By conventional definitions, darkness is the absence of light. It seems to take on a personality, or at least an empathetic consciousness. It is used as an synonym for secrets and unknown horrors. It is said that darkness hides evil, and the human capacity to commit it.
The Dark seems to run away from light. The Dark can’t exist when light is present, or does it just concentrate and coalesce. That’s where shadow comes from, it is the deception of hope. Heroes bring in light to vanquish the dark with the light of truth. The only thing they manage to accomplish is the concentrating the dark into shadows that can only exist when light is present. The shadows pretend to hide from the light, but are the deception runs deep. The shadows hide pieces of the truth, turning truth into lies. The shadows dance with fake fear, and real celebration knowing that the black and white world of the light will never be able to defeat the lies of the Dark. The Dark does not operate with rules. It bends the rules of others till they break.
Well, I went to the doctor I said, “I’m feeling kind of rough” He said, “I’ll break it to you, son [Warren sings, “Let me break it to you, son”] Your shit’s fucked up.” I said, “my shit’s fucked up?” Well, I don’t see how-” He said, “The shit that used to work-It won’t work now.” I had a dream Ah, shucks, oh, well Now it’s all fucked up It’s shot to hell Yeah, yeah, my shit’s fucked up It has to happen to the best of us The rich folks suffer like the rest of us It’ll happen to you That amazing grace Sort of passed you by You wake up every day And you start to cry Yeah, you want to die But you just can’t quit Let me break it on down: It’s the fucked up shit
It was not a good day. That kind of day you realize nothing will ever be the same. The day you wonder if you will ever be happy again. The day it all turns to shit.
Time passes and hindsight kicks in. You begin to question what happened and how you fucked it all up. You begin feel responsible, and accountable for that day. You look back and start to smile about the way things were, then you cry for the way things turned out.
The thoughts condense and the emotion even out. You feel numb as you forge through the day and force yourself through the mundane tasks that represent your now empty life. You shed all outward emotion in an attempt to not feel them, but inside your emotions rage. Your thoughts battle one another for reasons and excuses. The “why” of your life starts to eat at you, and consume you.
More time passes, the numbness has taken over. You have gotten your wish. You feel nothing. You go through your autonomous days and activities on auto pilot. You don’t cry anymore. You don’t laugh anymore. You don’t think anymore. You don’t live anymore. You recreate yourself as a zombie, forever shambling through the tasks that you set up to kill any semblance of living you might of had.
The people who loved when you lived talk you into finally talking to a professional. You go, with a skeptical mind and a hardened heart. He tells you what you already know. He uses large words and soft terms but it echoes in your head “Your shit is fucked up.”
Black or white. No grey. No middle ground. Good or evil. Normal or weird. Extreme contrasts into matching patterns. There is no spot for the labels to fit, but they are needed to define me.
Define me. There are definitions for almost everything. But not for me. Or there is many definitions that conflict and parallels that run perpendicular to each other. A round hole that can only fit a square. An anomaly like any other.
My mind and the world define by absolutes, so it’s confusing when there is no absolutes that fit.
What makes a man who he is?
The choices he makes
The chances he takes
The smiles he fakes
The women he breaks
What makes a man who he is?
The demons he hides
The truth that abides
The places he confides
The women he rides
What makes a man who he is?
The battles he fights
The wrongs he rights
The letters he writes
The fires he lights
What makes a man who he is?
Very well! Thank you for asking. Getting the urge to write again, kind of curious what comes out when i am in a good mood. Anyone want to give me a jumpstart?
Five random words.
Quote or song lyric.
Questions are always good.
Anything, request a topic, or style.
Jump start me please
woman, mother, student, runner, introvert
Grace didn’t hate people. She just hated talking to them. They always seemed to annoy and distract her. Grace had a lot to distract herself from. She didn’t think of herself as a procrastinator. She made a decision a long time ago that put her life behind schedule. She didn’t procrastinate. She waited patiently.
Grace had a decision to make. She did not have a lot of time to contemplate it. Grace was a young woman with experience in two distinct, contradicting worlds. She grew up in the buckle of the bible belt, bare foot and poor. She had nothing growing up except for her daddy’s strictness and morals, and her mind. Grace’s mind was her escape in more ways than one. Her mind enabled her to get a free ride to the best schools. The freedom she experienced turned out to be her undoing.
Grace came from a place where people that spent their time in books were made fun of. They were nerds and geeks. People didn’t listen to music without words, much less music that hadn’t been popular since before you were born. Grace did not like people then. When Grace finally left home, she expected everyone to be like the people she grew up with. She thought that she had been born too late to enjoy life, because people were not like her anymore. She finally found them.
