On my xanga I usually have little paragraphs of sweet nothings that are a sort of abstract look into my wierdo little head. Sometimes they make sense... sometimes they don't. I just recently decided to post it on here... they are also periodically in my signature... but it'll be good to have them all in one central place. Feel free to review any of them or just comment on the lack of time I have. ---- Reminisce of the could-have-beens and the world of possibilities. Keep your mind out of the present and into the past. Forget what's important now and remember what was. That's how he does it. Lives in the past, and dies in it. Blood flows into the past and spirit dwells continually. What a life to live. If only if only. ---- All the love in the world couldn't save you now. You're a wretched beast, torn from the inside out, guts and innards ripped to shreds and exposed for all to see. The gentle exterior a mere facade, now all see you for who you really are. The raging beast that hides behind the peaceful creature of light becomes much more sinister, evil, and unleashed on all around. But this time the blow is lessened, for without a disguise the element of surprise is eliminated. We know what you're capable of, and the hit looses the power of previous times. You'll never get me again. My back will never be turned to you. ---- Unclear in origins, the lone man wanders about the land searching for companionship. The desolate desert surrounds him from horizion to horizion, a bleak heavy yellow that fades and shimmers as the sun burns down on him. The sweltering heat beats down relentlessly, as images of life appear before his eyes. Is it his past? The uncertain imperfection of days gone by and what could have been done? Or is it his future, or what could have been the future... had he not lay unconscious earlier. Earlier in terms of the future, later in terms of the present. In all possibilities, there lies a sliver of hope that seems false, an impossible event that will never occur in the man's eyes. And with that hope, the dream, lies one name. ---- He sits in his chair, looking out the window and reflects upon the past that he has lived. Manipulates, recreates, and rearranges it to bring about a new past that is happier... more entertaining. If only to get more attention. If only she'd notice, he thinks. He rages at his insecurities and inability to step up and do what needs to be done. Like a constant drip, forever droning on and on until he screams in frustration. ---- Your life projected on a screen, with an audience watching your every move, judged, criticized, forever under the expectant eye for something brilliant and moving. It never happens. A disappointed audience leaves the room, and none are left to reflect on the projection, the life they had watched. ---- A rose lies on a chair, placed with reason, with purpose, yet somehow misused and abused. The reason is twisted into something more sinister, causing a thousand deaths without costing a life. He sits and watches as she pays no mind. A hopeless cause. Will there ever be a resolution? ---- t looks so strange and alien. It's like the first time you heard your own voice on a recording of some sort... sounds nothing like what you are used to. It boggles minds. The world you know is only a vague perception, an imprint of what it fully encompasses. You think you understand, yet in the truth of it all, there is a whole story to unravel. ---- The thought blurs into white With icicles that penetrate deep into the heart, but not quite Exiting. Soon the icy cold of the icicle will melt The chilling dissolves, but as it is felt The blood will leak and soon a hole Will gush and thus exit the soul And after the cold, there is a warmth Now there is nothing. ---- Unearthed in the greatest of masses, a crowd surrounds in such a way that the event on the horizion is more climactic than it should. Expectations are never met, excitement fades away, and soon all is forgotten. Life goes on. ---- Sitting in a room, external breathing fills the rooms with highs and lows, gives the cold geometric designs of his surrounds an organic feel, like a hybrid machine built for some unknown purpose. There lies a telephone, worn due not to abuse, or overuse, but rather, disuse. A lonely man sitting in a hybrid room, with an infinite shadow that is only smaller than his sense of self-disgust. To go with the flow is to ignore himself. And so he does, a disused man with a disused phone. He rots away without ever rotting, dies without ever dying, living without ever have truely lived. Yet he never sleeps alone... ---- Masked in a shade of nothing. Partially revealed in a glimpse, and just as quickly hidden away for a time longer than before. He reads of people with knives and how proud they are of them. Of how sharp they are. Of the killing power. Well he can do them better. More painful, less precise. Emotions hurt more permanently than physical pain. Leaves scars more sinister and long. How long can he go without saying it? She barely knows him, barely talks to him. It emerges and rises with a feeling not unlike death. The end of everything, stretched out into infinity, so every detail, every pained expression, the change