12/19/16

it was a cold winter evening. the chill of the air was sharp, tactile. a simple wave could send shivers up the arm.

it feels like i've been walking forever.

trudging through the snow and ice, looking for a light, in vain.
a glance at my phone revealed i had not a tenth of power left.
each breath was colder than

gusts of the frigid winds began to wear me down.

it almost felt as though i could feel my very core freeze.
as if my soul had became solid ice, waiting for me to collapse and shatter.

but just as soon as i thought it couldn't get any colder

in the distance, though the night was moonless, pitch black, there was a light.

it ran from head to toe.

something was scanning me.
reading me up, and down.
amber eyes pierced my very being.

the energy; the life in me returned.

i shuddered.
adrenaline rushed through me with the gaze.
and suddenly it all became so warm.
so warm.
the iced eyes drew closer.

i began to run.

"they would not catch me" i thought.

each lunge became more and more difficult.

i turned.

they were there, very near.

i drew my sword.

and with a flash of red, the smell of burning flesh; a blood curdling screech echoed across the tundra.

it was a monster of darkness. a beast of cold. a devil all its own.

the scent of sulfur and burned hair, but the beast, no where in sight.

it disappeared with the flash of red.

surely,

i am dead.

suum defessus.

The night was coming to an end. a layer of spilled booze coated the floors of the bar where numerous patrons were indulging themselves on greasy food, and slowly drifting away, drink after drink. here in this bar sat one patron who stayed though all his friends left, with the bartender who was to close this now quiet evening.

he too had been drinking this evening. he looked up from his empty plate and he caught sight of the clock behind the bartender, who was tediously cleaning the many glasses that piled behind him. a weak, red glow flickered from the digital clock 2:45.

tall, with unkempt and curled brown hair, the bartender relaxed and stole away from his work with a drink in hand, making his way over to his last patron. he seemed somewhat anxious and, as stated before, everyone went home but this last patron. rather high cheekbones and blue sunken eyes, clad in somewhat tattered clothing, he raised his glass to his face as he sat at the bar and lowered his head after his sip.

"Is there anything else I can help you with this evening sir? Do you maybe need a ride?" the bartender inquired of the man.

the man looked up from the porcelain and with a sullen edge, nodded his head, stating with this that he needed nothing of the bartender.

the ominous glow of the silent television set that was set to static, hummed. the bartender nodded in turn. the gentleman then said "i'll be going shortly, though i have no one to go to now. not even my own shadow follows my footsteps anymore."

the bartender leaned against the lacquered birch bar and questioned the man. "What do you mean your shadow doesn't follow you anymore?

"under the night lights and street lights, he walks along with better men than i. he is all the wiser. he became more of me, and where i used to leave him behind, here i am now; in his dust."

he rose to his feet and stood. his shoulders were broad and his patched canvas jacket looked quite warm.

"don't let what you love slip away from you."

he turned to the door, set it ajar, and slipped away into the cold winter night. he plucked a string in the bartender's heart, the start of a concerto of sorrow. he placed his drink and wept.

harambe

7/31/16

12:55 AM

i don't really have a title or a direction for this post but i'm just going to write as the evening progresses. the title obviously will have nothing to do with the actual topic of this post too. everyone just fucking loves memes though so why not?

we pray, and we slave to the beasts that we've made. a design that is defined by the lines that we lay, a monster to never be slayed. to keep the demons at bay we relay to one another that destruction will cover the fields leaving nothing but burnt bodies and corpses left to decay.

we pray, and we slave to simply carry the weight and live our lives as if they're debates, trying to prove a point and create a purpose to let us say, to give us the right to proclaim that it was all worth it. nothing ever truly fades away except these colors in our lives if we fall astray from our roads that the gods made. the colors were created and reverberated across the minds of mankind, tools that the gods gave us to keep us on these lines. the lines now though have become so thin, translucent.