The people at her new home in the dorm were something out of books. Modern day intellectuals who saw words in violin strokes and talked about the meaning of words behind the words. It was intoxicating. Grace still felt out of place. Her accent was not something that people found endearing. She didn’t hate people anymore, they hated her.
Grace met him half way through her freshman year. She was in the library reading about the parallels in writings of dual religions. It it home with Grace because it both contradicted and verified what she had been taught growing up. She heard a voice behind her, “a little light reading?” When she turned she saw him. He was pretty. He had perfect skin, perfect hair, and tight jeans. He also had an accent that reminded her of home. He was also from the south and as they spoke realized they had grown up much the same way. Grace had never dated before, mostly because she was terrified what her daddy would do if she ever brought home a boy. Then again, no boy ever made her feel like he did. She had never talked to someone that she wanted to talk to before either.
Grace told him she was pregnant. He changed that day. He blamed her. He called her things she had never been called and demanded she get an abortion. Grace had a decision to make.
Grace had never had to make a decision, not truly. The answer were simple, she wanted away from home, so college was easy. Every other decision was made for her. Abortion. The word made her cry. She wanted to just run away from it. She ran away from her small town and the people in it, and it worked out. Why not here as well. What was she really choosing between. She broke it down on a piece of paper, keeping it as black and white as possible.
Mother or student
Mother or girlfriend
Someone who faces her problems or Someone who runs from her problem
Pro-choice or pro-life
She had a choice to make.
Grace was in her thirties now. A single mother. A good woman. A new student. An introvert. The only running she did, happened in the morning around her block, at least 4 times.
What a girl wants.
Beth was not the type of person to let things go. She knew what she wanted, and she knew how to get it. She knew she was selfish, and she didn’t care. Beth wanted what she wanted. She had set her sights on a boy. He was tall and lanky, with the kind of hair that looked like he got out of bed, ran his hand through it, and it fell into place perfectly tussled. He had a habit of making Beth act goofy because he said she was too quiet and it made him nervous. Beth knew what really made him nervous; short skirts, cleavage, and bright red lipstick. Beth believed that sometimes you have to make your statements blunt and unmistakable to get what she wants.
Beth was not the type of person to deny she was shallow. She liked beautiful things. She liked them better when they were hers. The boy was more than tall and lanky. He was rich. He was also cocky, and thought he was smart. A perfect combination. Beth had her target. There was one problem. The other girl.
Beth didn’t like the other girl. She was pretty, naturally pretty. She wore little makeup and had flawless skin. She liked trees and was always trying to save endangered species. She always had an entourage of trendy vegetarians and activists. She was always smiling. Beth hated the other girl. The main reason was really that the other girl had something Beth wanted. The boy.
Beth had a plan. Every man had a weakness. A short skirt, bright red lipstick, and cleavage. A promise of pleasures never offered before. A night of passion. Alcohol helps of course. Beth knew how to get what she wanted.
Alana knew what it meant to be tired. She had spent several sleepless nights in her bed. She would lay there as still as she could, like her parents told her when she was a child. Alana would stare at the ceiling trying to think of nothing. But she would never succeed. Alana’s mind would spin. She would think about everything once the world would quiet down. Her thoughts were loud enough to keep her awake. They weren’t bad thoughts. They were just thoughts. Thoughts about what her co-workers really meant with their sarcastic comments, or about how someone came up with the idea of canned cheese.
Alana at work was very outgoing. Everyone knew her name, and she liked it that way. She got bored easy, and liked to be the center of attention. It felt like recognition. Alana always dreamed of a grand destiny, just around the corner. Something was missing, and when the ingredient was found she would burst out as an incredible influential person of note. But, for now, she was just the short little secretary that men rushed to get things off the shelf for.
Alana knew what it meant to be tired. She knew what it meant to lay in bed, and wish she asleep, and someone else. Alana had thought about the meaning of tired a lot in her sleepless nights. She contemplated how the word developed and why the round rubber things on her car shared the name. How are they the same? It must be exhausting to constantly hold up something so heavy, and be like everyone else.
Alana had a lot of friends, and they all loved her. She was the party. People didn’t keep up with her witty comebacks or penchant for practical jokes. Alana always kept her friends laughing. If you asked one of her friends to describe Alana, they would probably say she was a blast, and always happy. Some might add that was tired all the time because she worked so hard, but still made time for her friends.
Alana knew what it meant to be tired. She would lie awake and think about how no one really knew her. No one could see past her facade of jokes and quips. She contemplated how friend seemed like Friday and end smashed together like a contraction or the cute names given to celebrity couples. It fit though, with Friday being the end of the week, and the beginning of the weekend. That’s when she hung out with her friends, so maybe that’s how the word come to be.
