I dreamed of you last night... I was standing on the edge of a dark, dead forest. It was night time and the pale light of the full moon projected a silhouette of dread in front of me. You appeared, you took me by the hand and you assured me that everything would be okay. You guided me through the brambles and as we walked, the hard ground turned to soft grass, the dead trees blossomed and sunlight filtered in from behind us stopping dead against the invisible wall of darkness in front of us.
Suddenly the scene changed, we were in a small rowing boat during stormy weather and rough seas, something happened; I fell in. I struggled against the wild tide and tried to climb back into the boat, I slipped and started to sink. As I began to sink into the depths below, a hand reached out and grabbed me. It was your hand. You pulled me back to the surface, the sea was calm, the sky was blue.
I woke up, I was stuck in the forest again, barefoot, thorns under every step. I walked on bleeding feet for hours never finding the edge of the forest. After hours of excruciating pain, I gave up and passed out. I found myself in the water again, I drowned for hours and eventually I sank, I lay at the bottom of the sea waiting, drowning, over and over again.
I passed in and out of consciousness for years, I tried to swim back up but the pressure of the sea was too much. I thought of you through all of this, your image made the pain go away for a short while. Boats would pass over from time to time and I hoped that you would be there to save me. But each boat passed over with out slowing down and soon I was unsure as to how much of the sea had been replaced by the salty tears I had cried waiting for you to come back for me and pull me from this nightmare.
You were not there. I did not wake up.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Wasting Away
Something always happens at midnight. Something special and that's not necessarily a good thing. Wouldn't it be fitting if I had a grandfather clock in my room? It would add some sort of dreaded expectancy to what I am about to write. I won't know what it is until I finish it, but I know it cannot be a good thing.
The clock strikes midnight. Another day, another death, another reason to cry. Its not coincidental that our tears, those which show our greatest emotions come from our faces. We all hide our feelings yet we were born to show them. My face is a canvas on which the salty, transparent paint drips down never leaving the same pattern twice. Its no coincidence that another term for transparent is "see-through"; interpret it as you wish.
The clock strikes one. Evil has so many manifestations. People lying in hospital beds being defeated by something hardly visible through a microscope. Does a virus have emotion? "You have been accused of killing your host and are sentenced to death with them, how do you plead?" "With a smile on my face; your honour." What is the nature of this world in which a normal day can become a deadly day? Who has the wicked smile when a mother loses her baby? Who laughs maniacally when a family dies in a car accident while the teen who didn't want to go out that day picks up the pieces of her guilt-ridden broken heart?
The clock strikes two. We are born to ultimately die; this is our purpose. Our bodies racing against nature, life happens so quickly, most of the time we don't even stop to pay attention. Birds swimming in a puddle after fresh rains, that's great but we have appointments. Once the appointment with destiny comes, I'm sure most of us would have chosen to give those birds a few seconds more of our time.
The clock strikes three. I am lying in bed but I cannot sleep, not while this sinister message inside of me lingers. Writing helps get it out. But am I selfish for unleashing it on the rest of the world or noble for warning others of the dangers that lie within? I'm on special today, 25% off if you use the right credit card. What the hell does that even mean?
The clock strikes eternity... What time is it when a person laughs, cries, dies?
The clock strikes midnight. Another day, another death, another reason to cry. Its not coincidental that our tears, those which show our greatest emotions come from our faces. We all hide our feelings yet we were born to show them. My face is a canvas on which the salty, transparent paint drips down never leaving the same pattern twice. Its no coincidence that another term for transparent is "see-through"; interpret it as you wish.
The clock strikes one. Evil has so many manifestations. People lying in hospital beds being defeated by something hardly visible through a microscope. Does a virus have emotion? "You have been accused of killing your host and are sentenced to death with them, how do you plead?" "With a smile on my face; your honour." What is the nature of this world in which a normal day can become a deadly day? Who has the wicked smile when a mother loses her baby? Who laughs maniacally when a family dies in a car accident while the teen who didn't want to go out that day picks up the pieces of her guilt-ridden broken heart?
