the small talk because I have something very important to say to you and my anecdote about the Victor Hugo inventing the first text message is not going to suddenly make me brave enough to possibly hurt you . . . or myself . . .
Lullabies for adults, that still make us feel like everything's gonna be okay.
Motivational posters of friends and family members, instead of strangers.
A color coded sensor telling me if I'm actually uncomfortable at this party and want to leave, or if I'm just trying to leave before becoming uncomfortable.
Paper mirrors that you can draw on and everything!
A record of all the advice you've given to the people you love, recorded in a video diary, which will play when you're in a rough spot.
A chocolate drawer. Not a drawer made of chocolate. A drawer full of chocolate. And it's self filling. And the chocolate isn't messy!
A thing that will make me less selfish and not overcompensate by being kind to people from a distance . . .
that last one might just be therapy and practiced mindfulness . . . so that but in like a pill.
A beautiful garden with time vortexy doodads, so I can introduce the flower to the seed it once was, and the seed to the flower it will one day become! ... and maybe the gardener me can chat with gardener me if I'm ever wondering about my growth?
These inventions aren't really practical, and their uses are far too singular to be feasible for mass production.
Some of them aren't even inventions, just concepts or frustrations I have.
I suppose that is how inventions do begin though: the displeasure with life's little struggles give rise to the need for tools to overcome them.
I'm not sure what I want to make. Or even what I want to overcome. I haven't identified it.
I just know I want to move on.
So . . . maybe a weekly writing exercise to get in touch with the things in life that are most frustrating you as a means to identify them ooooooooo I see what you did there.
Oh subconscious. You truly do operate sub ... conscious ... ly? ... I'm tired.
End transmission!
Swords that turn into candy, that way every time the fighting is about to get out of hand, we eat candy instead.
Sleeves made from the same material as all our childhood blankets: every hug becomes softer and warmer.
A universal hand signal that everyone on the planet knows, that says we can skip past the small talk because I have something very important to say to you and my anecdote about the Victor Hugo inventing the first text message is not going to suddenly make me brave enough to possibly hurt you . . . or myself . . .
Lullabies for adults, that still make us feel like everything's gonna be okay.
Motivational posters of friends and family members, instead of strangers.
A color coded sensor telling me if I'm actually uncomfortable at this party and want to leave, or if I'm just trying to leave before becoming uncomfortable.
Paper mirrors that you can draw on and everything!
A record of all the advice you've given to the people you love, recorded in a video diary, which will play when you're in a rough spot.
A chocolate drawer. Not a drawer made of chocolate. A drawer full of chocolate. And it's self filling. And the chocolate isn't messy!
A thing that will make me less selfish and not overcompensate by being kind to people from a distance . . .
that last one might just be therapy and practiced mindfulness . . . so that but in like a pill.
A beautiful garden with time vortexy doodads, so I can introduce the flower to the seed it once was, and the seed to the flower it will one day become! ... and maybe the gardener me can chat with gardener me if I'm ever wondering about my growth?
These inventions aren't really practical, and their uses are far too singular to be feasible for mass production.
Some of them aren't even inventions, just concepts or frustrations I have.
I suppose that is how inventions do begin though: the displeasure with life's little struggles give rise to the need for tools to overcome them.
I'm not sure what I want to make. Or even what I want to overcome. I haven't identified it.
I just know I want to move on.
So . . . maybe a weekly writing exercise to get in touch with the things in life that are most frustrating you as a means to identify them ooooooooo I see what you did there.
Oh subconscious. You truly do operate sub ... conscious ... ly? ... I'm tired.
End transmission!
Wednesday 14 March 2018
Day 121
Though a storm threatens to break all around you both, all you can focus on is her.
With adventure in her eyes, she wears a mischievous grin to match, and stands before you.
Arm outstretched.
Hand offered.
She doesn't even need to speak, but the words come out all the same:
"Where to?"
Your answer will come without your meaning it too.
Blurted out, like the schoolchild, eager to provide answer to a test question they had successfully studied for:
"Everywhere!"
With adventure in her eyes, she wears a mischievous grin to match, and stands before you.
Arm outstretched.
Hand offered.
She doesn't even need to speak, but the words come out all the same:
"Where to?"
Your answer will come without your meaning it too.
Blurted out, like the schoolchild, eager to provide answer to a test question they had successfully studied for:
"Everywhere!"
Tuesday 13 March 2018
Day 120
On a quiet afternoon at the local market, a man shops for the finest ingredients.
The man knows he is being followed and that his situation is dire, but it cannot be helped.
This may vert well be the most important dinner party of his life.
And he intends to do it justice.
The man knows he is being followed and that his situation is dire, but it cannot be helped.
This may vert well be the most important dinner party of his life.
And he intends to do it justice.
Monday 12 March 2018
Day 119
Though they thought her dead, she emerged from the wilderness more alive than ever.
With ambition in her eyes and certainty in her step, the heiress strolled back into civilization.
She would set out to claim what was hers by right.
Comparitively, the wilds would likely prove more accommodating than the bureaucratic jungle she was about to venture into.