Lexi always considered herself an independent woman. She never asked anyone for anything, but always accepted kindness. She liked to people laugh. Her classmates loved it when she would play pranks on the teacher. Lexi’s most famous one was when her a couple of friends moved her entire classroom to the baseball field during a lunch period. Of course that wasn’t accepted, so she spent several long hours writing an apology note in detention, but the class did enjoy having class outside so much, the teacher made it a regular friday thing.
Lexi had a job at a local movie theatre. She used the money to buy her own first car and was very proud of the clunker. She had a boyfriend who worked with her and he would always make comments about how she was “the cutest bespectacled spectacle he had ever seen!” Lexi did have a flamboyant style about her. She loved bright colors, and lots of them. Having a matched outfit to her meant you didn’t mix long sleeves with shorts.
Lexi was known to be the one to go to for anything. If she couldn’t help, she knew someone who could, she was kind to a fault. She always took time out for anyone who needed help, and it often stretched her out too thin. She was usually tired, but cheerful.
Lexi had lived in the town for the past two years. She moved there with her mom and little brother. He was three now. Lexi loved him more than anything. Lexi’s mom was a pillar of strength and had helped Lexi through some very tough times. Lexi did everything in the world for her brother. She would bring him presents and toys. Take him everywhere she went. Her friends would make fun of her, saying that she treated her brother like she birthed him. Lexi would laugh it off, and make a joke about him having her rib.
Lexi got dumped. Her boyfriend put the story together. He was talking to Lexi’s mom about her medical problems and mentioned her hysterectomy. Lexi’s mom had it done because of cancer six years ago. Lexi’s boyfriend didn’t think anything of it at first. But then, the math of it hit him. He demanded the truth from Lexi. Lexi let him have it.
Lexi had made a mistake and gotten pregnant by a boy who was 22. She was 15 at the time. The town she lived in marked her as a whore. It was a small town, and they were very opinionated about such things. She was ostracized at school, so her mom came up with the idea for her son to become her brother. They would move far away and keep the secret so Lexi could finish growing up, and her son could have a healthy childhood. Lexi’s boyfriend was furious that he had been lied to. He kept his cool, and told her that he couldn’t handle this and left.
Lexi didn’t leave the house for two weeks. She didn’t accept phone calls. She made her mom turn away any visitors. She was terrified about would happen next. She knew history was about to repeat.
Lexi’s mom knocked on her bedroom door, “Lexi? You need to come out here and see this.” Lexi didn’t want to. Lexi was terrified. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Her mom was crying, and said “go to the living room. You won’t regret it.” Something about her mother’s words made Lexi think about when she had surprise birthday parties, but it wasn’t anywhere near her birthday. She turned the corner and was shocked into tears. Nearly all of her classmates, her teacher, and her principal were in her living room. They held a banner that said, “Lexi, you and your child are welcome here, we love you!” In front of everyone was her boyfriend, holding her son. He said “if you’ll forgive me for being a jerk about it, i would like to get to know more about your son, and his mom.”
There is Alone, Then There is Alone.
Carl had been tired. He had been exhausted. He had been hurt. This was new. They were all gone now. He was alone. The word had new meaning now. Carl loved his alone time. He had a room in his house he dubbed “The Man Cave.” It was filled with a big screen T.V. and a pool table, complete with wet bar. They did host small parties here from time to time, but mainly it was a sanctuary. The wet bar saw a lot more use than the rest of the room, most of the other entertainment was there to be dusted. There was no spoken rule about leaving Carl alone in his cave, it was something that just was, and was accepted. Carl felt like he deserved this time alone, just for a moment.
When the pressures of life got to him, he would escape to the cave and think about easier times and an easier life. Carl would go to his cave and make a rum and coke and sit at the bar with only the corner light on. Carl would think. He wouldn’t think about his problems,his family, or even his job. He would think about the absence of them. A constant stream of what if scenarios. Carl would travel Europe, or join the club scene. The one constant factor in his daydreams were women. Women other than his wife. No one in particular, not even a certain type. He would dream about the ability to have variety.
Carl didn’t hate his family, and his family loved him. He treated his family well, especially Christmas time. Christmas was a good time for Carl’s family. A weeks vacation to a faraway place until the 23rd, then home in time for Santa. Everyone got the Santa treatment, including Carl’s wife. It was enough to make you want to believe in him again. Carl’s son had grown up his father’s son, always wanting to be like Carl. Carl thought it was great at first, but it secretly started to annoy him. If his son could just leave him alone and do his own thing for once, so Carl could relax at some point.
