sitting in hopelessness, watching my life pass me by
staring in awe at the boy who has learned how to fly
dreaming that one day he'll reach out his soft hand to me
showing and glowing and flying 'till life has no need
wondering, pondering what made you seem so unreal
flying apparently means you have truths to conceal
words cannot say what I'm having the need to tell you
love hate confused in a world I don't know to be true
watching 'till the hope that I could someday learn to fly
inspires me so that I'm actually willing to try
landing in thornes that break me and cause me to bleed
Earth soaked in blood is not good for a new growing seed
watching you flying and wondring if it's worth the pain
holding it inside and causing my death from the strain
wasting away in a pain caused from something inside
go ahead, tell yourself, my ache will surely subside
sitting in hopelessness, watching my life pass me by
staring in spite at the boy who has learned how to fly
wishing that one day he'll fall from the sky down to me
and feel the pain that he caused with his "reality"
30 June 2010
29 June 2010
The Reverend's Wife
“Christina,” a voice said her name quietly. “Christina, come and eat something.”
She opened her eyes. It was still dark inside- but of course Charles would not have opened the shades while she was sleeping. She hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. Charles was kneeling at the bed in front of her.
“I’ve got some dinner in the kitchen. Come and have something to eat.”
“You’re probably the only man in town who can cook at decent meal,” she smiled.
“I didn’t say it was decent,” he smiled and kissed her quickly. “Come on. Put your hair up in case someone shows up and meet me in the kitchen.” He stood and left the room.
She rolled out of the bed. She took the black ribbon and tied her hair into a simple bun once again. She stood up straight and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. She opened the drapes to the bedroom and walked out to the kitchen. Charles sat at the head of the table smiling.
“You look wonderful,” he said in slightly sarcastic voice.
“It isn’t my fault all you Puritans won’t let me wear color,” she said quietly. She sat at the table across from him.
“Oh my,” his eyes were huge and he looked disgusted.”
“What is it?”
He looked at his plate and started laughing. “This is terrible, completely terrible.”
She took a bite cautiously. “You’re right. It is terrible.” She picked up her plate and walked over to take his. “I’ll see what I can do.” She walked to the oven. He followed.
“We were talking about it spreading before,” he said, just barely above a whisper. “All I can say is that I hope it doesn’t. You may be a reverend’s wife, but I’m a young reverend, and the fact remains that you are not a Puritan. That never looks good to witch hunters.”
“You think they’ll come for me?”
“I hope not. I don’t think anyone in town is aware that you are not Puritan, and the longer we keep it that way, the better off we are. Most people won’t even think to accuse you because you are my wife, and that’s just how it is.”
She opened her eyes. It was still dark inside- but of course Charles would not have opened the shades while she was sleeping. She hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. Charles was kneeling at the bed in front of her.
“I’ve got some dinner in the kitchen. Come and have something to eat.”
“You’re probably the only man in town who can cook at decent meal,” she smiled.
“I didn’t say it was decent,” he smiled and kissed her quickly. “Come on. Put your hair up in case someone shows up and meet me in the kitchen.” He stood and left the room.
She rolled out of the bed. She took the black ribbon and tied her hair into a simple bun once again. She stood up straight and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. She opened the drapes to the bedroom and walked out to the kitchen. Charles sat at the head of the table smiling.
“You look wonderful,” he said in slightly sarcastic voice.
“It isn’t my fault all you Puritans won’t let me wear color,” she said quietly. She sat at the table across from him.
“Oh my,” his eyes were huge and he looked disgusted.”
“What is it?”
He looked at his plate and started laughing. “This is terrible, completely terrible.”
She took a bite cautiously. “You’re right. It is terrible.” She picked up her plate and walked over to take his. “I’ll see what I can do.” She walked to the oven. He followed.
“We were talking about it spreading before,” he said, just barely above a whisper. “All I can say is that I hope it doesn’t. You may be a reverend’s wife, but I’m a young reverend, and the fact remains that you are not a Puritan. That never looks good to witch hunters.”
“You think they’ll come for me?”
“I hope not. I don’t think anyone in town is aware that you are not Puritan, and the longer we keep it that way, the better off we are. Most people won’t even think to accuse you because you are my wife, and that’s just how it is.”
28 June 2010
Braindead
The knock on the door could barely be heard above the woman’s giggles and shrieks of pleasure. Zachary froze, listening for a second knock. It did not take long for the woman beneath him to realize that something was wrong. She whispered in his ear, asking. This time her voice could be barely be heard above the knocking. “Damn it,” Zachary muttered as he climbed off of the woman. “You remember what I said about the castle owner being a stickler?”
The woman nodded.
“Yeah, well he’s back now, and he’s at the door, and he’s also a cold-blooded killer, so I think you should get out through the window while you still have a chance.”
The woman’s eyes widened with fear and, grabbing her clothes from the floor, she ran to the nearest window and began her nervous climb down to the ground.
Zachary opened the door. “Really, Victor? That was number 5 for this week.”
“I should be the one saying ‘really,’ Zachary. When did I become a cold-blooded killer? “ He looked out of the window at the partially dressed woman running frantically into the woods. “I doubt she’ll ever be coming back.”
“That was the goal, Victor, so I call it a success.”
Victor spun around to face Zachary. “Tell me, Zachary, what exactly do you plan to do when a child shows up on our doorstep? It’s bound to happen one of these times.”
“Well any mother who leaves her child at the doorstep of a supposed cold-blooded killer has some major issues of her own,” Zachary said, ignoring Victor’s hard glare. “Either way, I’d just give it to William. He’s the one who wants a kid so badly.”
Victor sighed an exasperated sigh. “You’re an idiot, Zachary. Simply an idiot.”
“And you’re a stuck up, cold-blooded murderer who lives in a huge castle and only ever comes out of his room at night. I’d rather be an idiot.”
The woman nodded.
“Yeah, well he’s back now, and he’s at the door, and he’s also a cold-blooded killer, so I think you should get out through the window while you still have a chance.”
The woman’s eyes widened with fear and, grabbing her clothes from the floor, she ran to the nearest window and began her nervous climb down to the ground.
Zachary opened the door. “Really, Victor? That was number 5 for this week.”
“I should be the one saying ‘really,’ Zachary. When did I become a cold-blooded killer? “ He looked out of the window at the partially dressed woman running frantically into the woods. “I doubt she’ll ever be coming back.”
“That was the goal, Victor, so I call it a success.”
Victor spun around to face Zachary. “Tell me, Zachary, what exactly do you plan to do when a child shows up on our doorstep? It’s bound to happen one of these times.”
“Well any mother who leaves her child at the doorstep of a supposed cold-blooded killer has some major issues of her own,” Zachary said, ignoring Victor’s hard glare. “Either way, I’d just give it to William. He’s the one who wants a kid so badly.”
Victor sighed an exasperated sigh. “You’re an idiot, Zachary. Simply an idiot.”
“And you’re a stuck up, cold-blooded murderer who lives in a huge castle and only ever comes out of his room at night. I’d rather be an idiot.”
27 June 2010
Miss Catherine
Margaret Thatcher woke suddenly, realizing with a start that her window was open. Pulling back the sheets and jumping to her feet, the freezing air swept over her. She hurried over to her window, closing it and latching it shut quickly. She rushed back to her bed, dove into it and pulled the sheets back up, wrapping them around her neck. She closed her eyes in the rediscovered warmth, trying to fall asleep yet again.
A knock on the door prevented her from achieving her hoped goal.
Climbing out of bed again into the freezing air, she wrapped her cloak around her as she went to the door. Her sister appeared in the doorway from the other room, shaking her head. Acknowledging her sister's presence silently, Margaret opened the door. Before her stood a fairly tall, well built man with elegantly brushed blonde hair standing before her. She sighed, "Hello, Richard."
"Good morning, Miss Margaret. Is Miss Thatcher in this morning?"
"I'm afraid she is not, Richard." She lied. "I'll be sure to let her know you stopped by."
"I don't suppose you could be so kind as to tell me where I might find her? It is terribly early--she should not be walking alone."
"I'm afraid I have only just awoken myself. I do not know where she is," Margaret lied through her teeth a second time.
"I will check the town. She could not have very well gone anywhere else."
Margaret smiled sweetly and shut the door. Pausing a moment for Richard to leave the building, she turned to her sister. "You know, Catherine, Richard is a very good man. You'd do very well to be with a man like him."
"Then you take him. Lord knows I don't want him. He's as thick as a brick," Catherine smirked.