1:15 AM

people often say that each day is the same shade of gray. those people are the ones who wish they'd never woken up that day, lay in bed and waste away. but that's okay, we all still alive. those we cry for however are still more alive than some of us will ever be. 

yeah this is gibberish but it's what you're reading.

we see the divide but seldom do we look hard enough to find the way across. we are disgruntled by the distance and the fear strikes deep into our hearts and tells us that we cannot do that of which we very much can.

1:23 AM

she sat in the hall of her distinguished palace. the rain fell softly upon the loamy soil and rolling hills that surrounded the facades of the palace, a breeze rolled through, rustling the leaves of the many trees that lived upon the grounds. darkness befell her home. the rain grew heavier and heavier. as it grew into a mighty storm, she, this woman, scantily clad in a shroud of white and, the lace of her dress danced around as she played away on her piano. Progressively the storm grew more and more as she played a low and sorrowful dirge, however, the girl displayed no emotion. she silenced the piano. and smiled. we saw the red of her lips and the whites of her teeth, her smile could best be described as a burst of light, almost, like a sunrise. so gorgeous, it hurts to look because we know that we cannot reach out and feel its beauty.

her song grew happy. she played away, giggling, as her fingers danced among the keys like the lightning danced in the skies.

8/1/16

10:41 PM

we're all sinners but we all sing the same in god's house.

it's sad to think as i walked through halls of marble, granite and basalt that while i was looking up at the gilded, golden ceiling of the basilica, that there were peopling starving and dying in the mud and shit somewhere far away.

no matter how wonderful things are, there is a reason why things are that way. there has to be some sort of sacrifice for good. and even where there is good, there is evil, waiting to be awakened.

deep within our minds are gods that are sleeping and waiting to be awakened.

11:00

there's a blade deep into her back. so deep that the knife is firmly lodged into her spine. it has severed her backbone.

the magnum opus waits. it is not time to create. it is time to sleep.

but if we continue to sleep, will we ever create? will we forever wait? when shall we wake?

oh, it is unknown to us my friend. soon enough it will come.

god sleeps.

yes my child, but when will he wake?

he does not sleep.

he is dead.

we've killed him with the fire that he tried to warm us with.

11:15

he's right. our people are afraid to love.

afraid to feel.

they think it'd be much better to feel nothing at all.

my mind is running at a thousand meters a second over here and everyone else is at the starting line.

i'm about to lap them

12:03 AM

i'm just going to stop this little snippit here. i hope you enjoyed whatever this is

Sand Man: The Divine Clock Maker

"I HAVE HEARD tales of this man, this immortal being of utter and sheer power. He controls a world which is said that all worlds meet, and all mortals will see.", my grandfather said with his raspy, withered voice.

"He claims all, child. He knows all as well. The past and future are well acquainted with him. What he cannot see is our current time, they are obscured views that only we can see.: That being said, is it safe to say that my grandfather believes our lives are predetermined? Yes, you could say that might be true. Grandpa closed his eyes now. He drifted off to sleep. It was late, so I too fell fast asleep at the foot of our household hearth.

I woke in the midst of a lush, green grove. surrounded by tall oaks. Light danced on the grass as it pierced the canopy of oaks. I looked to my left and saw my grandpa sleeping next to me peacefully, without a note being spelled from him. I rolled over onto my stomach so I could push myself to my feet, once standing, I filled myself with a deep breath of the crisp and cold morning air while stretching my arms. It was such a serene environment. I could hear birds chirping, running water on a brook, the leaves swaying as they're buffeted by the gentle gusts of winds the flow through the forest.

I stumbled from the clearing down to the brook to wash my face off and try to wake myself up. The birds flew away though, their songs ceased. I knelt before the river and dropped my hands into the water and drew water to my face. The water was warm, until it touched my cheeks. It was ice cold.

Something was wrong. The water trickled down my face to the creek, but I couldn't hear the droplets hit the body. Not only this, but I couldn't hear the leaves rustling with the wind. I reached for the brook again. This time, when my hands touched the water, it too, was ice cold. Withdrawing them revealed that my hands were no longer hands. They were bone and ligaments. I was overcome with awe and pain, Beneath my hands was a murky mixture of blood and tainted water. I rushed up the hill, tripping the many stones that covered its bank until I met the treeline.

