He sat down on the edge of the sidewalk that had formed underneath him, the cracks and crevices, pebbles and loose stones belying its newness amidst the blank canvas of the space in which he had awakened. He couldn't tell who he was, where he'd come from, or what he had eaten...if he had eaten anything before. He couldn't explain why there was no substance to the space, or why there was an absence of...something...something...different from this absence of...whatever it was he was missing. All he knew was that the sidewalk was there, and it afforded him some repose, though he wasn't particularly weary. It was there, and so he sat. The feeling was familiar to him, though he couldn't for the life of him explain why. Staring down at the sidewalk whilst he sat was the most comforting thing its presence afforded him, as the rest of the space was so devoid of anything, it was suffocating, and frightened him with its incorporeal lack of presence, leaving him feeling as though it would all fall away at any moment, or swallow him whole, for even his presence felt surreal, and looking down at himself only intensified that fear, for there was nothing there. The sidewalk was there. The roughness of its texture...the sharpness of every broken edge and jagged protrusion...the crumbliness of the stones as they broke apart...it was the most substantial thing he had ever seen, though his life amounted to mere moments.
...The hens were restin' in the old coop, cluckin' this way an' that in their own secret conversation. The dogs had scampered off into the house, tongues draggin' in tow at the smell o' dinner. The cows rarely shifted in the barn, seeking repose after a day of milkin' and grazin', though the youngins were as rambunctious as ever, runnin' 'round an' 'round in circles under the udders of their towerin' elders. The roosters congregated outside, just sorta starin' off out yonder...heavens only know what at. I, on the other hand, sat pretty in my oakwood rocker, rockin' back an' forth, back an' forth, jus' gazin' at the wide open sky, what with it havin' been the sun's quittin' time an' all. Oh how the sky bled somethin' b-e-autiful, shades of crimson coatin' every corner, then bruisin' purple...an' all before shuttin' off all the lights, fillin' the night air with glitter an' fireflies. My momma always said, "the end of an old day, brings out a right purty new night." That it does, momma...that it does.
Blacken my night,
And Darken my day.
Soothe my soul,
And fall where I lay.
Soak me through;
Cleanse my heart,
And leave me anew.
Don't leave me behind;
Fall harder than ever,
And Free my mind.
Take my forme;
Turn my body to raindrops,
To go with the storm.
Such a complex thing, isn't it?
But why is it so?
We as human beings tend to surround ourselves with distractions and immerse ourselves in pleasures, so much so that I don't believe we have room for much else. We can feel emotions...describe them in a way...but can we truly contain them?
Why is it we need to cry out the happiness and sadness?
Why is it we need to pound out the rage we feel?
Why is it that we sometimes cannot find the right ways to express affection?
Maybe it is because they are much too advanced for us in their entirety. What would true, unfiltered, unadulterated, all-encompassing sadness feel like, if we needed no tears? What would it feel like if it ran through every atom, and settled in like an added la
...And what if we could handle it that that extent without a single, solitary, whimper?
What would it feel like?
We think we know what Love and Happiness are. We yearn for them from the moment we believe we can understand them, and continue on though we never reach that point. We expect to find them...the true forms of emotions and feelings, so we push those expectations and spread the desire for them, never to attain that level. In a way, at some point, something deep down slowly loosens its grip on fantasy until one settles for something just close enough, on a level we can comprehend, by our perceptions. However, we as a species are too young...too immature to capture and contain such emotions, feelings, and states-of-being...like children with limitless imagination, but severely limited resources. Like a civilization of teenagers, we try to grow up too fast, rewrite the definitions of our unattainable truths, convince ourselves we've done it, and close our eyes, cover our ears, and hum a loud tune to keep out the obvious. Even after disasters begin to plague our interactions, we continue to be stubborn...continue to believe.
So then why- if we've no sense of these things- do we yearn for something so mythical and wondrous as Love?