in pressure, will be felt a million times over, a million times each. A million years for each second. A death that spans eternity. My image of God. ---- Stab it in deep and twist it, the blood that streams flows in excess and stains the floor. A man comes by with a mop, moves the body and complains about messy slobs. ---- The fragile balance that hangs in time tips. The scale is pushed, and from perfect balance, perfect chaos ensues. A repeating theme that occurs throughout enflames the threads of time and soon all is one. A stream of consciousness, skipping forward and backwards, and in ways unknown to all but the human mind. Warped and decieved, the mind envisions a perfect feeling, contentment, love, mental items that are more valuable than any physical item of the world. Why is such a feeling sought after? The flow of time centers around such metaphysical concepts. What is love to a cell? To an atom? What is the human mind but atoms bonded into cells which create proteins? For we are like rocks, made of the same material, yet forever in motion. That is, until death. And even then, the rotting away of skin and bone occurs, and to some, this death is more lively, more in motion, than that of the living. ---- And when it starts, it really starts to end. That is the fatalistic view on human life. Right when you are born, you begin to die. It's the final outcome of life. Does it all really matter, in that sense? What does it matter what you do, why you go through the troubles in life, when you will die anyways? Death is constant. It is never changing. By thinking of life, one must always think of death. Something that begins will always end. But in the inverse, thinking of death can only bring out life. One cannot die if one is never truly alive. ---- The lights go dim and the session begins. A desolate man looks up in fear. His life, taken away by the tip of a knife in one quick thrust; blood profusely leaks onto the damp carpet floor and he falls down the stairs. He tumbles. And as he falls he can't help but be reminded of better times, for that is the nature of man, to reminisce in times of great need. To wish for other situations rather than try to make the best of it. And as he remembers, a certain sadness overcomes him. So many memories, lost. If only he could preserve them one last time. One stairstep becomes two, and two becomes eternity. An endless rush of light shines upon the man's life soon before it ends. A flash. He goes through as a sort of observer, seeing what he should have done, what he should not have. He sees through the leis and deception of others. He had no friends. All lying, deceiving, in such a way that he felt used, even as he died. The warm brilliance within soon faded, and a dark, cold, damp room is what he awakens to. Was it all a dream? A bad memory of times past? No. It still goes on, but now the man enters his own personal hell. A constant reminder of mistakes. The ultimate depressional machine. Succumb to the pain. There is a thud, and soon all the life of the man has long since abandoned. Another stands at the top, and through that he is totally unaware of the death that will soon take him just as he took the other's. ---- It will never be seen. The teething that comes about in strides of tremulant crimson. Thousands of iterations of the biting and ripping and soon the animal will be revealed. Less than a whole, that is the feeling of that word that is questioned. Crimson drips from the animal, and with a flash of light forever given into memory. Frozen in the dark heat of the rays, right where it belongs. A dream, one of extreme emotion that circles around in a menacing threat that weaves elaborate scenes of contentment. Reach for it, do not give into the emptiness that rips forward with little regard for the heart. Beating, the organ pulses with new life, fueled by the minor expectation that will never be fulfilled. Undefined, the roar in the ears experiences a sudden shift, and the tone alters in such a way that sadness into anger, into uninformed joy. A brush strokes into white canvas and paints an image of a person, faded away through black. No eyes, for one cannot see what one cannot feel. When the eyes open, he hopes to see in them compassion, for the beating heart of crimson. Hoping that the suffering of the mind will end. Erratic movements and personality turn away in fear of rejection, and on and on and on and on. Unexplainable and unreasonable. The cryptic words upset the eyes unless it is truely interpreted in the eyes. Spiraling down in shades of blue, the rose dies away, the red fades. And soon, all is black. ---- Faded colors reach his eyes, as they shutter open in a manner that only one could experience. They have been closed for a very long time, and in opening them, the man sees a world that is new and strange to him. There is a fine line between the strange and new, and often the line begins to blur. The new is often criticized as strange, and thus does not get the respect it deserves. I feel like that happens most all the time, and I feel for those who get the bad end of the deal. In minutes he has discovered that he can move his body. It is like his mind is wiped clean, a baby of