A knock on the door prevented her from achieving her hoped goal.
Climbing out of bed again into the freezing air, she wrapped her cloak around her as she went to the door. Her sister appeared in the doorway from the other room, shaking her head. Acknowledging her sister's presence silently, Margaret opened the door. Before her stood a fairly tall, well built man with elegantly brushed blonde hair standing before her. She sighed, "Hello, Richard."
"Good morning, Miss Margaret. Is Miss Thatcher in this morning?"
"I'm afraid she is not, Richard." She lied. "I'll be sure to let her know you stopped by."
"I don't suppose you could be so kind as to tell me where I might find her? It is terribly early--she should not be walking alone."
"I'm afraid I have only just awoken myself. I do not know where she is," Margaret lied through her teeth a second time.
"I will check the town. She could not have very well gone anywhere else."
Margaret smiled sweetly and shut the door. Pausing a moment for Richard to leave the building, she turned to her sister. "You know, Catherine, Richard is a very good man. You'd do very well to be with a man like him."
"Then you take him. Lord knows I don't want him. He's as thick as a brick," Catherine smirked.
26 June 2010
The Greenhouse
The air in the greenhouse was wet and thick. White lights hung from the ceiling, shining through the plants, creating the sort of green glow in the room. The plants swayed slightly as though brushed by a breeze, but there was none to be felt. Patrick moved gracefully between the various flowers and ferns, touching each lightly and whispering to them. He seemed to almost be asking them about their health rather than actually checking. He wore a white lab coat, making him look very much like a doctor. The greenhouse door creaked open, startling him. He jumped behind a nearby plant, removing his eye-attracting lab coat.
“Patrick?” Victor’s cool voice said, muffled by the plants that absorbed the sudden burst of sound. “Patrick, William is worried about you. He says you refuse to leave the greenhouse. Is everything alright?”
“Victor, I’m busy. Go away,” he responded coldly and blatantly. “Nothing is the matter besides the fact that I can get no quality amount of work done without everyone in this god forsaken castle thinking something is wrong.”
“Yes, of course.” Victor sounded disheartened. “I won’t disturb you any longer. We just thought that maybe you needed help adjusting to—”
“Go away, Victor!” Patrick shouted, remaining still behind the plant. He waited until he heard the creak as the greenhouse door closed and clicked shut. He stood slowly—checking to make sure Victor was truly gone. He put the lab coat back on and returned to attending his garden, trying to ignore the green glow that seemed to radiate from his skin.
“Patrick?” Victor’s cool voice said, muffled by the plants that absorbed the sudden burst of sound. “Patrick, William is worried about you. He says you refuse to leave the greenhouse. Is everything alright?”
“Victor, I’m busy. Go away,” he responded coldly and blatantly. “Nothing is the matter besides the fact that I can get no quality amount of work done without everyone in this god forsaken castle thinking something is wrong.”
“Yes, of course.” Victor sounded disheartened. “I won’t disturb you any longer. We just thought that maybe you needed help adjusting to—”
“Go away, Victor!” Patrick shouted, remaining still behind the plant. He waited until he heard the creak as the greenhouse door closed and clicked shut. He stood slowly—checking to make sure Victor was truly gone. He put the lab coat back on and returned to attending his garden, trying to ignore the green glow that seemed to radiate from his skin.
25 June 2010
Notes on Procrastination
You can ask anyone why procrastination is a good thing, and they’ll most likely say “I work better under pressure”… yeah, that’s a load of bull. And then you’ll run into the upstanding, straight A, valedictorian student who says, “Procrastination isn’t a good thing”… also a load of bull. To be honest, I don’t know what is up with today’s society that is so obsessed with deadlines. Deadlines are important sure, but they are dead, so what are they going to do to you? Exactly, they can’t do anything. They may postpone that promotion a bit, but worse things have happened. Procrastination never sounds like a good idea. Missing a deadline is a horrible feeling. It’s the stomach churning, gut wrenching feeling that everybody just loves. But think about it. Would you rather miss the deadline or your daughter’s fourth birthday party? At first the answer is obvious: the birthday party. After all, there’s only one deadline, and she’ll have other birthdays. However, she’ll only ever have one fourth birthday (which cannot be pushed back with a simple request written oh so eloquently and e-mailed off to your boss) and, as much as I hate to say this, there is no guarantee that she will have another birthday. The odds are low, yes, but they are still there.
The biggest waste of time is not procrastinating. No, I don’t mean that the biggest waste of time is a single something other than procrastination. Read the sentence again, put an emphasis on “not,” and you’ll see what I mean.
Procrastination is living. Think about it. If you finished everything right away, what would you do with all of the extra time? Don’t know? That’s funny, because I don’t either. The thing about procrastination is that it inspires you to do things you wouldn’t normally do in the attempt to avoid working. Maybe that’s what sucks so much about college. Even with 17 credits, there’s only so much studying you can do before your brain explodes, and if you don’t procrastinate, I can guarantee that while everybody else is studying in a rush at the last moment, you will be sitting in your dorm room, flipping a coin 300 times to see if heads or tails will win (it’s tails, by the way). Or maybe you’ll play solitaire on your computer, switching every third time to real cards for the excitement of the sudden change. Or, as I have found myself doing when immersed in total and complete boredom, 467 games of minesweeper at the highest level (none of which will be won, of course). Life is boring without procrastination. There are no desperate attempts at avoiding work and there are no desperate attempts to finish work in time. Procrastination is what makes life worth living.
I don’t mean to condone procrastination. There is little doubt that it can cause major problems—especially related to school. In any do-or-die situation it is generally a better idea to finish something ahead of time and give yourself a good day or so to review and make any alterations. However, that math homework can wait until 10:00 at night. Think of all the things that can be discovered when trying to avoid doing something. People try things that they never before would have thought to try when they’re trying to not do something else. Ideas for stories arise from the fabrics; a to-be-favorite TV show is brought to attention; the perfect plot for world domination is formed and about to be carried out when suddenly foiled (by someone else procrastinating who thought it would be cool to try and be a super hero for one night). Sometimes it is in those moments when we are desperately searching for some form of occupation that we find our future careers. We may discover our one true passion that would have flown well under the radar had we actually done whatever it was we were supposed to do exactly when we were supposed to do it. Any of the arts are like this, I think. Very few people discover their love of art by doing a homework assignment. The same goes for musicians. If it doesn’t, I think it should. I don’t think any musician should decide to be a music major because they just loved playing scales.
Procrastination is a good thing, despite its ugly reputation, and I think if people spent less time worrying about when things are due, maybe they could live a bit more. More time would be spent with families, eating proper meals, resulting in a healthier country. People, I think, could be so much happier if they just came to realize that the work day has come to an end, and now it’s time to relax… until 11:00 when you remember that one thing.
The biggest waste of time is not procrastinating. No, I don’t mean that the biggest waste of time is a single something other than procrastination. Read the sentence again, put an emphasis on “not,” and you’ll see what I mean.
Procrastination is living. Think about it. If you finished everything right away, what would you do with all of the extra time? Don’t know? That’s funny, because I don’t either. The thing about procrastination is that it inspires you to do things you wouldn’t normally do in the attempt to avoid working. Maybe that’s what sucks so much about college. Even with 17 credits, there’s only so much studying you can do before your brain explodes, and if you don’t procrastinate, I can guarantee that while everybody else is studying in a rush at the last moment, you will be sitting in your dorm room, flipping a coin 300 times to see if heads or tails will win (it’s tails, by the way). Or maybe you’ll play solitaire on your computer, switching every third time to real cards for the excitement of the sudden change. Or, as I have found myself doing when immersed in total and complete boredom, 467 games of minesweeper at the highest level (none of which will be won, of course). Life is boring without procrastination. There are no desperate attempts at avoiding work and there are no desperate attempts to finish work in time. Procrastination is what makes life worth living.
I don’t mean to condone procrastination. There is little doubt that it can cause major problems—especially related to school. In any do-or-die situation it is generally a better idea to finish something ahead of time and give yourself a good day or so to review and make any alterations. However, that math homework can wait until 10:00 at night. Think of all the things that can be discovered when trying to avoid doing something. People try things that they never before would have thought to try when they’re trying to not do something else. Ideas for stories arise from the fabrics; a to-be-favorite TV show is brought to attention; the perfect plot for world domination is formed and about to be carried out when suddenly foiled (by someone else procrastinating who thought it would be cool to try and be a super hero for one night). Sometimes it is in those moments when we are desperately searching for some form of occupation that we find our future careers. We may discover our one true passion that would have flown well under the radar had we actually done whatever it was we were supposed to do exactly when we were supposed to do it. Any of the arts are like this, I think. Very few people discover their love of art by doing a homework assignment. The same goes for musicians. If it doesn’t, I think it should. I don’t think any musician should decide to be a music major because they just loved playing scales.
