tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35713294290300140452024-03-08T03:38:08.327-08:00S.R. Conley's One Page Fiction BlogWelcome, this is my one page fiction blog. Basically, I'm going to write one page stories or so, everyday, to keep my creative juices flowing. So I hope you enjoy them. Some will be better than others.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-67659616903186921182018-06-13T00:41:00.003-07:002018-06-13T00:41:56.126-07:00Gentle RelectionToo many times, with too little effort, I found myself in the bed that wasn't mine. The danger of love is that everyone wants it. Like others, I also don't know what to do with it when I find it.<br />
<br />
I have explored being alone, though my psyche doesn't provide for as much introversion as I would like. And so, like a buffoon, I put on the sharp looking self that provides a gracious smile and the simple joke. And I woo.<br />
<br />
Or at least, I used to. And, assuredly as I am the same man I have been since I was a boy. I will be wooing again soon.<br />
<br />
Though perhaps, not like before.<br />
<br />
It has been five years since I allowed my heart to feel that complete trust. Not just because the woman that I loved was wonderful and it's hard to find. But because it was my fault that I lost her, and let her go, and gave no real fight to get her back.<br />
<br />
And if I let myself truly feel that for another, the fear is that I would lose the fight for her. And fighting for love is something that I am no good at.<br />
<br />
A dark sadness hits, but hope remains. Trusting that these fears are unjust, these dreams will come true. That though I am older, I am very young. I will always be young, eager, ambitious and kind. And I have now also become older, wiser, fearless and devout to myself.<br />
<br />
A lighter sadness fulfills me most days now. A loss for loves not reached fully to their greatness, a hope for all those loves to have happiness, truly, without me. And despite the grief that it causes me. I look forward to the newest adventure.<br />
<br />
One where I can bravely fight, for my own future, in all things. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-20386293518996194362013-09-07T23:05:00.001-07:002013-09-07T23:05:04.238-07:00To Control the Past<div class="post_body">
I’ve come to the conclusion that existential crises, tend
to happen to me only when I want to control time. When I want to go
further into the future, or more often, when I want to control the past.<br />
I’ve also realized that I go through existential crises whenever in a
time of large change, specifically right now, is a change that leads to
uncertainty in every aspect of my life.<br />
Change makes me want to control time, and my inability to do so, makes me suffer a pretty severe existential crisis.<br />
Feels better writing it down, since that’s what I should always be
doing, more creatively I admit, but hey, it’s been a long couple of
months for me.<br />
The problem that I get when I have an existential crisis, and feel a
need to control time, is that I keep on going further and further back
into my life, and then I take a metaphorical tire iron to myself,
beating the shit out of me for every mistake, past up opportunity, lie,
theft, or broken heart(mine included) that I’ve left behind.<br />
I know that I shouldn’t do that. I’ve never actually done anything
all that bad. I have some minor consequences in my life that make it
harder for me to think that I can accomplish the goals that I have set
for myself in my life. I’m aware that I am not alone in this, the trick
isn’t to overcome it, I think that that comes later. In a sense, I wish
to embrace it, to allow my past to always be a part of me now, accept
it, and then see if with that acceptance, I can use my past as a tool to
overcome that which is blocking me. And I believe the thing that is
blocking me, is fear of the uncertain future that lays ahead.<br />
My mind uses the past on me, as a cheap justification for that fear.<br />
I can’t be with people that I once loved. I can’t live where I once
lived. I can live where I live now, I can do what I need to do for
myself.<br />
I’m going to hurt people along the way. At points I may lie, I may
cheat, I may steal. I don’t know. I’m capable of all things human.<br />
Because that’s what I am.<br />
Human.<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-91918874946727220412013-07-20T16:25:00.001-07:002013-07-20T16:25:04.679-07:00Tickets to the Rain
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There was a rain, it was falling all
over the city. And someone was selling tickets to it. And there was a
line up that stretched for blocks, in the rain, for people to buy
tickets.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
People were waiting in line, patiently
miserable as they were soaked up in the rain, because there was a
sign all along the line that said in big, bold letters:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>NO UMBRELLAS</b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">So,
in the line, that was in the rain, there was not one umbrella. And
people waited for hours, for tickets to the rain.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> Joel
had been waiting for two and a half hours in the rain, and he was
only about ten or fifteen minutes before he could buy his ticket. He
was actually going to buy about three or four and go through the line
and scalp the tickets for people that did not want to wait as long as
he had for tickets to the rain.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> He
also could not wait to receive his own ticket to the rain. He was
dreaming about it for the past month, as he knew most people had
been. He knew that the line would be immense and he got up especially
early to buy his ticket. But it seemed as if most of the city was
thinking the exact same thing that he was. And he had arrived too
late, and the line, had already formed a long expansive line, full of
soaked sleeping bags, and soaked pillows. Because there was a giant
sign that said in big, bold letters:</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>NO TENTS, NO
TARPS</b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Underneath each sign, there was a warning, in smaller lettering that
said:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Any violators
will not be sold a ticket.</i></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Conversation
in the line was limited, in the downpour, to whispers about how much
this was a cold, godawful rain. How they were miserable because of
the rain, and how they couldn't wait to get their ticket to it.