The clock strikes two. We are born to ultimately die; this is our purpose. Our bodies racing against nature, life happens so quickly, most of the time we don't even stop to pay attention. Birds swimming in a puddle after fresh rains, that's great but we have appointments. Once the appointment with destiny comes, I'm sure most of us would have chosen to give those birds a few seconds more of our time.
The clock strikes three. I am lying in bed but I cannot sleep, not while this sinister message inside of me lingers. Writing helps get it out. But am I selfish for unleashing it on the rest of the world or noble for warning others of the dangers that lie within? I'm on special today, 25% off if you use the right credit card. What the hell does that even mean?
The clock strikes eternity... What time is it when a person laughs, cries, dies?
Friday, February 15, 2008
Musick
Why does it seem like happiness is temporary? Am I still waiting for this axe to drop? One day it may actually sever my head from my body but for now it just drops onto the back of my neck sending a blunt pain through me.
I'm used to it, misery is seasonal and yet we cling to it.
Its funny how music is generally divided between pieces about love - and happiness and how brilliant the world is now that the artist is swimming around in a fish-bowl pumped with dopamine - and the pieces where the artist is figuratively slitting his wrists and spilling the blood all over his sheet music.
Sometimes we make instruments laugh, sometimes we make them cry and if we're feeling particularly talented or refer to ourselves as "tortured souls" we can get an entire orchestra of instruments to tell the world how we feel.
Music makes it all so much better. No matter how angry the music is, the fact that somebody else was so miserable as to refer themselves to a paper psychologist seems to put a smile on our faces.
The music plays us more than we play the music.
I'm used to it, misery is seasonal and yet we cling to it.
Its funny how music is generally divided between pieces about love - and happiness and how brilliant the world is now that the artist is swimming around in a fish-bowl pumped with dopamine - and the pieces where the artist is figuratively slitting his wrists and spilling the blood all over his sheet music.
Sometimes we make instruments laugh, sometimes we make them cry and if we're feeling particularly talented or refer to ourselves as "tortured souls" we can get an entire orchestra of instruments to tell the world how we feel.
Music makes it all so much better. No matter how angry the music is, the fact that somebody else was so miserable as to refer themselves to a paper psychologist seems to put a smile on our faces.
The music plays us more than we play the music.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Shoulders
"Another one?" they ask. They sit on my shoulder. That doesn't make any sense because I'm lying down yet I am writing and imagining myself to be in a sitting position. Its funny how they sit on my shoulder... bastards. Like they could ever have the audacity to make their way into my head. But when it all comes down to it, they are my head.
"Two in one day, someone is getting a bit eager..." Well who the hell asked you in any case? I can do whatever I want because I was granted the immortality of mind. Its encased at the moment but give it a few years. When the worms eat the rotting flesh, that's when you'll see who needs shoulders.
"He talks like he has the right to evaluate his own mental state, how haughty!" Oh and what the hell do you think you are? You sit there like you own a stake in something yet every bit of good I have ever provided you, love, affection, wealth, you had some negative comment about them at one stage or another... except the shoulders, never had a problem accepting those.
How many of you are there in any case? One for each topic in my head that could potentially have negative consequences? Too many; even one of you is too many. But who am I fooling? Would you like some more negative energy to feed on? How about a nice shoulder to sit on? I keep you because I choose to, not the other way round and don't you forget it!
"He talks to us like we exist!"
"Preposterous!"
"Yes, very foolish, we could not sit on his shoulders for he is lying down"
"Internal conflict, how ingenious"
"We're staying right here, on the shoulders, after all if he imagines himself in an upright position it must be so"
"Well only until the worms eat the rotting flesh, then we're in big trouble"
"Best make the most of it while we can"
"You're going to publish this piece of so-called writing now are you?"
You're damned right I am!
"Two in one day, someone is getting a bit eager..." Well who the hell asked you in any case? I can do whatever I want because I was granted the immortality of mind. Its encased at the moment but give it a few years. When the worms eat the rotting flesh, that's when you'll see who needs shoulders.