Procrastination is a good thing, despite its ugly reputation, and I think if people spent less time worrying about when things are due, maybe they could live a bit more. More time would be spent with families, eating proper meals, resulting in a healthier country. People, I think, could be so much happier if they just came to realize that the work day has come to an end, and now it’s time to relax… until 11:00 when you remember that one thing.
24 June 2010
Nightfall
Victor stared up into the darkness, his ears straining to hear the tolling bells of each hour. There was little doubt that by this time his mental clock was quite accurate. And getting up earlier would be, though rather unpleasant, not a disaster. At long last he heard the bells begin to chime. Counting slowly in his head, nodding with each soft tone, a slight smile spread across his lips as he reached seven. He stood up on his bed and pulled the heavy black curtains open. He stepped down from his bed and opened the curtains of all of his windows, the soft moonlight floating into the room. He glanced across the room into his mirror, straightened his black and grey tie and left the room.
"Victor!" he heard a warm voice call from the room next door. "I thought I heard someone opening curtains." A fairly tall man, with soft white skin and dressed in shades of brown emerged from the room. He smiled a smile that was nothing short of contagious. "How's life in the dark, my friend?" William was a very warm person; he was friends with everyone in the household. However, he would forever and always claim that Victor was his best friend.
"Dark," Victor said in a sort of half smile. "How is everyone else?"
"Well enough. I won't bother to deny that I miss having you around during the long hours of the day, but work makes it somewhat easier. The Doctor has been locked in his room for the past few days, running various experiments that make my skin crawl, coming out only to eat or play a few rounds of poker. Patrick refuses to leave the greenhouse at all, which is extremely unnerving given" he paused," circumstances. Zachary is as brainless and frivolous as ever, and lately Marcus has been calling one particular person repeatedly and asking them over--they never say yes. You know the definition of insanity as well as I do." He sighed. "It would seem that this, right now, is the most logical, intelligent and sane part of my day."
Victor laughed. He put his arm over William's shoulder, "Well that's never a good sign, is it?"
"Victor!" he heard a warm voice call from the room next door. "I thought I heard someone opening curtains." A fairly tall man, with soft white skin and dressed in shades of brown emerged from the room. He smiled a smile that was nothing short of contagious. "How's life in the dark, my friend?" William was a very warm person; he was friends with everyone in the household. However, he would forever and always claim that Victor was his best friend.
"Dark," Victor said in a sort of half smile. "How is everyone else?"
"Well enough. I won't bother to deny that I miss having you around during the long hours of the day, but work makes it somewhat easier. The Doctor has been locked in his room for the past few days, running various experiments that make my skin crawl, coming out only to eat or play a few rounds of poker. Patrick refuses to leave the greenhouse at all, which is extremely unnerving given" he paused," circumstances. Zachary is as brainless and frivolous as ever, and lately Marcus has been calling one particular person repeatedly and asking them over--they never say yes. You know the definition of insanity as well as I do." He sighed. "It would seem that this, right now, is the most logical, intelligent and sane part of my day."
Victor laughed. He put his arm over William's shoulder, "Well that's never a good sign, is it?"
23 June 2010
1000 Words: Part III
I also happen to believe that psychology is the greatest thing ever. And unlike you, whose goal in life is to make money and a name for yourself, I want to help people. If you want to shun me for that, so be it. If you think that this friendship cannot survive because I want to help someone conquer their fear of flying so they can visit their friend across the country, then I don’t think I need it. I’ve been advised not to put an ultimatum on this, but I am fed up with your attack on my personality. I value your friendship, I really do. Most of the time I greatly enjoy our conversations, but it is times like this, when you insult who I am and what I long to be that I wonder how much I really need it. You like to pick out random traits of mine and condemn me for them, saying they are the reason Kelsey never speaks to me anymore (who is also studying psychology, I should remind you). I know that my personality has flaws. Whose doesn’t? My sense of humor has been called cruel, and, due to a lack of general intelligence, I like to prove my intelligence where it exists. You do it as well, with your large words and explanations that rarely fall short of 20 words. Quite frankly, I am sick and tired of people who assume things about me because I say that I am studying psychology. I question things. I question everything. Searching for answers is my favorite thing to do. Call it a loss of faith if you want, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that I will ever change for you. I like my imperfections.
I also need to congratulate you. This is second longest letter I have written. Mind you, you’re nowhere near close to the winner of that prize, nor should you think that you ever shall be. Your ratio of words wasted on me to the words I waste on you is also quite impressive. 15-20 wasted for 1000 is really something.
Goodbye.
I also need to congratulate you. This is second longest letter I have written. Mind you, you’re nowhere near close to the winner of that prize, nor should you think that you ever shall be. Your ratio of words wasted on me to the words I waste on you is also quite impressive. 15-20 wasted for 1000 is really something.
Goodbye.
1000 Words: Part II
Perhaps it is you who needs to open their mind. Perhaps you need to understand that creativity, faith and imagination do not require that honest belief in things such as fairies or decision-altering machines. Isn’t it just a tiny jump from not believing in folklore to having no creativity? Just a week ago you were commending my creativity as I told you that I was re-opening my pity for Satan. I get a bit skeptical on your fantasy world and you start tossing around insults like hot potatoes; how many can you hit her with in a single statement?
I always question things. I never accept a doctrine as complete truth until it can explain itself beyond “there’s no evidence to disprove it.” Yeah, well there’s no evidence to prove that the Flying Spaghetti Monster doesn’t exist. I was asking you questions out of sheer curiosity, making you question yourself. “The unshakable faith is the faith that is shaken.” And honestly, I find it extremely offensive that now that you have finally noticed how much I question things that you think I have lost my creativity! You think I have lost faith! Do you really want to know what I believe? I believe that Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary, conceived by the Holy Spirit. I believe that beyond that, humans are foolish to think that they could ever be intelligent enough to wrap their heads around God. I think that anyone who truly believes that they understand God and what his wishes are is a fool.
I always question things. I never accept a doctrine as complete truth until it can explain itself beyond “there’s no evidence to disprove it.” Yeah, well there’s no evidence to prove that the Flying Spaghetti Monster doesn’t exist. I was asking you questions out of sheer curiosity, making you question yourself. “The unshakable faith is the faith that is shaken.” And honestly, I find it extremely offensive that now that you have finally noticed how much I question things that you think I have lost my creativity! You think I have lost faith! Do you really want to know what I believe? I believe that Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary, conceived by the Holy Spirit. I believe that beyond that, humans are foolish to think that they could ever be intelligent enough to wrap their heads around God. I think that anyone who truly believes that they understand God and what his wishes are is a fool.
21 June 2010
1000 Words: Part I
For he whose disdain for noncreative passion is reaching ever more a status of unforgivable,
I cannot apologize for anything I said Tuesday night. Truthfully, I think that if either of us should be apologizing, it should be the one of us who not only insulted the other’s personality (which is not any different, believe it or not, from what it has been for the past 15 years) and major, but also their grandfather; a grandfather whom you have never met and perhaps should not judge quite so quickly.
I hate, truly, truly hate people who, just because they have encountered a few psychologists or psychiatrists in their time, think that they know everything about all psychologists. I guess it’s nice to finally know how you truly see me. Maybe I hit the nail on the head and you don’t like that. Maybe you feel that you made some grievous mistake in your past and you don’t want to accept that it influenced your present and future. Either way, I found it cruel of you to decide to bring psychology into our conversation in such a cold hearted manor.
I find it tactless for you to insult not only my major and my grandfather, but what I want to be. There are certain lines that you should not cross, and insulting my aspiration is one of them. I was under the impression that intentionally insulting someone’s dream is not the best way to go about something. But then again, you’d probably kill for a spot in history. I want nothing more than to help someone, even just a single person, in my lifetime.
Does the desire to question somehow imply a lack of creativity or faith? Because I do not believe that fairies exist, because I have doubts and fears about heaven, because I believe in evolution (which had nothing to do with psychology by the way) I have lost my creativity? I find it strange that you are so quick to condemn me. You seem all joy when I question my own faith and all but when I question yours. For years you called me a cynic, and I’ll admit that by your falsified definition it cannot be denied, but when reality is forced upon you, perhaps you will come to realize that I am merely human.