Usually it would be one person saying this, and then all those in ear
shot would nod up and down in agreement. </span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">Joel agreed with them, he was on
of the ones that nodded his head up and down in agreement, he was
never one of the ones to start a whisper. He was never one of the
ones to start anything.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Joel
was a small man, in stature, in health, in self-respect. He was
small. He had a cough that never went away, and despite being so
short, he still had a hunch that made him even smaller. He knew that
he should stand tall, but after the forty years of hunching down, he
would have to go see a specialist to straighten his back. He couldn't
afford a specialist. </span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> He
couldn't afford one of those specialists because his self-respect was
so small. And in order to keep it small, he would drink a lot of
alcohol. He would drink it at bars to spend more money, and he would
drink in bars so that people would have the opportunity to put him
down. Which was easy, since in every way he was already so low to the
ground.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> That's
why he was two and half hours late that morning for the line. He
wanted to get up exactly two and half hours earlier, so that he could
be one of the first in line.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">
</span><i>If only I hadn't gotten drunk, I could have been here two
and half hours earlier, and I wouldn't have had to wait so long in
line!</i></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">For
the entire time that he waited in line, that's all that he could
think. That and how much he couldn't wait to get his ticket. He also
couldn't wait to buy two or three, to make a couple extra bucks. He
needed some money, he had spent too much at the bar last night, and
now no longer had enough money to buy cigarettes. His hunch was
extravagantly drooping in the rain because of all of this.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> A
couple of other people had been through the line in the past little
bit, scalping tickets to people, for an extra fifty bucks. He figured
that when he got his, he would only charge forty. That way people
would not only buy them, but other people would hear that he was
charging less, and think well of him for doing so.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> He
could see the booth now. A small table set up on the street, the
police officers were guarding the man behind the table. He had a hat
on, and a bright white tuxedo on. He was tanned and had a bright
white smile that he gave to everyone who was buying tickets from him.
He wasn't wet at all, because the table had a tarp over it. </span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Finally,
Joel arrived to the front of the line. The police officers asked him
for his identification, and he gave it them. Then they patted him
down and searched his bag. They were stern and rude with him. They
asked him what he was doing with a lighter, and when he responded by
saying that he smoked. They asked him for his cigarettes, and when he
didn't have any. They took his lighter from him.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Once
Joel was there, the man in the hat and tuxedo extended his hand
dramatically to him.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Good
day sir, in fact, great day! Sir. What is your name?” The bright
white smile, hurt Joel's eyes as if it he were looking directly at
the sun.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Joel.”
He mumbled.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “How
many tickets Mister?”</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Three?”</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Three?
But they're only one of you!” He eyed him with a sarcastic
expression.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “My...sister,
and her daughter, didn't want to wait in line.”</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Are
they sick?”</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Yes?”
He said as if it were a question, it was a long and high pitched
tone.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Well,
okay then. Six hundred dollars then Mister.”</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Okay”
And he gave the man six hundred dollars.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “What?
No tip?” The man burst out laughing. Handing him three envelopes.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Um”</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Next!”
Exclaimed the man.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Joel
was rushed off back into the rain. He was exceedingly happy. He ran
to the back of the line, and immediately sold two of his tickets.