Yet, her pace remained steady.
Just as the air is still before the storm, so did her outward shows portend.
Whirling machinations lie beneath her surface.
Dark gears propelled the terrible design within her.
It was neither justice, nor vengeance, which motivated her now.
She sought a reckoning.
And her storm would pluck the guilty and the innocent alike . . .
With ambition in her eyes and certainty in her step, the heiress strolled back into civilization.
She would set out to claim what was hers by right.
Comparitively, the wilds would likely prove more accommodating than the bureaucratic jungle she was about to venture into.
Yet, her pace remained steady.
Just as the air is still before the storm, so did her outward shows portend.
Whirling machinations lie beneath her surface.
Dark gears propelled the terrible design within her.
It was neither justice, nor vengeance, which motivated her now.
She sought a reckoning.
And her storm would pluck the guilty and the innocent alike . . .
Thursday 8 March 2018
Day 116
So she poured a single drop of rain into his ear.
The boy slept through it all, of course.
He was a heavy sleeper.
But had he not, he might have glimpsed the cause of his stormy day after.
Why his every step shook like thunder. Each angry howl found itself accompanied by a frothy drizzle.
For the dream witch had planted a storm seed in his head. And his soggy dreams would only feed it throughout the night.
She, the dream witch, was growing a breaker. A blower. A billower and a shaker. One who cannot see a thing without wanting to destroy it.
This one would grow into an investment landowner and seek out neighborhoods to tear up and down. And true to the storm he would strive to become, he would ignore the cries of adults and children alike.
He would never be satisfied by serenity, nor calm.
It would always feel a prologue to his work yet to be done.
This is the reason people break the world.
Or at lease, its the only sense I can make of it...
The boy slept through it all, of course.
He was a heavy sleeper.
But had he not, he might have glimpsed the cause of his stormy day after.
Why his every step shook like thunder. Each angry howl found itself accompanied by a frothy drizzle.
For the dream witch had planted a storm seed in his head. And his soggy dreams would only feed it throughout the night.
She, the dream witch, was growing a breaker. A blower. A billower and a shaker. One who cannot see a thing without wanting to destroy it.
This one would grow into an investment landowner and seek out neighborhoods to tear up and down. And true to the storm he would strive to become, he would ignore the cries of adults and children alike.
He would never be satisfied by serenity, nor calm.
It would always feel a prologue to his work yet to be done.
This is the reason people break the world.
Or at lease, its the only sense I can make of it...
Day 129
To this day there are still a handful of don'ts in this world.
Don'ts left over from the old world.
Don't walk on graves - that one is just basic respect.
Don't curse a sailor at sea, which can be expanded to simply watching your words.
One don't however, has no practical explanation in our modern and sensible world.
If you should find a faerie ring upon a patch of land, you don't raise any structure over top of it.
Builders, inspectors and permit givers who work in parts old enough to remember such secrets will all agree.
Neither house nor wall nor tower nor barn may be built upon a faerie's ring . . .
For them that would ignore this warning, there exist only one word in reply:
Don't.
Monday 5 March 2018
Day 113
How many doorways have you walked through in your life?
Don't bother answering. I know you've lost count. That is, if you bothered to keep count.
Which ... sorry if you tried to, but that number never really mattered.
It never does.
Even if you hovered there, between two rooms. Or a hallway and a room. Waiting. Worried. Hopeful. Whatever.
That archway in the wall that stood as an imaginary barrier between where you once found yourself and where you were going mattered very little.
You were only ever anticipating what was to come, or regretting what was behind.
And now another doorway appears.
And you are between two rooms.
So if you must hover now, be brief.
If you must take a moment to grieve or groan, do it. Take that moment.
But do not, for a moment, mistake a hallway for a home.
These are transitions. And anyone who's had to sit through a poorly staged musical will tell you, the meat is in plot, not the scene change.
Your life, for good or for ill, lies in the room before you.
And you putting off life any longer than you need to, does you no favors.
So take a breath and then another. Then turn the knob and walk through the door.
Who knows what life you may start living.
Don't bother answering. I know you've lost count. That is, if you bothered to keep count.
Which ... sorry if you tried to, but that number never really mattered.
It never does.
Even if you hovered there, between two rooms. Or a hallway and a room. Waiting. Worried. Hopeful. Whatever.
That archway in the wall that stood as an imaginary barrier between where you once found yourself and where you were going mattered very little.
You were only ever anticipating what was to come, or regretting what was behind.
And now another doorway appears.
And you are between two rooms.
So if you must hover now, be brief.
If you must take a moment to grieve or groan, do it. Take that moment.
But do not, for a moment, mistake a hallway for a home.
These are transitions. And anyone who's had to sit through a poorly staged musical will tell you, the meat is in plot, not the scene change.
Your life, for good or for ill, lies in the room before you.
And you putting off life any longer than you need to, does you no favors.
So take a breath and then another. Then turn the knob and walk through the door.
Who knows what life you may start living.