I cannot apologize for anything I said Tuesday night. Truthfully, I think that if either of us should be apologizing, it should be the one of us who not only insulted the other’s personality (which is not any different, believe it or not, from what it has been for the past 15 years) and major, but also their grandfather; a grandfather whom you have never met and perhaps should not judge quite so quickly.
I hate, truly, truly hate people who, just because they have encountered a few psychologists or psychiatrists in their time, think that they know everything about all psychologists. I guess it’s nice to finally know how you truly see me. Maybe I hit the nail on the head and you don’t like that. Maybe you feel that you made some grievous mistake in your past and you don’t want to accept that it influenced your present and future. Either way, I found it cruel of you to decide to bring psychology into our conversation in such a cold hearted manor.
I find it tactless for you to insult not only my major and my grandfather, but what I want to be. There are certain lines that you should not cross, and insulting my aspiration is one of them. I was under the impression that intentionally insulting someone’s dream is not the best way to go about something. But then again, you’d probably kill for a spot in history. I want nothing more than to help someone, even just a single person, in my lifetime.
Does the desire to question somehow imply a lack of creativity or faith? Because I do not believe that fairies exist, because I have doubts and fears about heaven, because I believe in evolution (which had nothing to do with psychology by the way) I have lost my creativity? I find it strange that you are so quick to condemn me. You seem all joy when I question my own faith and all but when I question yours. For years you called me a cynic, and I’ll admit that by your falsified definition it cannot be denied, but when reality is forced upon you, perhaps you will come to realize that I am merely human.
13 June 2010
The Man
The man was the eccentric sort. He was too tall and too skinny, and his hair was too full and too dark for his age. He stood in a slight hunch, more due to the fact that he probably wished himself shorter than because he could not hold himself upright. He wore a suit typical of a man of his profession- black with a white shirt and a black tie. Physical examination was, if anything, fruitless. By looking at the man, one could tell little of anything about him. Of course, the permanent scowl planted upon his long drawn face said something to his personality. For indeed, his smile appeared more as a barring of teeth than an actual smile.
12 June 2010
For My Valentine
When blindness conquers those around,
and truth cannot be seen,
When trust is lost in clouds of blue,
and hidden lies convene,
When justice drowns in pools of blood,
and life has lost it's worth,
You'll find me waiting, shining bright,
high above the earth,
For I alone and you with me
have fought injustice's crown,
And traitor at us they will call,
when axe comes falling down.
When light and life and love betray
I tell you dear, my sweet,
It was for you I gave my soul
an act I would repeat
This truth for you, my sweet divine,
Froms yours alone, your Valentine
and truth cannot be seen,
When trust is lost in clouds of blue,
and hidden lies convene,
When justice drowns in pools of blood,
and life has lost it's worth,
You'll find me waiting, shining bright,
high above the earth,
For I alone and you with me
have fought injustice's crown,
And traitor at us they will call,
when axe comes falling down.
When light and life and love betray
I tell you dear, my sweet,
It was for you I gave my soul
an act I would repeat
This truth for you, my sweet divine,
Froms yours alone, your Valentine
11 June 2010
Notes on "Moving On"
Sometimes it takes more than just deciding to move on, and that’s where the dilemma occurs. I have heard, and no doubt you have heard as well, that it is so much easier to get over someone when you meet someone else. The problem is, when the mind is so thoroughly pre-occupied with that past someone, it’s rather difficult to find the replacement someone. Not to mention the fact that most people don’t like the idea of dating someone simply as a rebound. In most situations, people don’t like to blatantly, consciously hurt others.
It dawned on me one night, that perhaps the only way to truly get over someone is to cut them off completely. This, however, also creates a problem. In my case, this person was a friend, my best friend, and I am anything but willing to throw that away just so I can “move on.” Frankly, I think that moving on is over rated. The trick is not to “move on,” but to accept. No, those are not the same thing.
Quantifiably speaking, moving on is the easy way out. How is that quantifiable? I have no idea; I just wanted to say that. But seriously now, moving on is easier than accepting. The thing about “moving on” is that it’s very similar to forgetting. Just throw person A on the back burner and pull person B forward. Easy, fast and involving very little effort, moving on seems to be the ideal solution. And while “moving on” may be the ideal solution in terms of speed, there is severe questioning as to how ideal it is in terms of duration: hence the idea of a “rebound.” The “rebound” really does sum up quite nicely what “moving on” is. It is a brief period during which one’s focus has been voluntarily and forcibly transferred from a person of the past to a person of the present. Notice the lack of “person of the future” in that definition. The “rebound,” as many people know, serves one, and only one purpose: to help you “move on.” Honestly, though, what does a “rebound” do but make you temporarily glad you are no longer with that person of the past, only to make you miss that very person at the end of the relationship?
Acceptance is, of course, considerably more difficult but more rewarding in the long term. Acceptance is easy until word reaches your ears that your former is no longer as alone as you are. So why would anyone choose acceptance over the apple-in-the-basket technique that is moving on? The thing about acceptance is that it gives any chance of a possible sustained friendship, well, a chance. Acceptance is simply deciding that you are ok with the decisions made by either party to end a relationship or, as is significantly more painful in my opinion, to never start one at all. It is accepting the fact that there is someone else out there for them and, more importantly, someone else out there for you. I would love to tell you the steps to reaching this acceptance, but I cannot. See, the thing about acceptance is that everyone has to take their own road to reach it. So, not only am I yet to discover my road, but there is an entirely different road that must be taken by you.
Ok, now for the complete honesty. I think acceptance and “moving on” are both complete shit. Yes, I said it. Both of those words were chosen by people who never had to accept or move on from anything. The kind of people who married their high school sweethearts, are still happily married, and have friends whose lives are something less than perfect. It’s the kind of advice that is only received from friends in an extremely happy situation. Think about it, when did a friend who was going through something at all remotely similar to you ever tell you to “just accept it and move on;” which I think is my favorite phrase. Just accept it and move on. Was there ever a colder way to tell someone you care? Quite frankly, the whole thing is just a joke. The truth of the matter is that you will probably never truly get over the person from your past, but you will find a person for your future. Eventually the future will be the present. As much as I would love to assure you, being an idealist romantic, that the person of your future will be the person from your past, it simply cannot be. Life is not a movie. At times it may seem like it is—especially because there’s always music playing—but it’s not.
Perhaps the better term, better than acceptance, better than “moving on,” is giving up. Giving up isn’t always as horrible and dishonorable as people make it out to be. Maybe it’s time to give up.
Look to the sky, take a long, deep breath, and fall back into the grass, never to rise again.
It dawned on me one night, that perhaps the only way to truly get over someone is to cut them off completely. This, however, also creates a problem. In my case, this person was a friend, my best friend, and I am anything but willing to throw that away just so I can “move on.” Frankly, I think that moving on is over rated. The trick is not to “move on,” but to accept. No, those are not the same thing.
Quantifiably speaking, moving on is the easy way out. How is that quantifiable? I have no idea; I just wanted to say that. But seriously now, moving on is easier than accepting. The thing about “moving on” is that it’s very similar to forgetting. Just throw person A on the back burner and pull person B forward. Easy, fast and involving very little effort, moving on seems to be the ideal solution. And while “moving on” may be the ideal solution in terms of speed, there is severe questioning as to how ideal it is in terms of duration: hence the idea of a “rebound.” The “rebound” really does sum up quite nicely what “moving on” is. It is a brief period during which one’s focus has been voluntarily and forcibly transferred from a person of the past to a person of the present. Notice the lack of “person of the future” in that definition. The “rebound,” as many people know, serves one, and only one purpose: to help you “move on.” Honestly, though, what does a “rebound” do but make you temporarily glad you are no longer with that person of the past, only to make you miss that very person at the end of the relationship?
Acceptance is, of course, considerably more difficult but more rewarding in the long term. Acceptance is easy until word reaches your ears that your former is no longer as alone as you are. So why would anyone choose acceptance over the apple-in-the-basket technique that is moving on? The thing about acceptance is that it gives any chance of a possible sustained friendship, well, a chance. Acceptance is simply deciding that you are ok with the decisions made by either party to end a relationship or, as is significantly more painful in my opinion, to never start one at all. It is accepting the fact that there is someone else out there for them and, more importantly, someone else out there for you. I would love to tell you the steps to reaching this acceptance, but I cannot. See, the thing about acceptance is that everyone has to take their own road to reach it. So, not only am I yet to discover my road, but there is an entirely different road that must be taken by you.