Suddenly, the leaves of the canopy fell in troves the forest was disintegrating at a rapid pace. I made it back to where the grove once was, but the leaves were all gone; stolen by am icy wind. Grandpa was still sleeping on a big boulder. I screamed cries of anguish and desperation in hopes that he might wake up, but he still slept on the rock. I reached to grab him with what was left of my hands, but the strenuation of the muscles upon the bone, collapsed them. Grandpa's eyes shot open, pitch black, he said: "Time is coming." and he turned to sand.

➡➡

     A BRIGHT LIGHT pierced the darkness of this very large and empty room; only flecks of dust are found littering the gray and void space. From the light which gave life to the room came a pair of withered hands. The hands were completely identical A snap from the fingers of these cadaverous hands spawned a box, whose enormity dwarfed the hands. The hands cracked the fingers of one another, and then promptly delved into the box.

     The box shuddered rapidly and violently from time to time. The convulsions were followed by a series of esoteric sounds; a cacophony of sounds befell the now populated hall of gray. From the sounds of bells ringing, to the roars of mighty beasts, the mania ceased; the hands had returned from the interior of the mysterious box. The hands were grasping something unseen, however, it was clear that the what the hands held in their clenched fists was something of immense power. A miraculous and incredible light, more mysterious than that of the light that currently illuminated the hall, peeked through the cracks in between the fingers of the hands. The hands fluently drew away from one another, then clashed, creating a blast of light, and from this light, another pair of hands was made. Different from the creator pair, this pair had a left and right hand.

     Following the second pair's creation, the hands smashed together, again, with tumultuous force, joyous of what they had made. The spawned pair were confused by this display, but, nevertheless, awaited orders. The creator hands ushered their creation to the box of enormity. The creation did too, delve into the void of the box for some time, whilst the creator hands took the light that graced the grey room and clasped it between themselves.

     The creator revealed the "light", which was no longer light; it had been formed into a small, babbling little beast, pink as flesh, cute as a button., adorned atop a pedestal of bone. The beast wold babble and babble nonsense about how he lacked a means of moving about. He cried for arms and legs, and a torso for he to sit about. The creators took more light and did grant the miserable little beast his wishes.

     Meanwhile, the pair inside the box had tilted the box over, and dragged a great mass with them as they departed from the box. The hands created a sphere, flawless and lacking any evils. the sphere was blessed with light from the creator's gift, which, in turn, created Life.

     The Creator Pair had but one more bit of light and hadn't thought as to what to do with it. They turned to their ever-babbling creation to ponder. Time and reflection upon the creation allowed the Creator Pair to decide that the creation should hear itself, so it may be silent. With what light was left, the Creators gave the beast ears, and it was silent.

     The Creators took their creation to the pair of "Perfect" hands and gestured towards the now, silent little being, so silent, that only the murmur of its heart could be heard. The Perfect hands elevated their fifth digits to their Creator and plucked the beast and cast it onto the sphere.

     Life on the sphere flourished. The creation of the Creator's hands multiplied. Each beast was given a box; a box with infinite possibilites. All the creations were the same. Identical. The boxes which they possessed had infinite possibilities within them. Still, they were all the same. Their creators saw this, and lowered their fifth digits.

     But the Creators had forgotten.

      They gave their creations not the gift of sight.

      A day once came though, when a creation found itself taking pieces of the world around him, instead of what lay in the box, and crafted itself a means of vision. This single creation, could see.
   
      He saw that his hands were both that of right.

Foundation

The stone of which the builder refused has become the cornerstone.
The morals and values I had once had,

those instilled within the confines of my mind,
were most definitely not my own.

those crusaders who tempted me with tales of a holy land, at the cost of my free will,
are all but memories, left behind in these sands I now trek.

Though the sands may burn, it is better to continue to march with the hope that I will find water,
than to stand and blister away.

I will find this land, conquer it, and make it my own.
I will take this stone,

seldom thought of, set aside,
and build the most magnificent of temples of it as my foundation.