Those around him thought kind things about the little man that didn't
charge as much as he could have.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> As
Joel was walking in the rain, he had a small skip in his step. He
pulled out the envelope and looked at his ticket, it had large bold
printing:</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-style: normal;">ONE
TICKET TO ENJOY THE RAIN</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And he did.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-43765579288759711422013-05-28T12:21:00.000-07:002013-05-28T12:21:01.176-07:00I DID IT! www.twentyfourthousandwords.blogspot.comYou know what I did? I wrote 24 completely unique stories, all at least 1000 words in 24 hours!<br />
<br />
I didn't pre write anything, I had no idea what I was going to write until I was writing it, and I finished with 4 minutes to spare!<br />
<br />
Check it out at www.twentyfourthousandwords.blogspot.com<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-22394374272675658122013-05-21T23:31:00.004-07:002013-05-21T23:31:46.801-07:00Apology, and Announcement I've been away for a while. I don't really know why, I don't have an answer to why I stopped for a bit, other than I did. And that's that. And I'm sorry if you were reading each one of my stories each day faithfully. I hope I don't have too many nameless, faceless readers in my life, that get a lot from these stories. I also hope that I do. Because, well, I want to be famous as a writer. Not overtly famous. I want to make enough money each year to get by, solely from writing. If you happen to read these and want me to write for you. Feel free to hire me. I am available, as it were.<br />
<br />
There is a reason that I write this stuff, I love stories, I like to dig through experience and find things worth sharing, stories that have subtle and obvious metaphor, to allow for you to connect to. Because, in a sense, I connect to them as I write them. I like that I can connect to you, even if there is just one or two of you out there. I thank you, no matter what we are connected, no matter what we are friends.<br />
<br />
I have a long road ahead of me, trying to figure out a story that has legs enough to complete a novel. Finding the time and the drive to do so as well. I hope that you are patient and faithful with me. I hope that you enjoy what I have to share.<br />
<br />
I will be do something extreme in the next couple of days. Take it as my apology to any of my followers. I know that it is an apology for letting myself down.<br />
<br />
I'm going to write twenty four, two page short stories, single spaced. In twenty four hours. And I'm going to film it. And then I'm going to condense that footage into a little documentary for all to see on the internet. Tell your friends. And here are the rules that I will be following.<br />
<br />
No one can help me write, or edit them.<br />
<br />
If I post one that doesn't quite fit the two page marker, it doesn't count. More specifically, that's one thousand words as a minimum. For each story.<br />
<br />
If I post one that exceeds the two pages. Good for me. Still counts.<br />
<br />
I am not allowed to write anything in advance. To be honest it will be impossible not to have one or two ideas that are sitting in my head. But they will not be on paper or document in advance, and I don't have even near to twenty four, so give me a break on that one. This will be verified by the filming and that I have friends that will be watching me very closely the whole time. <br />
<br />
I will start at 8am on Monday, June 27th 2013. And I have until Tuesday, June 28th 2013.<br />
<br />
This challenge is aptly named. <i><b>Twenty Four Thousand. </b></i><br />
<br />
Thank you for your time.<br />
<br />
S.R. Conley<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-7392486456725192312013-04-28T15:22:00.001-07:002013-04-28T15:22:52.856-07:00Take Care of This Tale
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Take care of my tale for me. I shan't
be able to tell it past this point. I am a lost man, and I am running
out of the time to care for it.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I lived a full life, a life that can be
summed up in a page is a full life to some, and it is a full life to
me. I have no wisdom, for I am not wise. Wisdom was not a path that I
searched for or took. I was frivolous in my activities, and as such,
most of them are not worth recounting. I would not waste my time in
remembering them, nor would I waste yours in forcing you to take what
precious time you have, in listening.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I was a young boy, I imagined
quite a bit, I would play games of great imagination. My father was
going to grow a garden and bought a giant pile of soil and put it in
our front driveway. For weeks as the landscaping to prepare for the
dirt to be laid out into a garden. The mound simply sat there. To a
child of five years old. That pile was a mountain. It is with a fond
memory that I share what we did with this pile of dirt. I had a
plastic sword, and many a toy gun. All of which I buried in the pile.