Ok, now for the complete honesty. I think acceptance and “moving on” are both complete shit. Yes, I said it. Both of those words were chosen by people who never had to accept or move on from anything. The kind of people who married their high school sweethearts, are still happily married, and have friends whose lives are something less than perfect. It’s the kind of advice that is only received from friends in an extremely happy situation. Think about it, when did a friend who was going through something at all remotely similar to you ever tell you to “just accept it and move on;” which I think is my favorite phrase. Just accept it and move on. Was there ever a colder way to tell someone you care? Quite frankly, the whole thing is just a joke. The truth of the matter is that you will probably never truly get over the person from your past, but you will find a person for your future. Eventually the future will be the present. As much as I would love to assure you, being an idealist romantic, that the person of your future will be the person from your past, it simply cannot be. Life is not a movie. At times it may seem like it is—especially because there’s always music playing—but it’s not.
Perhaps the better term, better than acceptance, better than “moving on,” is giving up. Giving up isn’t always as horrible and dishonorable as people make it out to be. Maybe it’s time to give up.
Look to the sky, take a long, deep breath, and fall back into the grass, never to rise again.
10 June 2010
"When two people like each other, they try"
You can't say I didn't try. We've known each other four years and started out hating each other. By the end of senior year, we were almost inseparable. Obviously some trying had to go into that.
You are not disposable. You are one of the best friends I have ever had. You always listened when I needed to talk, you always gave advice when I asked. But I felt like you needed me to be weak for you. The moment I stood up on my own, you shot me down and claimed I was making assumptions about you. That combined with the fact that I could never help you with anything going on in your life. I could comment, but only if you stooped low enough to tell me what was going on, and only if I agreed with you.
One fight would not normally be enough to end it. We've had disagreements before and it hasn't done anything. It was the subject, the way you responded to MY stating my opinion and the messages afterward that--from my point of view--had an overtone of "I don't care anymore." It was a series of things, followed by a series of revelations, followed by a series of conclusions, followed by a series of actions.
I couldn't tell you sooner because I didn't even realize it. Long story short, if you thought this friendship was worth saving, if you saw me as anything more than a car-ride to get to a swing set, you would have done something more to try to save it. I apologize for any accusations that are going into this last paragraph of explanation, but this is what I'm seeing. And why I'm even bothering to explain this to you, I don't know. I guess I still haven't completely given up on the hope that you would try, just this once, try for me.
I'm sorry it had to end like this, but if this is how it has to be, I guess this is it. The truth is, you aren't anywhere near disposable to me. I was just hoping, stupidly hoping, as the typical idealistic romantic would, that maybe I was worth enough to you that you would fight it. That you would stoop down to my level and try. But I guess I was wrong. And now we are both reminded of why the idealistic romantic is also, always a pessimist.
You are not disposable. You are one of the best friends I have ever had. You always listened when I needed to talk, you always gave advice when I asked. But I felt like you needed me to be weak for you. The moment I stood up on my own, you shot me down and claimed I was making assumptions about you. That combined with the fact that I could never help you with anything going on in your life. I could comment, but only if you stooped low enough to tell me what was going on, and only if I agreed with you.
One fight would not normally be enough to end it. We've had disagreements before and it hasn't done anything. It was the subject, the way you responded to MY stating my opinion and the messages afterward that--from my point of view--had an overtone of "I don't care anymore." It was a series of things, followed by a series of revelations, followed by a series of conclusions, followed by a series of actions.
I couldn't tell you sooner because I didn't even realize it. Long story short, if you thought this friendship was worth saving, if you saw me as anything more than a car-ride to get to a swing set, you would have done something more to try to save it. I apologize for any accusations that are going into this last paragraph of explanation, but this is what I'm seeing. And why I'm even bothering to explain this to you, I don't know. I guess I still haven't completely given up on the hope that you would try, just this once, try for me.
I'm sorry it had to end like this, but if this is how it has to be, I guess this is it. The truth is, you aren't anywhere near disposable to me. I was just hoping, stupidly hoping, as the typical idealistic romantic would, that maybe I was worth enough to you that you would fight it. That you would stoop down to my level and try. But I guess I was wrong. And now we are both reminded of why the idealistic romantic is also, always a pessimist.
09 June 2010
Every Day: Part III
He tucked the skeleton key safely back into his inside pocket and made his way across the main hall. The sound of screeching nails rang through the prison yet again. He watched as the table appeared in the center of the hall. He could hear the prisoners coming. He reached out and plucked a grape from one of the grape-filled vines. Upon hitting his tongue the grape dissolved into nothingness. Feeling a strange sense of partial satisfaction in achieving what no prisoner had managed to do—getting the food to his mouth—he sat at the head of the table.
He watched again, as he did every night, as the prisoners fought over the food that they could not eat. He watched the pushing and the shoving with a feeling of detachment. One by one each of the prisoners gave up as they did every night. The chain reappeared around their ankles and he guided them back to their cells, locking each one inside with the same skeleton key. He finished locking everyone up and began his way back to the main hall. He paused outside the skeleton’s cell. It was curled in the corner weeping.
He continued to the main hall.
Reaching his hidden room at last, he removes his cloak and fell to his knees. The weight of human tire seemed to drag on him as he fought the urge to close his eyes. It was that figure. The figure would haunt him whenever he became so tired that he closed his eyes. The moment his consciousness began to slip, the figure would appear. That figure was one of the only things, if not the only thing that he truly feared. She had done something terrible. What she had done was unknown to him—he did not actually know the reason explaining why anyone was locked in the dark—but it was terrible. She would lie in the corner of her cell, moaning, almost weeping, her knees pulled up to her chin. Every time he passed her cell she would scream and leap at him, clawing at him through the bars. It did not take long for him to realize that he should never, under any circumstance, release her from her cell. It made no difference, however. She was the only prisoner ever to have escaped from her cell.
He watched again, as he did every night, as the prisoners fought over the food that they could not eat. He watched the pushing and the shoving with a feeling of detachment. One by one each of the prisoners gave up as they did every night. The chain reappeared around their ankles and he guided them back to their cells, locking each one inside with the same skeleton key. He finished locking everyone up and began his way back to the main hall. He paused outside the skeleton’s cell. It was curled in the corner weeping.
He continued to the main hall.
Reaching his hidden room at last, he removes his cloak and fell to his knees. The weight of human tire seemed to drag on him as he fought the urge to close his eyes. It was that figure. The figure would haunt him whenever he became so tired that he closed his eyes. The moment his consciousness began to slip, the figure would appear. That figure was one of the only things, if not the only thing that he truly feared. She had done something terrible. What she had done was unknown to him—he did not actually know the reason explaining why anyone was locked in the dark—but it was terrible. She would lie in the corner of her cell, moaning, almost weeping, her knees pulled up to her chin. Every time he passed her cell she would scream and leap at him, clawing at him through the bars. It did not take long for him to realize that he should never, under any circumstance, release her from her cell. It made no difference, however. She was the only prisoner ever to have escaped from her cell.
08 June 2010
Every Day: Part II
He went to his desk and sat down. He stared at the marble swirls of the desk and drifted away mentally. He was tired from the eternity without sleep, but he would not sleep. He could not sleep. After some time of sitting in the dark, staring at the dark, he opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a candle. He lit with the hot, blue flame that lit all of the candles. It gave almost no light, seeming to almost draw in light rather than emit it. He stared into a flame. His eyelids were heavy and he felt his head beginning to slowly sink. He stood abruptly. He needed to get his blood flowing. He needed to wake himself up.
It happened at about the same time every routine when he would make his way through the mines, walking slowly, his hands folded neatly behind his back, inspecting, so to speak, the work of his laborers. Some of the newer laborers would stop and stare, turning back only to find that someone had greedily stolen their picking spot.
He was partially through the mine when a loud clanging sound rang repeatedly through the various halls and chambers that made up his prison fortress. He spun on his heel and walked quickly back to the main hall. A hole had opened in the ceiling and a black stone staircase had been lowered down. A figure was wandering down it—as they often did—looking back up the stairs, thinking there was no way this could be the correct staircase. He walked up to the figure. It was a woman. She was remarkably beautiful, and upon seeing him, she seemed to turn on a sort of charm.
She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, “So what now?”