sorts. New to the world and unexperienced. Everything is of a different sort, and with a vague curiosity he finds his way and explores. The child, in the purest form, is much like animals of old. Relying solely on instincts, the brain must develop synapses that connect sight, sound, smell, touch, taste, to each other. The distinct advantage of the child is that the mind is always open. Rules are not set in the mind of a child, and therefore, things are new but not strange. ---- It's the bleak isolation. The desolate feeling you get when you're all alone, the temperature is right, silence in the air. You look out the window to see the jagged beauty of humanity clash with that of nature, yet in harmony. It's not you, but I, I realized, while writing this. It's me looking out the window. Fragility, it seems, is often bundled with thoughts such as this. As does rational thinking. I've found a reason for the feeling. It's the knowing. Knowing that, as one suffers, ponders over the usefulness (or otherwise) of his or her life, in the dark of the night, a dim glow to sillouette thee, that the world sleeps. Those around you are at rest, and you are not. At ease, the people around you feel it, and you aren't there to experience it or help either way. Life goes on without you. The world turns, and you have nothing to do with it. It's the fear of not being in control, not being able to affect what goes on. Thus is the fear that many face, if you do not, then you are truly one I envy. Who can go with the flow, taking anything in stride. ---- I won't let you fall apart. Life drones on listlessly, and the world fades away. Deprived of light, shadow conceives a death most painful. But with it comes a thousand assurances, and they comfort thee into a position to fade away. Capture the moment, for the perfection is an instance, a single solitary point that shall never pass again. Perfection is a memory of ages ago, but slowly fades away. How can one measure it? Pain is unfathomable, while happiness so minute, it flies away at the mere tell of wind. You wish it, the pain, to disappear, to fade away. Sometimes I fade away. ---- Life is like a rollercoaster. It has is ups and downs, but in the end, you know it's useless. You end up in the same place you started, or, in all cases, the same situation. And that is not being alive. I realized how much of an outlet drawing could be. Or rather, rediscovered it. Drawing during English today was uplifting, it got a lot of things out of my mind and out of my chest. I was... how would it be worded... relieved? Being able to take it out on paper and have it worth wasting the time I could be working on my essay was great. The shadow of a man seems to be like the dark side, and has always been personified as much. The brighter the person may appear, the bigger and darker the shadow, and that's not a good thing. I've been called a good person before... does that mean I have a shadow? A silly question to ask, it's a retrospective one. Why do people hide? Is it pride? Embarassment? The feeling that things will be wrong if they don't, that somehow it will upset the balance of things? Keeping such secrets inside will not help you, and I think it's wise that you let it all out to someone who is trustworthy. In life and death, you should be able to say that you have nothing to hide in life. Go to the most trusted person you know and just let it all out, it's good to have an outlet. Even if things can be or would be awkward. ---- Hail in warm weather... the world is truely coming to an end. Technically the world has been ending ever since it started... a depressing way to look at things but it puts things in perspective. As the wind blows past I watch the road come to an end... like a metaphoric suggestion that pushes to write my life, the pavement abruptly halts and the dirt begins. From the world of conformity to life in its purest form... and then it ends. The car careens off the ledge and into the air, and soon I'm in free fall, the wind pushing upwards as my body pulls down as gravity intended it to be. It's a calm blur, in a vaguely suicidal way. The ground comes up to meet me and I wonder, why did that road end at a cliff anyways? Humans have always looked to the sky. Envied the birds, wishing for all time that they could fly like them, to spread wings and take off from the world. It's escapism at its best. Forget all the mistakes of the past, start again new, knowing what you know. A certain sadness grips me when I think of it because we'll never truely know such flight, the freedom of it all. Never will we escape our lives and be free. We are slaves of our minds... we've been gifted with the ability to think and imagine and hope and wish but trapped in bodies that cannot act upon what we wish. Cursed by consciousness... what a wonderful sensation it is, felt for the first time, whether through watching the stars or idly staring at clouds passing by during a plane trip. Imitation is what our race does best, and we have up to a certain extent imitated the bird. We fly, but we do not feel it. The wind doesn't pass our face, the sun does not beat down as it should, forever we fall. Restrictions. Memories fight to free themselves, unearthing