Well, how does one start off on a journey? One must prepare, and in some way- vague or otherwise- know that one has a desire, in order to search for it. It doesn't always have to be specific, but deep deep down there is a sense of wanting...something...not just anything...but something that fulfills that need...that wanting. In the same vein, maybe we too have that sense for things like Love and Happiness, and a taste of emotions, but with everything else, we've been turned around more times than a child about to strike a pinata at a birthday party, except that we've no parents to position it just right or point us in the right direction...and our peers are blindfolded as well, pointing us ever onward in a myriad of pointless directions, where we swing at the air and wish so hard for the satisfying thud of the bat, and the sweet sound of candy spilling out onto the ground.
Hell, sometimes there is a thud...just that it's the sound of the bat knocking one of our peers over the head, with the only accompanying sound being their subsequent wailing at the top of their lungs.
Amidst the infinitesse of stars, planets, celestial bodies, and civilisations, where are our parents? Watching us from afar? Waiting to see if we meet their expectations? Waiting to see our gleeful ex
What of their other children? Have their parties ended, and are they now sitting peacefully inside the house, partaking of Love, Happiness, and the true embodiments of feelings, emotions, and states?
...and in time, will they grow tired of watching us fail as a species, and eventually take it away?
Glowing red eyes in the darkness
As fog settles in on the moors.
No torchlight to find me
Not a lantern for me hold
Every breath visible before my eyes
In the night air's bitter cold.
The trees no longer rattle
The grass ceases to sway
Rain hits the ground like gunfire
But the eyes choose to stay.
Howls are heard in the distance
The moon is nowhere to be found
And eyes grow ever closer
My heartbeat boasting the loudest sound.
The chimney expels not a puff of smoke
For the hearth lays bare
The spare wood resides just outside the door
But only a fool would dare.
The eyes peer in through the cabin windows
The doorknob shifting to no avail
The rain seems to let up for but a moment
Only to fall harder as hail.
The eyes retreat with frightened whimpers
Vanishing from out of sight
"The rain will keep them away 'til morning...", I think
"...but it will keep me here 'til coming night..."
From the first beat of a heart that has broken from its coccoon of physicality, by the tune of another's soul, resonating like electricity through every vein and nerve, Love becomes a fixation amidst the day to day sea of colours, faces, and voices, the mundane existence of the lover changed from a sensation of floating along, carried by the slow-moving waters, to an urge to swim...and maybe even jump just a little. As we are caught off-guard by this new sensation, it sparks within us new life, as though the other person carried their own portable defibrillator, sneaking up behind us, just to reach around...and with a whisper of "clear!" we are left with a racing heart, a confused mind, and a blurred vision of all that is. From then on, every sight, sound, smell...every sensation given off by the ob
I take a seat on an old couch in the pouring rain, staring at the clouds coating the night sky...the bright lights from the windows of the living quarters around never seem to break the cool darkness, but only make it that much more beautiful in its loneliness...there are lights strung up, but I'm not sure for what purpose, as they don't seem to serve as much more than glowing orbs along barely visible chords, a few flickering on and off, as though struggling to show their worth alongside their ever-lit brethren. There are also some birds of unknown breeds circling over the settlement, and the odd person to pass by, never dares to utter a word, most likely for fear of breaking the sentimentality that has taken root in our very beings.
What a beautiful night...and to think, this is all happening inside of a videogame...
I would go somewhere where a lone tree stands beside a stream, green grass surrounds it, a few flowers strewn about, here and there, where petals, leaves, and dandelion seeds fill the air, and there's dense forest all around, making it my own secret place. There'd be a small waterfall upstream where I could watch fish jump about, struggling against the current. The sun would set just over the trees, bringing the light through the leaves, and rendering the view like that of a vivid painting... I want to sit there, against the lone tree in the middle, waving my hand along the current of the stream, every so often brushing against the scales of an underwater adventurer, watching the clouds in the sky go by slowly...and fall asleep there, not a thought of the outside world present in my little piece of paradise.