It seemed like a rather strange way to introduce oneself, especially if the goal was to “get to know someone better.” She let out a gasp of delight as he grabbed her wrist. He walked her quickly down the prisoner’s hallway, her excited giggling fading quickly as she realized what was happening. She screamed as they passed the skeleton figure who clawed after him as they walked by, and by the time they had reached her cell, he was almost literally dragging her across the floor. She cried and screamed and she struggled to get away. He pushed her into the last open cell (there was always a last open cell) and locked the door with the skeleton key. She reached out to him, getting hold of his suit coat and pulled him close.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be released soon enough,” he said softly.
Her grip loosened and he was gone.
It happened at about the same time every routine when he would make his way through the mines, walking slowly, his hands folded neatly behind his back, inspecting, so to speak, the work of his laborers. Some of the newer laborers would stop and stare, turning back only to find that someone had greedily stolen their picking spot.
He was partially through the mine when a loud clanging sound rang repeatedly through the various halls and chambers that made up his prison fortress. He spun on his heel and walked quickly back to the main hall. A hole had opened in the ceiling and a black stone staircase had been lowered down. A figure was wandering down it—as they often did—looking back up the stairs, thinking there was no way this could be the correct staircase. He walked up to the figure. It was a woman. She was remarkably beautiful, and upon seeing him, she seemed to turn on a sort of charm.
She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, “So what now?”
It seemed like a rather strange way to introduce oneself, especially if the goal was to “get to know someone better.” She let out a gasp of delight as he grabbed her wrist. He walked her quickly down the prisoner’s hallway, her excited giggling fading quickly as she realized what was happening. She screamed as they passed the skeleton figure who clawed after him as they walked by, and by the time they had reached her cell, he was almost literally dragging her across the floor. She cried and screamed and she struggled to get away. He pushed her into the last open cell (there was always a last open cell) and locked the door with the skeleton key. She reached out to him, getting hold of his suit coat and pulled him close.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be released soon enough,” he said softly.
Her grip loosened and he was gone.
07 June 2010
Every Day: Part I
The screech that marked the morning snapped him from his depressive trance. The screeches that ensued were worse than the night before. Some prisoners seemed to have some renewed sense of hope that they would find their silver today, other screamed because of the pain the “bell” cause on their ears, others screamed because their neighbors were screaming. He moved quickly across the main hall. He grabbed the chain from the wall just outside of holding-hallway’s arch. Almost all of the prisoners stood with their arms stretched out toward him as though he had not abandoned them in their cells the night before, leaving them with only the darkness to keep them company. He walked to the end of the hall, his ears numb from the screaming and began to unlock one cell door, clap the chain around the prisoner’s ankle, and then move on to the next cell. The chain grew gradually longer as he clapped it around each prisoner.
Losing count of the cells, he came to one without a door. He was confused for only a moment, but the moment was long enough. The skeleton figure flew at him, clawing at him through the gates. He tried to step back, but the thin hand had grabbed his wrist and it pulled him over with all its strength. Reaching under his black cloak, it tore at his bleeding wings. In a flash of silver and blue, the figure was thrown to the back wall of the cell and he, his eyes burning with blue fire, was continuing down the hallway, unlocking, locking, unlocking, and locking again. The prisoners were wild from the excitement; He was just the opposite. He clapped the prisoners into his chain with more ferocity than before, his blood boiling.
Finally finishing, he pulled the chain. The prisoners began their trek out of the hallway and into the main hall. Once the final prisoner was through the door, he yanked the chain. With a loud snap the chain broke free from all of the prisoners, they all cried in pain, and then they began to run towards the small door that led to the “silver” mines. He stood in silence and watched as the prisoners shoved their way through the small door. They were mining for gold and silver that did not exist. Their greed kept them going. They did not question the words of their lord, who was so kind to release them from their cells so they could dig for their key to freedom. After they were all inside, working towards a nonexistent goal, he turned away and walked, slowly as ever, bypassing his throne, to his small, hidden room, where he would wait for the second screech signifying the end of their “work.”
Losing count of the cells, he came to one without a door. He was confused for only a moment, but the moment was long enough. The skeleton figure flew at him, clawing at him through the gates. He tried to step back, but the thin hand had grabbed his wrist and it pulled him over with all its strength. Reaching under his black cloak, it tore at his bleeding wings. In a flash of silver and blue, the figure was thrown to the back wall of the cell and he, his eyes burning with blue fire, was continuing down the hallway, unlocking, locking, unlocking, and locking again. The prisoners were wild from the excitement; He was just the opposite. He clapped the prisoners into his chain with more ferocity than before, his blood boiling.
Finally finishing, he pulled the chain. The prisoners began their trek out of the hallway and into the main hall. Once the final prisoner was through the door, he yanked the chain. With a loud snap the chain broke free from all of the prisoners, they all cried in pain, and then they began to run towards the small door that led to the “silver” mines. He stood in silence and watched as the prisoners shoved their way through the small door. They were mining for gold and silver that did not exist. Their greed kept them going. They did not question the words of their lord, who was so kind to release them from their cells so they could dig for their key to freedom. After they were all inside, working towards a nonexistent goal, he turned away and walked, slowly as ever, bypassing his throne, to his small, hidden room, where he would wait for the second screech signifying the end of their “work.”
06 June 2010
Blakely
"I need to talk to Reverend Harris," Andrew Blakely said quietly to his wife as the congregation began to filter from the church. "I won't be far behind you."
His wife, Josephine, nodded. She left the church and moved rather quickly back to their house. She had left the stew cooking and was somewhat eager to get back. As much as she would love to say that she had listened to every word that the reverend had said during his sermon, her mind had been much more pleasantly occupied. She entered the house and went immediately over to the stew. She lifted the wooden spoon to her mouth, testing the stew. It tasted rather bland. She knew what to do about it, but she wasn't sure it would be such a good idea. Hearing crackling leaves outside, she waited a few minutes. She looked out the window briefly and tossed more crushed leaves into the pot, stirring them vigorously so they dissolved quickly.
"What are you up to over there?"
The voice startled her and she spun to see its owner. Deep down she already knew to whom the voice belonged, but such reactions are instinctual. She would already know in her mind that the man speaking was Andrew before she came to see him face.
He was looking at her curiously. "I wouldn't advise doing that when Reverend Harris is here. With everything going on in Salem, we don't need you acting suspicious."
She did not know how to react to such a comment. "I doubt that Reverend Harris would ever think such a thing, Andrew. I thought you needed to speak with him."
He smiled slightly. "No, I don't think he could." He walked over to his wife, kissing her softly on the cheek. "And yes, but he was speaking with Mr Lawrence and I'll see him tonight. It can wait." He reached down and took a sip of the stew. “You’re a master at the stove. I’m not surprised.” He squeezed her hand, second guessing kissing her a second time. “I suppose I should read some passages for you.” They separated, their hands holding as long as they could manage.
His wife, Josephine, nodded. She left the church and moved rather quickly back to their house. She had left the stew cooking and was somewhat eager to get back. As much as she would love to say that she had listened to every word that the reverend had said during his sermon, her mind had been much more pleasantly occupied. She entered the house and went immediately over to the stew. She lifted the wooden spoon to her mouth, testing the stew. It tasted rather bland. She knew what to do about it, but she wasn't sure it would be such a good idea. Hearing crackling leaves outside, she waited a few minutes. She looked out the window briefly and tossed more crushed leaves into the pot, stirring them vigorously so they dissolved quickly.
"What are you up to over there?"
The voice startled her and she spun to see its owner. Deep down she already knew to whom the voice belonged, but such reactions are instinctual. She would already know in her mind that the man speaking was Andrew before she came to see him face.
He was looking at her curiously. "I wouldn't advise doing that when Reverend Harris is here. With everything going on in Salem, we don't need you acting suspicious."
She did not know how to react to such a comment. "I doubt that Reverend Harris would ever think such a thing, Andrew. I thought you needed to speak with him."
He smiled slightly. "No, I don't think he could." He walked over to his wife, kissing her softly on the cheek. "And yes, but he was speaking with Mr Lawrence and I'll see him tonight. It can wait." He reached down and took a sip of the stew. “You’re a master at the stove. I’m not surprised.” He squeezed her hand, second guessing kissing her a second time. “I suppose I should read some passages for you.” They separated, their hands holding as long as they could manage.
05 June 2010
The Prince Never Sleeps
He collapsed onto the stone slab that served as a bed. He stretched out in the dark, feeling a sense of power sweep over him. Every now and then he would remember that he was a ruler. He was the lord and master of Hell. How many angels could claim that? He turned onto his stomach, letting his black wings fall open on either side of the slab. As he closed his eyes to sleep, he felt nothing but pride.