at unopportune times and moments. They flashback in a time when they are not needed, and only worsen situations. In all seriousness, sadness fills me at the moment, of all things that have happened through the short lifespan of this body. Deaths, the end of things that are dear. One cannot imagine life without knowing of death. The same holds true vice versa. Death is only feared by those who value their lives. I often find myself looking to the future to a time when I cease to exist... where death has taken its final trip upon me and I leave the world forever. What happens? Does an eternal black go through for all time? What is all time? What is time but a constant flow of consciousness? It ebbs and flows freely, sometimes as a blur and others in opposite fashion. Two years pass in a flash, five minutes in a lifetime. What lies beyond what we know? Music is like life in that when all things are thought to have been thought, something new is instanteously created. Much like life. Were it the same old, it would not be treasured as it is. Music is like that to me. It constantly changes, evolves, and shows the history of what we are. Melody, counter-melody, all could be considered a part of life. Life itself might even be a song, and each song would be different to each person. My song would be a sad caucophony of ambient noise. Almost reaching the peak of the scale, the major tones, striving for completion, but never attaining it. Thus is my life. A life of almost, of has been, of could have been. Not yet has there been a moment where I can see where all prior events have paid off. Much like music with no focusing point, my life is, as of now, a pointless effect on other people. Or rather, their effect on me. What song would your life be?
Run away to your place of safety... to the warmth and comfort of you solace and find it gone. Stripped away like losing sight or taste, soon you are blinded and awake to the truth of reality. Look around and the stark discomfort of life. Revel in the harsh imperfection of life. There is no safety here. Safety is an idea created by those with an impure perception of the world. Created by those who cannot see that they cannot see. Cannot realize that there is no realization. Reality and safety are two different things. One doesn't encompass the other, yet one cannot fully comprehend one idea without knowing of the other. The bleak adrenaline forms salty tears that blur vision into the white of pain and the cold black comfort of unconsciousness. And in the end, the two spiral together to form a nondescript gray, the muddled appearance throughout which life exists. There is no color in such an existence.
Thanks, I try. I'll be posting more up when I write them (depends if the situation warrants for it). Most likely too if the text in my signature has changed, I have updated here too, so use that as an 'early warning system' of sorts. --- And here's one that's rather personal and isn't necessarily me trying to write. This is the story of a boy who could never live up to his own expectations. The hardest critic is yourself, they say. This is true. This boy could never be where he needed to be. He could never be who he needed to be. Everything he did was set up for disappointment. A life full of self-hatred and depression lay ahead of him, and the path had not even started. This boy was the worst of a friend one could come by. While those around him reassured him of his reliability, of his trust and loyalty, it was not true. He felt it as it burned inside him like the deepest pits of hell. Anywhere he went, he set sail for disappointment, for mistakes, for troublesome events that only lead to burdens on the part of those he cared for. It seemed as if each situation brought betrayal. In the matters of love, of reliability, of the millions of things a friend can trust and confide in, he always let those around him down. He feels it as the cold hard truth. A leech. Sticks to others and slowly weakens them while benefiting itself. He is a leech. He knows it, and in his mind it constantly echoes in a cacophony of sound that drags at such a pace that he is weakened. So in that case, he is not a leech. Merely a parasite that kills all around it, including himself. Suicide of the modest degree, for even in this case, he fails. He disappoints all around by not finishing the job that all know he is willing to go through. But not all is true. For one he is a modest actor… one who can hide his pain and anguish and appear… in a sense… happy. A friend once commented on the joy of his eyes… for which he knew was never true when alone. When alone all warm emotion seeps out like blood from a fresh wound. It is, in fact, the friends who keep him up, even though it puts him down at the same time. A double edged sword of sorts, letting all bleed away. Unspeakable secrets that cannot be uttered, for the slightest sound will drive all who he has come to know and cherish to go away. The one person that confided in him will no longer hold that trust. He is never there when he is needed. When he is not needed, he is a constant burden. It is the role he will play for the rest of his days, which, if he has his way, are severely numbered.