"He talks like he has the right to evaluate his own mental state, how haughty!" Oh and what the hell do you think you are? You sit there like you own a stake in something yet every bit of good I have ever provided you, love, affection, wealth, you had some negative comment about them at one stage or another... except the shoulders, never had a problem accepting those.
How many of you are there in any case? One for each topic in my head that could potentially have negative consequences? Too many; even one of you is too many. But who am I fooling? Would you like some more negative energy to feed on? How about a nice shoulder to sit on? I keep you because I choose to, not the other way round and don't you forget it!
"He talks to us like we exist!"
"Preposterous!"
"Yes, very foolish, we could not sit on his shoulders for he is lying down"
"Internal conflict, how ingenious"
"We're staying right here, on the shoulders, after all if he imagines himself in an upright position it must be so"
"Well only until the worms eat the rotting flesh, then we're in big trouble"
"Best make the most of it while we can"
"You're going to publish this piece of so-called writing now are you?"
You're damned right I am!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Thoughts of... what?
I always thought poetry was a cliché way of getting your thoughts out, who needs it?
Roses are red,
Violets are blue;
A lame clichéd form of expressing oneself
And look, I'm an artist!
How do I expect anyone else to understand me when the the door to my mind is locked and not even I possess the key?
I feel like I have touched death recently and in some ways have lost what little innocence may have remained inside me. Anger and disappointment have engulfed me and yet I am enjoying myself in general.
Does anyone actually give a damn? Maybe, there could be one person out there whose entire satisfaction in life is finding out what I give a shit about. I feel like I go to bed unfulfilled on a nightly basis yet I accomplish so much. It's probably just what I tell myself in order to stop the insanity from taking over. I think it would be much better that way... insanity, why the hell not?
I'll write a song about it, then I'll really establish myself as a bleeding heart, "wow, it has emotions" they'll say as they watch my imagination prowl its cage like a hungry tiger waiting to escape. If dreams that should torment don't, what does that say of the mettle of the person dreaming them?
Dreams... Well at least they entertain me and why not? Someone should appreciate the amount of thinking and obsession with mundane things my mind undertakes on a daily basis. Rather be obsessive than blind to the fact that the puzzle which is this world isn't something any grade-schooler could put together.
I'll write a short story about it, what better way to show the world how I over-evaluate myself. Shoot a film, pretend I have talent. Talent? What a stupid word... dogs have talent when it comes to barking, what a joke. People have talent when it comes to oversimplifying and overcomplicating their lives all at the same time.
I'll write a blog about it, that way I'll feel like I'm not alone. We all are, we just do it together.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue;
A lame clichéd form of expressing oneself
And look, I'm an artist!
How do I expect anyone else to understand me when the the door to my mind is locked and not even I possess the key?
I feel like I have touched death recently and in some ways have lost what little innocence may have remained inside me. Anger and disappointment have engulfed me and yet I am enjoying myself in general.
Does anyone actually give a damn? Maybe, there could be one person out there whose entire satisfaction in life is finding out what I give a shit about. I feel like I go to bed unfulfilled on a nightly basis yet I accomplish so much. It's probably just what I tell myself in order to stop the insanity from taking over. I think it would be much better that way... insanity, why the hell not?
I'll write a song about it, then I'll really establish myself as a bleeding heart, "wow, it has emotions" they'll say as they watch my imagination prowl its cage like a hungry tiger waiting to escape. If dreams that should torment don't, what does that say of the mettle of the person dreaming them?
Dreams... Well at least they entertain me and why not? Someone should appreciate the amount of thinking and obsession with mundane things my mind undertakes on a daily basis. Rather be obsessive than blind to the fact that the puzzle which is this world isn't something any grade-schooler could put together.
I'll write a short story about it, what better way to show the world how I over-evaluate myself. Shoot a film, pretend I have talent. Talent? What a stupid word... dogs have talent when it comes to barking, what a joke. People have talent when it comes to oversimplifying and overcomplicating their lives all at the same time.
I'll write a blog about it, that way I'll feel like I'm not alone. We all are, we just do it together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