Her body resembled more of a skeleton than an actual human. Her cheeks were caved in, her eyes sunken; every bone in her body could be seen. The icy water dripped from the top of her cell onto her boney figure. The water’s source was unknown. She let it pour over her until she was just wet enough to slip her arm out of the cell and pick the lock with a bone. The source of the bone was unknown. She opened the cell door just enough that she could slip through. She climbed up the wall like an insect, moving quickly and silently above the cells until she reached the archway. Slipping through archway from the top, she scanned the room for guards—unaware that he and he alone, was the guard of the inescapable prison. She dropped silently to the floor and dashed across the room to the throne, slipping silently into the hidden doorway.
He was sleeping, his wings rising and falling with each unnecessary breath. She crept up to the slab of stone and looked him over. He was a remarkably good looking man. Though he looked a bit famished and slightly dead, his coal colored hair was cut perfectly, and his pale skin created a glorious contrast between his skin and his black hair, black attire and black wings. She stared at the wings in envy. She lifted the sharpened bone above her head and thrust it downward into the back of the sleeping prince. His eyes bolted open and his mouth cried out a silent scream. She dragged the bone through his back, across his wings, snapping the brittle bones within them. He lay in shock as she leaned forward and whispered insults and threats in his ear. She returned to her business, stabbing the immortal Prince of Darkness multiple times, breaking brittle bone after brittle bone in his wings.
After what seemed ages, and very well may have been, she finished. Stepping away from her victim now covered in blood. She smiled at the sight of his body lying limp. It happened in the blink of an eye. He was suddenly behind her, holding her hands tightly behind her back. She struggled against him, but the water on her hands had long since dried and she was unable to escape. He walked her down the hallway as she screeched, ignoring the trail of blood, putting out each of the blue candles as he walked. No one would see him like this.
Measures were taken to ensure her never escaping again. The leak from nowhere was sealed; the door on her cell was removed. The wounds on the prince healed, though his wings remained a shattered mess, constantly dripping blood. He would fold them flat against his back and cover them with a black cloak. As far as the prisoners from then on would know, he had no wings.
Her body resembled more of a skeleton than an actual human. Her cheeks were caved in, her eyes sunken; every bone in her body could be seen. The icy water dripped from the top of her cell onto her boney figure. The water’s source was unknown. She let it pour over her until she was just wet enough to slip her arm out of the cell and pick the lock with a bone. The source of the bone was unknown. She opened the cell door just enough that she could slip through. She climbed up the wall like an insect, moving quickly and silently above the cells until she reached the archway. Slipping through archway from the top, she scanned the room for guards—unaware that he and he alone, was the guard of the inescapable prison. She dropped silently to the floor and dashed across the room to the throne, slipping silently into the hidden doorway.
He was sleeping, his wings rising and falling with each unnecessary breath. She crept up to the slab of stone and looked him over. He was a remarkably good looking man. Though he looked a bit famished and slightly dead, his coal colored hair was cut perfectly, and his pale skin created a glorious contrast between his skin and his black hair, black attire and black wings. She stared at the wings in envy. She lifted the sharpened bone above her head and thrust it downward into the back of the sleeping prince. His eyes bolted open and his mouth cried out a silent scream. She dragged the bone through his back, across his wings, snapping the brittle bones within them. He lay in shock as she leaned forward and whispered insults and threats in his ear. She returned to her business, stabbing the immortal Prince of Darkness multiple times, breaking brittle bone after brittle bone in his wings.
After what seemed ages, and very well may have been, she finished. Stepping away from her victim now covered in blood. She smiled at the sight of his body lying limp. It happened in the blink of an eye. He was suddenly behind her, holding her hands tightly behind her back. She struggled against him, but the water on her hands had long since dried and she was unable to escape. He walked her down the hallway as she screeched, ignoring the trail of blood, putting out each of the blue candles as he walked. No one would see him like this.
Measures were taken to ensure her never escaping again. The leak from nowhere was sealed; the door on her cell was removed. The wounds on the prince healed, though his wings remained a shattered mess, constantly dripping blood. He would fold them flat against his back and cover them with a black cloak. As far as the prisoners from then on would know, he had no wings.
04 June 2010
Notes on Loneliness
Loneliness is possibly the worst feeling I have ever felt. It is easily the hardest thing to deal with- especially when the key to dealing with it is at the time living some 762 miles away and in a different time zone.
Honestly, I don’t know how men do it. They always have to be tough and independent. To admit loneliness for a man is like admitting that you’re homosexual. In other words, it could be worse, but it still sucks, and your friends give you funny looks. I could be wrong, but I’ve always been under the impression that men don’t confide in each other the way that women do. Men always seem to have a sort of pent up anger inside of them that they can’t get out. Maybe it’s because they’re lonely and they can never admit it.
The hardest thing about loneliness, I found, was admitting it to me. It was an acknowledgment of the hole inside of me- the hole that I could not fill. And perhaps the strangest thing about loneliness was that even after I admitted my loneliness to my closest friends, even after they promised me that all would be well and that I wouldn’t be alone forever, I still felt alone. I had been reassured that I wasn’t alone by the simple fact that my friends cared enough to talk with me. Yet still I felt alone.
Loneliness is hard to describe, probably due to the fact that I was never actually alone when I felt the feeling most acutely. I always had my roommate, my three best girl friends and a guy friend. My sisters were not far away, and my mother was always up for a phone conversation. This was how I discovered that there is one cure for loneliness. The cure may change over time, but at any given moment, there is only ever a single cure. That single cure is a person.
I think loneliness is also due to jealousy. I hate to admit that I have felt jealousy towards my friends, but to claim anything different would simply be a lie. Each of my friends had someone they could turn to who was fairly nearby. My cure was half-way across the nation, living an hour ahead of me, and busy beyond belief. In reality, the loneliness didn’t hit me until I realized the directions we were heading in. I realized that with the work schedule my cure was leaning towards, they would have almost no time at all to talk with me. I realized with a pained revelation that I was going to lose them.
Perhaps loneliness, while also being that empty feeling in the pit of your stomach that you somehow know is not hunger, is also a fear. It is a fear that things will never be how they used to be. “No matter how we try, we can’t go back,” as Margaret Hale said in BBC’s version of North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. Loneliness is a sort of ache. It’s an ache of heart, body and mind. I think loneliness and depression, as they do not go hand in hand, are often confused with each other. My sister, unaware of everything that was going in my life at the time, knowing only the fact that I didn’t like the school I was attending, diagnosed me with depression. Not serious depression, of course, but depression nonetheless. At that point, I would not say that I was lonely. The loneliness was kind enough to join me later in the year- about two and a half weeks later, to be precise.
Loneliness can be conquered to a point. It can be ignored, pushed aside by other work. It can be channeled into more useful things- such as stories that all of your friends say will be published, but deep down you know they never will, because you don’t have the courage to do it. Yes, loneliness can be pondered over and deeply analyzed like this, but personally I would not advise this method. Thinking too much on any given topic had proven to have very negative side effects- especially if you’re as bitter a person as I am. Also, listening to sad music is probably not the best solution. The best advice I can give is that you find your cure. Hopefully they will live in the same time zone as you. If not, do your best with what you can. Fight through every three days and be saved by them just before it all comes crashing down.
Be careful where you step, young one. The water is only shallow for so long.
Honestly, I don’t know how men do it. They always have to be tough and independent. To admit loneliness for a man is like admitting that you’re homosexual. In other words, it could be worse, but it still sucks, and your friends give you funny looks. I could be wrong, but I’ve always been under the impression that men don’t confide in each other the way that women do. Men always seem to have a sort of pent up anger inside of them that they can’t get out. Maybe it’s because they’re lonely and they can never admit it.
The hardest thing about loneliness, I found, was admitting it to me. It was an acknowledgment of the hole inside of me- the hole that I could not fill. And perhaps the strangest thing about loneliness was that even after I admitted my loneliness to my closest friends, even after they promised me that all would be well and that I wouldn’t be alone forever, I still felt alone. I had been reassured that I wasn’t alone by the simple fact that my friends cared enough to talk with me. Yet still I felt alone.
Loneliness is hard to describe, probably due to the fact that I was never actually alone when I felt the feeling most acutely. I always had my roommate, my three best girl friends and a guy friend. My sisters were not far away, and my mother was always up for a phone conversation. This was how I discovered that there is one cure for loneliness. The cure may change over time, but at any given moment, there is only ever a single cure. That single cure is a person.