The turtle started slow, visualizing the finish-line as he made his way past the starting point. The hares, and all the other woodland creatures zipped past him on their way, only focused on the finish-line, never paying much attention to the turtle. The turtle continued to look toward the horizon, envisioning the line, and finally finishing, maybe even winning, though in the back of his mind, he knew the race was already over. Along the way he noticed a pebble, nice and shiny, then more pebbles, leaves that had fallen from the trees above, the pond, and the fish in it, the trees, bare and shivering, the lines and footprints made by the other participants, logs covered in moss, etc etc. All of the things he had seen, but never really noticed, all surrounded him with a sense of wonder and understanding as he went by.
Along the way he met the tiniest of creatures, going about on their daily routine, larger animals relaxing and doing as they saw fit, not too worried about competing with anyone else, and even a few other turtles, who had come by to see the race, but ended up walking alongside him for a time. Of course, everything went back to its niche once the sun had set, but even in his loneliness, he saw the beauty of the cloak of night, the moonlight wondrously intimate, the stars sparkling like the scales of the fish in the pond, which reflected the moonlight, and gave off the most beautiful glow. He marveled at all he had seen, night, and day, night, and day, but with all of the wonder, he saw disappointing things as well. Large, loud machines that ate through the beautiful trees, large metal monsters that took the trees away, only leaving stumps, the humans who made holes in those he had known for some time, using metal snakes that seemed to never move.
One day, he realised he was lost, a bit confused by everything he thought he knew, with no known way to return to the path. After stumbling around for a while, and talking to some of the native animals, he realised that he had lost the drive to finish the blasted race. He knew the race was a weekly one, and he could always have found himself back there if he truly wanted to, but he really didn't. He decided to go and find a nice lake, and swim around for a while. There, he met a beautiful angelfish. She was like him, even though she could swim circles around him, and he liked to take it nice and slow. She was smart, insightful, kind, and best of all, she too took the time to notice the intricacies and beauty of it all. They spent days on end just swimming and conversing, and they fell in Love. They became inseparable, and decided to swim off into the large, unknown ocean, to see more of the beauty of it all, fin in flipper(?), and spent their time basking in it all, doing new things, and meeting the strangest characters. Eventually they returned to the pond and spent the rest of their days just enjoying their time together, and the beauty in just that.
Boundaries...In a world with such varied inhabitants, where exactly do ours lie? The earth is like a gumball dispenser on a sidewalk or in a supermarket, a variety of colours crowding a clear container, advertising to the playful youth of the world the joys within, the silver crank gleaming in the light, silently challenging its audience to come and see what's behind the door...all for the sacrifice of a single coin. A shiny new quarter leaves the eager hand of a child, and the hand travels to the crank, each click an unwritten signature, signing over the quarter to the machine, knowing full well what'll be behind the door, yet unsuspecting of what will make it different, or the same, as its successor. Will it taste like raspberries?...maybe watermelon?...it might even be a rare sour one...whatever the outcome, and no matter how different it may be from the one the next child will obtain, and the next, and the next, one thing remains constant: they are all, more or less, different in some way. It is the same with human beings: we are all unique in some way, be it our situations, our personalities, our hopes and dreams, whether we have them at all, the paths and stages we've gone through to get to where we are now, our burdens, our talents, our families, our thoughts, our opinions, our fears, the things that bring us distress, or the things that bring us comfort...the fact is that no two people are ever truly the same. Man cannot, in a world crowded with those of his own kind, avoid human interaction. Try as he might, it is inevitable that he will come voice to voice, face to face, or skin to skin with another, and when that happens, how will he, limited only to knowledge of himself, recognize, and respect, the boundaries of others? It seems that, like the child and the gumball machine, we all make sacrifices in order to benefit in some way from our interactions with others. The narcissistic learn to listen to the stories of others, those who long for the touch of another learn to look, but not touch, those who desire to always be around their significant others learn to give them space...but the question always remains: how much sacrifice must be must be made in order to continue to benefit from our interactions? At what point have we gone "too far"? When does "Love" become "obsession" in the eyes of the loved? When does "touching" become "harassment" in the eyes of the touched? When does "protection" turn to "suffocation" in the eyes of the protected? When does "Yes" turn to "No"...? But boundaries can also be too close, and too easily crossed...When does "just listening" turn into "being secretive"? At what point does "space" become "too much space"? and how far is it between "controlling oneself" and "being neglectful"? With our fleeting and ever-changing interactions, how are we to study the other party in order to learn just how much of our nature to sacrifice? Why are we told to be ourselves, when we risk pushing others away? And just how do we find those whose boundaries fit our natures enough that we don't have to sacrifice anything at all? In such a varied world, do they exist? or are we a civilization of neverending possibilities, with no sure fits for us all? If we cannot fully explore our natures without another, were we created to never fully express ourselves at all? How cruel a creator must we have then, to have given us so many variables, only to watch us run like rats in a maze, searching for cheese on a scented piece of paper...