Carl did love his job. His boss loved him, that was most of it. Carl had a way of seeing things differently. An ability he flaunted whenever possible. When product wasn’t selling it was Carl’s job to come up with the saving idea. His boss had dubbed him “The Idea Man.” But, the pressure was overwhelming. When one of his ideas didn’t work out, the backlash was severe. The mocking from his peers was easy enough to play off while at work, but it ate at him to fail. In his cave, he dreamed of owning a bar barge off some exotic island, or a hot dog stand in New York. Something small that couldn’t consume him.
That was then. Alone was a relaxing time. A time to get away from all that he loved.
This is now. Alone is all Carl has.
Carl had given enough alone time for his wife to find someone else. She was cold when announced it to him. Like she was telling him she joined a book club. His son, had overheard the conversation. Carl hadn’t been around enough to notice a change in his son’s behavior, and his wife was too busy with her new meat toy. His son had been experimenting. His choice of drugs were downers. His son was tired of being blown off, and his new friends knew how he felt. They told him the pills will help him be numb. They were right till that night. The pain of hearing his father accuse his mom of trapping him in marriage by getting pregnant when she knew he never wanted kids. What Carl’s son heard was that his parents were splitting up, and regretted the lives they had. Carl’s son also heard it was all his fault. Carl’s son didn’t feel numb anymore. He wanted to, so he took all the pills he could find, because the hurt and guilt were much more severe than he had ever felt.
Carl’s wife served him divorced papers on the anniversary of his son’s death. She always blamed him. Carl always agreed. She never came back home after that night. So the papers were no surprise. He thought it slightly poetic of the date however and wondered if she had planned it that way purpose.
Carl was still unemployed after being forced to resign two months before. He didn’t have time for work for a long time after his son’s death, and then didn’t care to spend time working when he did. He had no new ideas.
Carl is sitting alone in his cave. Drinking a rum and coke, with a single light on in the corner. Carl is thinking about the ghosts upstairs and how he deserved this. This alone time.
I am bored, this will be fun.
There is a place inside my mind. Tucked away down a hallway with all kinds of doors. Most of the doors have signs or decorations or even graffiti to express what is behind them. The doors house neatly organized memories and ideas. Segregated and integrated so i can call upon them and visit them when i need to or reminisce when i want to. Sometimes, multiple doors will spring open and my thoughts will drift together creating new recipes of dreams and stories. Sometimes, i try to keep them all closed so i can hear nothing and be at peace. However, the doors are mischievous and will play games erratically. Sometimes playful, sometimes malevolent.
There is one door without a sign. A door with no decoration. A door with no graffiti. An unassuming door, at the end of an unassuming corridor, with an unassuming keyhole. A strong, sturdy, unassuming door. Don’t assume there is a key. Don’t assume it was made to open. Don’t assume it’s empty. It was made to be unassuming.
Inside the room behind the unassuming door is a collection of memories and ideas. Packaged and cramped into unassuming cubby holes and large unassuming crates. There are no signs. No decorations. No graffiti. No markings. They are unassuming.
The contents are not meant to be seen, or heard, or felt, or known. They are meant to be hidden, forgotten, unreal, unassuming. They were meant for another fate. I tried to destroy them, but they had no substance. I tried to erase them, but the ink was permanent. I tried to face them, but the nightmare terrifed me. I tried to disguise them, but they blew their cover.
The memories and ideas inside the unassuming crates that are behind the unassuming door that is down the unassuming corridor, are evil things. Evil thoughts and desires. Evil memories and ideas. Pain and hate. Sadness and loneliness. Memories of pain, ideas of hate. Thoughts of being nothing, desires to cause destruction.
Memories of being alone. Memories of being hated. Memories of pain. Memories of rage. Memories of tears. Memories of vile laughter from children. Memories of vile wisdom from elders.
Thoughts of escape. Thoughts of retribution. Thoughts of fading. Thoughts of worthlessness. Thoughts of pain. Thoughts of revenge. Thoughts of anger.
Working on a larger project. Should i post pieces of it as I write, or just wait till i am done?
Thoughts. Just race. Round and round. Can’t keep up. Can’t slow down. Words spin into pictures that dance on emotions. Emotions pour out into feelings encased by rationalizations. The feelings run from the thoughts of common sense. They are devoured by the lie of self. The lies invade my mind, and conquer. Thoughts.
This is how you make a god
Take a girl, and all you know about her that made you fall for her.
Subtract everything you don’t know about her, take away her fallibilty, remove insecurities and inconsistencies.
This is your framwork.
Take the framework and add your fantasies of dreams and acts. Add a thick layer of perfection and a filter so her words are only for you.
Take your ego and use it as glue to hold down the illusion. Build a podium with words and gifts. Use the fires of passion to smelt a suitable material to encase your framework so it has shape.
Stretch the girl’s skin over your creation. Worship it as if it was all that mattered, and try not to notice the pieces of the girl you threw away.