I think loneliness is also due to jealousy. I hate to admit that I have felt jealousy towards my friends, but to claim anything different would simply be a lie. Each of my friends had someone they could turn to who was fairly nearby. My cure was half-way across the nation, living an hour ahead of me, and busy beyond belief. In reality, the loneliness didn’t hit me until I realized the directions we were heading in. I realized that with the work schedule my cure was leaning towards, they would have almost no time at all to talk with me. I realized with a pained revelation that I was going to lose them.
Perhaps loneliness, while also being that empty feeling in the pit of your stomach that you somehow know is not hunger, is also a fear. It is a fear that things will never be how they used to be. “No matter how we try, we can’t go back,” as Margaret Hale said in BBC’s version of North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. Loneliness is a sort of ache. It’s an ache of heart, body and mind. I think loneliness and depression, as they do not go hand in hand, are often confused with each other. My sister, unaware of everything that was going in my life at the time, knowing only the fact that I didn’t like the school I was attending, diagnosed me with depression. Not serious depression, of course, but depression nonetheless. At that point, I would not say that I was lonely. The loneliness was kind enough to join me later in the year- about two and a half weeks later, to be precise.
Loneliness can be conquered to a point. It can be ignored, pushed aside by other work. It can be channeled into more useful things- such as stories that all of your friends say will be published, but deep down you know they never will, because you don’t have the courage to do it. Yes, loneliness can be pondered over and deeply analyzed like this, but personally I would not advise this method. Thinking too much on any given topic had proven to have very negative side effects- especially if you’re as bitter a person as I am. Also, listening to sad music is probably not the best solution. The best advice I can give is that you find your cure. Hopefully they will live in the same time zone as you. If not, do your best with what you can. Fight through every three days and be saved by them just before it all comes crashing down.
Be careful where you step, young one. The water is only shallow for so long.
03 June 2010
October
Louisa sat up quickly. Something had woken her, but she hardly knew what. A crack and a thud rang through the morning air. It sounded as though it were right beside her. There was little doubt in her mind as to the cause of the sound. She climbed out of bed quickly, put on her shoes and grabbed the broom as she rushed out the door. There was a group of raccoons that seemed insistent on getting into her house through the wall. They had been coming back day and night, throwing things at the wall, scratching the wall, and everything else of the sort. She had had enough. She walked quickly around the house, holding the broom tightly in her hand. She came around the corner to the back side of the house and say William Clay standing at the old stump, chopping wood.
She froze. "Mr. Clay."
He looked up. "Miss Carpenter, good morning." There was a moment of silence. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you. The wind shifted last night; I think it's going to get very cold very quickly now, and I wanted to get you some fire wood."
He seemed to realize suddenly that she was standing before him wearing only her nightgown and shoes, her hair falling over her shoulders and being blown slightly by the light breeze. She was, by the standards of their society, as good as naked. She remained frozen before him in disbelief. She had had no intention of being seen by anyone but the raccoons that apparently were not present. William moved quickly, removing his cloak and handing it to her, his eyes turned away. He heard the sound of footsteps and, knowing that she was no longer there, dropped his arm to his side, his eyes looking into the pale yellowish green grass.
She froze. "Mr. Clay."
He looked up. "Miss Carpenter, good morning." There was a moment of silence. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you. The wind shifted last night; I think it's going to get very cold very quickly now, and I wanted to get you some fire wood."
He seemed to realize suddenly that she was standing before him wearing only her nightgown and shoes, her hair falling over her shoulders and being blown slightly by the light breeze. She was, by the standards of their society, as good as naked. She remained frozen before him in disbelief. She had had no intention of being seen by anyone but the raccoons that apparently were not present. William moved quickly, removing his cloak and handing it to her, his eyes turned away. He heard the sound of footsteps and, knowing that she was no longer there, dropped his arm to his side, his eyes looking into the pale yellowish green grass.
02 June 2010
Christina Harris
She walked slowly back to their house in the woods. Spring was just beginning to blossom, despite the thin layer of frozen precipitant covering the ground. The smell of pollen could be smelled through the rainy dew with each soft cool breeze. There was little doubt in her mind that there would be a storm later in the day. When she was sure she was out of sight, she removed her bonnet. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined herself back in Pennsylvania. She continued on her way to the house, her holding in her hand and simple wooden rosary. She brought it with her to every service, holding it tightly and in the folds of her skirt so it would not be seen by anyone sitting nearby.
Entering the small wooden house, she walked over to the corner table where the family bible sat on a stand, open to that day's scripture passage, and placed the rosary behind it. It could not be seen, really, unless someone was looking for it. She walked up the steps leading to the very small second story and sat down on the bed, yawning. She was tired more from boredom than from lack of rest. She looked out the window at the forest outside, waiting for Charles to return home. It was a miracle she had convinced Charles to accept the dinner invitation from the Blakely's. She did not see it as inappropriate. She promised they would discuss God, making the dinner itself also devoted to Him. Clearly it wasn't too much of a problem if the Blakely's had invited them in the first place.
Charles was so up tight about these things.
Entering the small wooden house, she walked over to the corner table where the family bible sat on a stand, open to that day's scripture passage, and placed the rosary behind it. It could not be seen, really, unless someone was looking for it. She walked up the steps leading to the very small second story and sat down on the bed, yawning. She was tired more from boredom than from lack of rest. She looked out the window at the forest outside, waiting for Charles to return home. It was a miracle she had convinced Charles to accept the dinner invitation from the Blakely's. She did not see it as inappropriate. She promised they would discuss God, making the dinner itself also devoted to Him. Clearly it wasn't too much of a problem if the Blakely's had invited them in the first place.
Charles was so up tight about these things.
01 June 2010
The Reverend
Charles stood in front of the congregation giving his sermon. This was his favorite part of the service. He loved to look out at everyone in the congregation. The adults would all watch intently, except for the few whose eyes were slightly glazed—they would spend of the rest of the day begging forgiveness whether he told them to or not. The children would sit quietly, their eyes drifting from one spot on the back wall to another, trying desperately to entertain themselves without getting in some sort of trouble. Every now and then a sound would radiate through the silence of the congregation. Heads would not move, but eyes would shift. Movement would be seen rarely, usually a mother or father hitting their son to be quiet as he tried to whisper the name of the young girl in front of him without notice. He would not bother to deny that he did not take his pastoral duties as seriously as many of the other reverends in the Puritan church. This fact did seem to distress a few of the older members of the church, but only a few. The rest seemed somewhat relieved to have a reverend who was not forcing things down their throats every sermon. Being a rather soft spoken man with an even softer heart, Reverend Charles Harris felt no need to truly scold someone unless they had truly done something wrong. Having lived in Hawley Village his entire life, he could contest to the faith, good will and honesty of any man there. Even though born sinners, he has little doubt that every person in the village held a place in God’s city. As he finished his sermon he looked finally at Christina, as he often did, almost as though searching for approval. She sat in the front row alone, staring blankly into the wood before her.
Slowly people stood to leave, moving silently out of the church, waiting until they were down the steps to scold their children for being so noisy. Charles went into the back room to remove his robes while Christina remained in the front pew waiting. She ignored the glances of the other women. If she ever heard her name spoken in conversation, she attributed it to paranoia and convinced herself she was no t hearing it at all. After all, Puritans don’t gossip. Relief flowed through her when the door to the back room finally opened and her husband emerged. She saw his eyes following some of the town’s members as he walked toward her, the smile in his eyes gone. He sat beside her.
“Christina—” he began just above a whisper.
She closed her eyes, bowing her head.
“I need to go see the Lawrence family before we leave for Andrew Blakely’s home. I’ll be home relatively soon.” He stood and left her sitting quietly in the pew, alone once again.
Slowly people stood to leave, moving silently out of the church, waiting until they were down the steps to scold their children for being so noisy. Charles went into the back room to remove his robes while Christina remained in the front pew waiting. She ignored the glances of the other women. If she ever heard her name spoken in conversation, she attributed it to paranoia and convinced herself she was no t hearing it at all. After all, Puritans don’t gossip. Relief flowed through her when the door to the back room finally opened and her husband emerged. She saw his eyes following some of the town’s members as he walked toward her, the smile in his eyes gone. He sat beside her.
“Christina—” he began just above a whisper.
She closed her eyes, bowing her head.
“I need to go see the Lawrence family before we leave for Andrew Blakely’s home. I’ll be home relatively soon.” He stood and left her sitting quietly in the pew, alone once again.
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