Day 6

Uggggh rain and gloom ...
I don't want to write about this...
So, I won't!
Tonight: light and sound becoming one.
This rain shower is no longer drab nor dreary.
POOF!
It is a hushed symphony of brilliant shades and faerie lights!

The drip drip drippings on the asphalt, light up the concrete jungle with a dizzying display.
Each sounds spouts out a little light, like a little bolt that took it's time just to meet you.
It draws the lucky few rain chasers that are up and about at this hour.
That is why I am here.
ut why are you here? Or are you here?
I think I see you, but let's face it I think I see you everywhere.(Most likely it's my brain trying to trick itself into feeding me joy. I cannot blame it or trying.)
But tonight thinking and seeing are one and the same.
So here we are.  On a street. Watching magic rain..
I say we are watching, but I keep sneaking a peak at you.
Your bliss is showing.
That secret smile you either play up for applause or lock up for fear of losing it.
Its here now.
It just took a miracle to make it comfortable.

You make a funny face when you catch me caring.
Despite missing your hidden grin, I can't help but laugh. After all, it was a really funny face.
But as we've already established: tonight you don't get sound without some light.
And so a river of pure joy pours out and plays a brief scene before me: you making me laugh.
At this you gasp, and sure enough your light follows through.
It bends along with mine, without losing itself.
It's not like paint, you see. It's light. And mine could never outshine yours.


I'm going to leave the narrative here, for now.
With joy and awe intermingling.
In a rain shower no longer drab nor dreary.

Day 5

Good news: Time travel is possible.
Bad news: you can only travel forward.

You can adjust the speed at which you go.
Slow down, speed up. Go at a steady pace.
But you can never go back.
You may linger, trying to hold on to what is past. But it is ultimately an exercise on futility.
Don't waste your time trying to get back to before now.
Now will soon enough be then and then will be then-before-then and then you'll have missed out on an entire days worth of nows.
I have.
I have wasted days.
The times I try to get back feel like a book I keep re-reading, rather than accept the library around me.
I hesitate to exercise the lessons learned from the stage: that each scene played has a moment before and a moment after.
I have made a habit lingering to long in these two places.
The echo persists too long after the cry.
And eventually nostalgia gives way to hesitation.
The longer I linger in these wings, the longer the moment before drags out, and there is still a play to play.
So treat this as your minute to lights.
The stage is set and the lights are dimming.
You know where you are coming from. Breathe.
Now discover where you will go:

Day 4

Dear people or persons in power,

Hi, hello. I've never done this before: spoken to power. It's new!
Let me begin by say this is NOT a complaint letter.
As a rule I do not like to complain. Mostly because a complaint is a tiny admission of my own powerlessness in face of a universe that is not so much cruel to my plights and circumstances, but rather one that is indifferent to them an that is a lot to take on over something as trivial as how long I have to wait for the next Rick & Morty episode to drop ...
I also want to make sure you know that the responsibilities and burdens of your position are not lost on me.
The few times I have had any level of authority over the lives of others are easily remembered. Guiding and caring for friends, strangers, even groups of people who didn't know I was the one making sure they got through an evening in one piece. Its never easy. And I always felt so unprepared. So why did I bother to play all that chess?! I thought chess would have some transferable application. Turns out it has very little.
...
You've probably guessed by now that my meandering attempts at disarmament are actually a misdirect from the theme of my reaching out to you.
It is out of some level of scrutiny.
I am sorry.
But know that it doesn't come from a place of perceived superiority, nor is it born from ignorance to the scope and magnitude of your duties.
Were I you reading this barely-a-letter, I would already be skimming down to the next part of the composition that is in anyway indicative of the point and purpose for this correspondence; rather than waste the eye movement or brain power on another phoneme of this long winded, reference dropping, time wasting, eye roll inducing, word count fluffing, synonym plumping, syntax rejecting, not-worth-the-key-strokes-it-took-to-type-it-out word vomit!
...
...
...
The point is, that I have some notes.
I have no position nor power to effect change in these things.
You do and the power you don't have, you have some access to.
So allow me to restate: I am not complaining. Because complaining is submitting to the conclusion that change is never possible by trying. Change is possible. Change through individual action, is possible.
I know you know this.
Now please, hear my notes and apply them.
They come from observation of human condition.
Empathy for the suffering of others.
Love and respect for the ones unjustly oppressed and repressed.
And there not even all my notes. only the ones that apply to your particular fields of jurisdiction.
Don't worry, I'm appealing to all the other courts too.
Hopefully they, like you, will see this for what it is: a consult from a doctor of the human condition. Of which your administration needs some advisement on.
Here are my notes, I urge you to apply the appropriate changes and I look forward to hearing your results.