It is a sad fate when one must fear the future...To look upon something as unknown as tomorrow with widened eyes, a racing heart, and a cold chill, when in all actuality it is the unknown that makes it so harmless. The "what ifs" become "maybes" and "probablies", turning to "Most likelies" and "inevitablies", fed from the cups of our doubts and paranoia. While the starry-eyed optimists look upon it as a world of endless wonder, a never-ending train of possibilities, all of which dot the ether like stars, sprinkled erratically on a dark background, their twinkles drawing in the focus of those who listen only to the songs of their unborn descendants, unsung with sweet harmony, painting stories of a world that will right the wrongs of our fathers and theirs, tears of joy falling from their mind's eye, the cleverest of doubts creep up on the rest of us, digging under our skin, and tainting the joyful memories not yet lived, our trains turned to the eerie ghost stories of cars filled with roving spirits, those who came before us, who too feared so much the background behind the stars, that they were swallowed up by it, sent spiraling into an abyss of their own creation, greeted by the teeth and nails of monsters no child would ever dare to dream, screaming out in smoke, breathing in ash, drowning their realities with tainted water, and flying high on waxen wings, returning to the bitter thorny songs of their ancestors, eternally trapped in a perpetual chorus of disharmony, leaving the listeners' ears bleeding. Why do we acknowledge that which cannot harm us, an incorporeal entity with no intent but to be, or not to be? Why are we the painters of its form, and who was foolish enough to hand us the brush? Why is it that we all can't paint the happy flowers, and abstract masterpieces of our once-enjoyed youth? Are our ancestors to blame for our follies? Is it not they who have left us records of their mistakes, in the hopes that we'd never make them ourselves, in both moving, and immobile form, or did they leave us roadmaps to our inevitable ruin, their strings pulled by the puppeteers behind the veil of society, in an attempt to keep us all in line? If all we know is what we've learned from our limited resources as man, and as woman, how are we to stray from their paths, if we've been placed amidst the maze they've created? And once we've unknowingly fallen into their infinite routine, how are we to erase our horrific drawings, in order to once again paint flowers and suns, in gratitude to our childhood selves for keeping us safe from the horrors we'd soon face...within time...within "reality"...within ourselves...?
Previous PostsRandom (II), posted February 17th, 2015
Random, posted November 24th, 2014
Rain, Rain, posted July 3rd, 2014, 1 comment
IV - Feelings and Emotions, posted April 29th, 2014
RPG Result, posted April 15th, 2014
Alone In The Woods, posted April 2nd, 2014
III - Love, posted February 9th, 2014
Fellout and Enhanced Weather, posted February 21st, 2013
My Little Piece of Paradise, posted February 5th, 2013
The Turtle, posted January 9th, 2013, 2 comments
II - Boundaries, posted January 9th, 2013
I - The Future, posted January 7th, 2013
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