His chin sank into the cusp of an open palm, while his elbow rested by the side of an open computer. Twitchy fingers drummed the side of his face. Vacant eyes slurped the existential validation off the screen by the most recent. His friends had been everywhere and with everyone, and he nowhere with no-one. They were his friends, at-least that’s what the screen said. He had seven hundred and fifty “friends”, and not one seemed to notice his absence or showed any desire to emphasise their friendship. Each day he was witness to same steady pulse of a thousand photos, and inspired quotes, shared in the hope of appearing unique. He hated them, all of them. He hated them for being happy, for having a reason to be happy. He wanted to be them, in their shoes, beside them, anything like them. He cursed at them, and then he cried. His head fell with the weight of his tears, and he hid them away in the crook of his arm.
Tick. Death. Tock. Life. Tick. Start. Tock. Reset. Tick..Tock the wasted words lay spent on a sheaf of parchment, etched with ink equal parts shame and doubt. The pages curl behind the fury of an angry quill, then stretched to meet a wary mien. The artist sighs. He hates his work. Nickel sized tears filter the lines, the quill sleeps against the naked wood. Rusty hands fumble, the pages slip and dive past the old writer. The crumpled mass below claims another victim.
Ancient tricksters in a motley coat
Crumpled costumes of starry mould
To high heavens they hold their throat
A lullaby to warm our ghosts
Ghosts of nectar sweet, bitter-sweet
Of days known to sweat our feet
Ghosts of grey, not of day
Evil spirits of man today
So they say, must there be
We people born today
Birth not of blooming life
But of choice to face this night
Night sheds it dreary cloak
Spins around as her stars explode
Bright frocks of beady twine
As one we wait for dawnt to shine
As a bowl of mead drunk
To a tale of hale told
New life then bows to anterior folk
PS:Happy New Year, friend and stranger.
May the dawn bring you joy and everything you seek.
It was about time.
The world saw our reality.
Kept hidden from the multitudes.
This is our tragedy.
To begin with.
Who are we?
Just the sons and daughters.
Fouled by brevity.
Kin to mishaps and mayhem.
Ally to a broken reality.
Surrender your aspirations.
So were we told.
Bliss be your reward.
So were we asked.
No true blight exists.
Upon this faded humanity.
As blind men leading the blind.
Only to find themselves the new atrocity.
This is a world of opportunity. From the moment the skies part and the crisp light of dawn weds its hopeful glaze unto the awakening humanity; the spirit of fate churns out splendid moments of kindness and prosperity. But it is upto us to discern these gifts, to understand its complexity and challenge our very existence. People in all walks of life fail to comprehend the basic truth that in seeking a better life one must never forgo their affections for other people lest they achieve everything they set out to, and have none to share in their moment of glory. Everyone is important, you may never realise it until its too late. So the friends you've made, cherish them; appreciate them for all their gifts and moments, help them find their path, cause even if we ourselves never outlive our circumstances we can rest knowing we managed to help someone find their way.
Remember the moment just after you've stumbled out of a waking dream. The odd realisation that the vivid reality you're in and the one you just left are like twin sisters dressing up looking at one other in a room full of mirrors; sounds excessive but it's true. Its never the dream itself that shocks you, its the awakening following the experience. The rude interruption of what may be just be a better existence; or it may be the much await exit from the harrowing haunting truths that usually lurks in some deep trench in your head, lunging when the moment is both ripe and unfortunate..for you! So the question now looms do we remember our dreams or do we remember to forget them?
We stood alone in a group. We felt lonely. We were the ones that kept on going even when life kept coming. Its the truth. We are survivors. In this day and age we have no noble cause to champion, no grand ideal to enforce, no over-reaching dictator to dispose. We fight for our identity. As a person, as a child, as a parent, as a son, as a daughter. We fight for ourselves. To be seen, heard and understood. Its the perverse penetrative scheme set in motion because we are tired of our lot. Tired of being hopeless, subject to the pity and scorn of those just a thread above us on the loom of fate. We're spun a tale as old as time; about the nature of luck, but this time we fight back, we rise, we live.
Ever feel weighed down by the prospect of a new dawn, the iridescent glow of a fresh morning trailing all the problems of yesterday and another batch just baked for you. Its a constant struggle to cast off the misgivings and dress to face the budding day but it's a well worth one. cause hidden within the folds of time lie the vital incentive to strike a stride and fabricate a reality that conforms to your every need. Its a struggle much like drafting obscure ideas into prose and slapping into a square box with a timer on it. But when that clock ends and you're done, a sensation of relief is far more addictive than any drug conceived by man or religion. So seek the horizon, live a little, dream abundantly and above all else dress equitably for the unforeseeable oncoming predicaments. Cause if you cant win atleast lets go out in style
Grave flashes of light admonish the quilted sky into a battered terrain of quixotic colours that bleed into your conciseness . Splintering images that haunt as you stare into the abyss between the flashes. Each a canyon unto which you see reflected your own predicament. your mood senses each deranged explosion as a confirmation of your impending doom. Nothing will save us now. No god. No religion. No truth. Nature exists to instil in us a damning fear of the unknown. But it's not the unknown we've come to fear. its each other. and the things we've left unsaid seen in the grandiose expression of feeling draped in the imagery of the stars
I am in doubt about the nature of my existence. I seek a sanctuary in my mind where I can just be myself. Don't we all. IT's necessary. Our mind is our private escape. No harm can find us there. Unless it originates there. Scary to think that we can be our own worst enemies. IT's often said that no matter ho far we go the journey never ends until we find closure within ourself. I'm rambling. I know. This isn't easy. It will never be. I see that now. But it's necessary. I need to push through this. Fast. I need to get better.. I have a dream and this is the whetstone upon which I shall polish my skills until I mature into the artist I know I am capable of being. To better days. Farewell.