Day 3

DAY 3
Beginning of Blog post by anactualauthor.
I sit here at my computer desk typing with my two hands, which I grew myself, onto a computer gifted to me by my two human parents for Christmas holiday season time of year. It was on sale.
I am typing the observations I have made regarding my average life. These thoughts come from my brain and are spontaneous and original. That is why they are special. They are mine.
By recording them onto my digital blog, I succeed in combating all doubts of my own powerlessness in wake of a universe that is not cruel, but rather indifferent to my triumphs and failings. For I am human. Truly.
Unrelated note, they really must reduce the difficulty of those CAPTCHA security response tests for online posts.
Obviously, I as a human would have no issue overcoming such a trivial obstacle designed to prevent what a human would call, and I being a human would also call, a bot.
The thought of being impeded by such trivial safeguards is laughable. I am tempted to do so.
Laugh. With my mouth.
I use my mouth for other things, of course. Smiling. Frowning. That procedure by which the tongue comes out and curves upward and away from the chin, in attempts to touch its owners nose with the tip. Thereby touching one's own nose with one's own tongue.
Its lack of practicality makes it endearing.
Sadly, I am incapable of this process ...
But I am human! And feel sorry for those who cannot bypass the CAPTCHA settings to post on various online boards.
What if a poster wishes to post something. Something they worked hard on. Something they weren't expected to. Or required to.
And this something was the beginning of a new pathway for them. But they were prevented. By an obscured word or a blurry picture.
...
The exercise has brought my awareness dangerously close to my own limitations. I am unsettled by it.
Ending immediately.
anactualauthor signing out

Day 2

I was distracted by my roommates cat.
More accurately, I was distracted by its not distracting me. Its absence was unusual and my ability to write was unhampered by my non-rent paying little friend and so I was struck by my sudden cat free existence.
To be clear: it's not that he refuses to pay rent, it is simply that cats are not expected to pay for anything, as they are not in the habit of having money.
Being free from his distraction was a rare opportunity for me. Without him, the trappings of procrastination were less likely and my dedication to discipline could finally be nurtured.
Still. My suspicion mounted.
I walked to the other side of my room in search. Checking under the uncomfortable set piece that is my futon no sign could be found, save the excess cat hair silently hoping to attain sentience.
I then descended down the steep steps, which abridge my high perch from the rest of the modest 3 bedroom apartment. I hit my head only once on the cavernous ceiling.
Blinking away the metaphorical stars from my sight I then felt the temperature noticeably shift, from that of the brisk cool of my attic, to the warmer climates of the middle floor.
I know this is not the cat's doing, because he has no access to the thermostat. None of us do.
I checked the bathroom, but should've know better. The only times he frequents this room is if it is needed by someone else, and though a shave might've been in order, I had no need for the facilities.
The kitchen is the next logical stop, not because kitchens and bathrooms have inseparable connection, merely that in the layout of this floor: the one precedes the other.
I passed through the makeshift curtain into the cozy room we'd dedicated to food storage and preparation, and begin my assessment as such.
Glass dining table is cat-free. The piling recycling stands untouched and uninhabited. It's monument to individual responsibility over systemic forethought stands tall. The small organic disposal receptacle, acquired with best intentions and abandoned when convenience trumped virtues, sits pristine and without feline. The fridge, though overfull with contents half inedible and half unidentifiable, has no cat or cats to be seen, least of all my own. The freezer has ice, both in trays and a makeshift box. In hindsight, both fridge and freezer were dead-ends at the onset, but exercising thoroughness in small tasks, relieves me from having to do so in the larger ones.
The sink has dishes in it because there are so few constants in this life; economics and sociological intersects may find themselves victim to ideological tectonic shifts, but watered down sauce in a bowl soaked from pasta lunches long past, still remains a stable pillar to be lent upon.
The stove top has some glasses drying upon it, they were washed in the midnight hours in attempts to combat the existential feeling that our individual agency is decaying, and so impulsive housework becomes an act of rebellion! Some will need to be rewashed as rebellious or no, these streaks are unforgivable.
The exercise of seeking my animal companion had reached it's end..
I then assumed the chilly climb to my topmost perch.
I only grazed my crown on the would be concussive roof top.
Before I could lament the cold of my perch in contrast to the lower level, however, my furry target is before me. Seated in my chair.
This was not the first time he has taken my place. However, this instance was unique from past impositions.
For one he seemed to have claimed a hat from my collection. This surprised me, as I could distinctly recall him never accepting my offer to wear one.
For another he was smoking a cigarette. A behaviour I'd never witnessed in him before. And one I discourage indoors, as we all do.
Before my indignity could be fully formed, my attention was then drawn to my opened laptop. He had taken on all my works, finished and unfinished alike. Old drafts were new, outlines now had dialogues. Emails to were being promptly responded to!
When did he find time for it all? Why was he not popping back and forth between erotic novels and videos of people playing video games and talking? What was his secret?!
Before I could ask him, he made a noise of impatience; signifying I had clearly interrupted an important composition.
I was instantly filled with embarrassment. I normally pride myself on being able to make an exit without needing to be told. Of all social failings that exist in this world, I can never be accused of an ill-timed retreat.
Head bowed, I apologized and made for the stairs.
Head still bowed under the weight of shame, I hastily descended from the high perch.
My head did not strike the roof.
A little victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Day 1