Day 118
Things I won't be writing about tonight:
Karaoke
Money
That odd foggy borderland where you meet ex lovers for civil discourse
Pears
Alcoholism
The Hedgehog's dilemma
Meeting the drunk and disorderly on the streetcar
Exhaustion
Aging
Trees being very quick creatures, but only when you see them at their own pace
Ghost stories
Uncertainty in politics
Losing time
Regret
Remorse for lacking regret
Regretting not having remote for not having regretted something
Scrolling through text conversations, realizing your non-commitment to the relationship should have been more clear to you.
Did I already mention pears?
...
It's good to get these things out of the way, from time to time.
The "what not to do"s. It helps one zone in closer to what one will write about...
So.
What's left?
Day 117
I'm writing myself some passes for the week.
A pass for sleeping in.
A pass for an extra twenty minutes of lounging.
A pass for multiple wing nights, even though we have food at home!
A pass to worry about money.
A pass to be sad about a girl, this comes with a time limit.
A similar slip exists for feeling sorry for myself, but I try not to give out too many of those.
I don't just have passes.
I also have permission slips.
Slips that, once signed, give me permission to do a lot of things.
I've given myself permission to write.
Permission to go out and feel confident.
Permission to start so many projects and to fail as often as I need to - just to so long as I'm failing bigger each time.
Permission to be fond of people, and to express my fondness in sincere yet quirky ways.
Permission to distance myself from people, because I value independence.
Permission to be excited by an idea. As well as the permission to throw out that that same idea the moment it no longer excites me!
Permission to be both centre stage and supporting cast, and be confident in my ability to be both.
Permission to see myself as better than I am, without hating who I've been.
Permission to want. To try. To do.
Permission to be overwhelmed by love and permission to let go of it within breaths of each other.
I often need permission, before I will feel comfortable doing anything with confidence.
So I'm giving it. I permit myself.
And I have the forms to prove it.
Saturday 3 March 2018
Day 115
Our story starts, as so many do, with our hero to be lounging in a bathrobe.
Waiting between periods of sleep, for life to happen to him.
Naps break up the day and the weather is uneventful.
No word comes from the outside, offering quests nor calls to adventure.
Our hero simply feeds and entertains himself. Before settling in for another bout of sleeping.
See?
F@#! realism.
Friday 2 March 2018
Day 111
So why do you put up with them? Even though they worry and frustrate you like nobody else can ...
Because I remember the time before we met, and I remember the time after.
And after meeting her I just couldn't stop wishing that I knew her when we were young. Regretting every day up till this one for not being the grand adventure we would've made it.
I would've laughed harder, ran faster, jumped higher. I would've wrestled dreams back to the ground and proudly said "I'm not done with you yet!" I wouldn't have tried to grow up so damn quickly, with her in my childhood. Asking if there was time for one more game...
I think on that knowing that there is a worse fate than meeting you playmate after you've grown up. And that would be missing her in my adult life too.
Why would I willingly do that to myself?
It's just too damn masochistic. Even for a writer.
Because I remember the time before we met, and I remember the time after.
And after meeting her I just couldn't stop wishing that I knew her when we were young. Regretting every day up till this one for not being the grand adventure we would've made it.
I would've laughed harder, ran faster, jumped higher. I would've wrestled dreams back to the ground and proudly said "I'm not done with you yet!" I wouldn't have tried to grow up so damn quickly, with her in my childhood. Asking if there was time for one more game...
I think on that knowing that there is a worse fate than meeting you playmate after you've grown up. And that would be missing her in my adult life too.
Why would I willingly do that to myself?
It's just too damn masochistic. Even for a writer.
Thursday 1 March 2018
Day 110
All the while, the mirror was made of paper.
So when in her fury she attacked the pane of reflective glass, it crumpled around her fist instead.
Unsatisfied, she struck out again, and the paper mirror crumpled further. She would kick and strike at it, transforming the long sheet into a crude origami.
She then tried throwing the mirror, but it being paper, it simply floated harmlessly to the floor.
Her anger still was unabated, she wanted the thing to break! To shatter! That would satisfy!
She approached the roughened paper mirror with every intention of stomping the thing into oblivion, but was given pause by what she saw.
It was her. She saw her reflection. Even bent and folded into a this warped mess she could recognize herself.
Try as she might, she would always see herself in this thing.
She un-crumpled the page, then, and set out to smooth it as best she could.
So when in her fury she attacked the pane of reflective glass, it crumpled around her fist instead.
Unsatisfied, she struck out again, and the paper mirror crumpled further. She would kick and strike at it, transforming the long sheet into a crude origami.
She then tried throwing the mirror, but it being paper, it simply floated harmlessly to the floor.
Her anger still was unabated, she wanted the thing to break! To shatter! That would satisfy!
She approached the roughened paper mirror with every intention of stomping the thing into oblivion, but was given pause by what she saw.
It was her. She saw her reflection. Even bent and folded into a this warped mess she could recognize herself.
Try as she might, she would always see herself in this thing.
She un-crumpled the page, then, and set out to smooth it as best she could.
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