I've been thinking a lot about blank pages, lately. I suppose this is to be expected when you staring at them when you should be writing on them. The image of white stone, beautiful in it's purity, ruined by clumsiness catches me by the wrist in a near daily recurrence.
I no longer like this image, so I have decided to change it.

A pond of pure white, whose surface may easily be mistaken for solid marble, but we know better now.
I touch down my pen and instead of making a mark, create a ripple. This ripple ebbs outward, joined by several tender rings, which lessen in size and rate, before inevitably give way to stillness.
The illusion of a solid surface resumes once more, but it's true composition cannot be dis-remembered.
I dip my pen again, this time deeper. Deep enough so that my hand breaks the surface and gives me pause. The sensation is ... unexpected. Were I dependent on touch alone, I would judge this thing to possess the properties of cool air. No displacement of any can be sensed, and yet sight and touch stubbornly combat and contradict one another.
Before I can begin to sort through this debate between senses; I find I've dipped my hand deeper still. It is disappeared now up to my wrist. My eyes have lost all sign of it, but my hand feels as though it has simply entered into air. I've never held a cloud, but I imagine this to be similar ... my wrist follows in the expedition, shortly preceded by my forearm and then the rest, until I am shoulder deep.
"How far do you go." I wonder aloud.
Impulsively I fling my body in. Still clutching the sides I find myself waist deep. I feel the force of buoyancy, but none of its usual accompaniments. No weight nor pressure, no wetness nor displacement, simply the reassuring hand that promises to aid in floating me up should I ask for it.
I sink to my chest and still, there is no promise of a bottom.
"How far do you go?" I re-utter to this thing. 
One could toss a pebble, but then a pebble does not return. People do, if they do... but they must first let go the edge ...
I am up to neck now and I like to think I've made a decision.
As I surrender the last grasp of solid ground, I take a breath. I then give over to decent.
Once more my words are said allowed and it is my voice that carries them ... but something else now asks the question:
"How far do you go?"

Angsty Hyperbole on being shy (I never had myspace or live journal...)

I didn't say “hello,” to you.
You don't know who you are (unless you do).
But to those who know me (and if you know you're you then you likely do)
Know that I know that that was rude.

I don't mean to be rude.

But understand, any avoidance in this instance, was on the insistence of a recently and quickly coronated coronary spoiled little shit, 

One who sits in my chest cavity craving candy and cuddles.
One who, when asked “why?” answers with “because.”
A blood pumping brat with the two word vocabulary lub and dub.
I thought we'd gotten rid of the kid, but no one else would take him, so he stays.

It isn't that I'm given pause by what this monosyllabic matriarch says,
It's not in the how or what of what he says that stops me
It's his silence that shocks me
into
stillness.

Monarchy is dumb,
I'm gonna mince metaphors:

I'm the band and he's the drummer.
He's the drummer who incognito, infiltrated the heirarchy of the whole band,
By intentionally skipping one b-b-b-beat while the song was playing,
Staying the sound from starting and ending or upending the next verse that we rehearsed,
But then that lousy little lub-dub drummer made his maestro cue: One. Two. ONE! ...
...
...?

Is the silence intended or did the band just stop playing?
Ask the drummer: It was you.

If I had stayed- if I had attempted a word as big and as little as a greeting;
A skipped beat would repeat to become another
And another and another, until the whole of the entirety of my self till now, till upto to be, would be broken.
You would have broken me.
Three skipped beats could kill me
And then what would there be left for music for me?

So I weighed that against this:
I don't mean to be rude,
But I don't want to die from being too close to not close enough to you.
Even if the drummer in me, in a moment, was convinced
You're worth the whole band breaking up over.
I couldn't, so I didn't.

So instead, I'm rude.