And a large group of us children would start at the other end of the
street and run towards it and dig for our weapons, and then we would
have a great battle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The sword would be at the top. The
sword was the most powerful weapon of them all. The child who had the
sword was immune to all other weapons except for a knife that was
buried in the pile as well. Inevitably, most times, the child with
the sword would win. On occasion, however, the child with the knife,
would perhaps have the skill to overcome the sword and strike down
the child with the most powerful weapon. In that case, the child with
the knife would have both weapons, and would become the ruler of that
round of play. On a tiny mound of dirt, five year old children earned
glory.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All my life I have spent each day,
experiencing all that I could to experience. I have had many lovers,
and spent many a night downing fine wines and ales from all over the
world. I have learned languages and ate all types of meals designed
by each and all culture of mankind. I have played all sport, board
game, video game that was available to be played.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My whole life, I treated as if it was a
game.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But now, I as tell this tale of my
adventures, all I can think of is how amazing it would be to spend
what remains of my measly savings on a pile of dirt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Save, I don't think I have any friends
to play with.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-54863911078987445962013-04-27T17:47:00.000-07:002013-04-27T17:47:05.184-07:00With the Sun on Her Back
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With the sun on her back. She made the
decision. It wasn't a like a spark of lightning, it wasn't a moment
that she would remember for the rest of her life. It was a soft,
subtle decision, to make a decisive action. That would change her,
and the rest of her life forever. In the future though, when people
asked her what made her this way. She would look back, and be
completely unable to remember.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There is a force, inside of every human
being, that drives us, to be who we are, no matter what, despite
ourselves. The decision that she made, with the sun on her back,
facing out over the ocean, was to forever embrace that force. To
never deny it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She thought to herself. <i>From now on,
whenever I am confronted with doubt. I will ask myself, 'What would I
do? And then I will act accordingly, and deal with whatever comes my
way.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She went home. She
saw her husband, gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him that she
was leaving. It wasn't him, well, it was kind of him. But it was her
fault, she had never loved him. She had lied. She was sorry. There
was a lot wrong with him, and there was a lot wrong with her. It
wasn't that. It was just that sometimes, you don't love somebody.
It's okay.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She went to an ATM
and took out all of her money from each account, of which there were
many. Loaded them up in her backpack. Walked to the airport and
bought a ticket to Europe.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
No one from her old
life ever saw her again. She was always okay with that. She would
say.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>No one from my old life knew me
anyways.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-44944302428013738112013-04-27T17:09:00.000-07:002013-04-27T17:09:17.821-07:00Sacrifice.Sacrifice is an abstract concept. And, as a concept, it's helpful to imagine it as some type of road. A path of sacrifice, can lead to values, and lessons, that would be otherwise, unattainable. Nobility, can be earned, through a path of sacrifice. Honor, and self respect may be acquired. The longer, the path of sacrifice is, the more there is to be received in the end.<br />
<br />
There's a catch though. Although you can hope, for the acquisition of these lessons and values. It's not guaranteed. In fact. The whole notion of abstract paths is a lie. Life isn't a road. It's life. Sacrifice can be required, sure, but there's not much gained through it. That's the point of sacrifice. To lose something, to give to another and to receive nothing in return. Perhaps, you can gain some sense of satisfaction, or maybe somebody will be paying attention and congratulate you. If you're lucky.<br />
<br />
This is what is going through my mind when we realized that the plane was going down. Sure, I mean, you always think to yourself <i>'women and children first'</i>. However, in practice? It's a bit more difficult than that. I start thinking to myself.<i> Five parachutes. Twenty passengers. Ten of which are women and children. </i><br />
<br />
I think they used to do the whole women and children first thing to keep on with the survival of the tribe or race or species. All things of which, I personally feel no allegiance to. Time is running out here. People are starting to panic. I'm not the pilot, I'm not responsible for this. I'm not going to die so that some complete strangers live. Am I?<br />
<br />
Everything that I've ever seen, read or heard on this subject matter, is telling me, as a man, that I need to let them live, and allow myself to die. That's what I've been told. One of the kids might cure cancer or something. I'm not going to do that. My life is expendable, to save them.<br />
<br />
Is it though? Would they even learn my <i>name? </i>They don't look like the kind of people that would learn my name. Besides, what the fuck is my name? My name isn't breathing in air, enjoying a cool wind in the sun. My name isn't alive. I am alive. I want to stay alive.<br />
<br />
Why women first anyway? Isn't that kind of sexist? Are they more required than me? Aren't we all supposed to be equal? Kids sure, they're young. But the world has more women than it does men. So what the hell, right?<br />
<br />
The pilots are putting on parachutes, children are crying. Men and women are screaming. I'm right beside a parachute. I could grab it and put it on and be free and alive.<br />
<br />
Here's one thing that they always forget to tell you about sacrifice.<br />
<br />
It's a choice.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-31544324522581602072013-04-26T13:26:00.000-07:002013-04-26T13:26:50.484-07:00The Boy.It took us a while to get to this point. We traveled long, we traveled far. We made sacrifices. We lost more than we gained. Finally, we were there. We made it. Our travels had been worth it. For we were there. And the old man, was going to give us something that we needed, to make our lives better. We looked at each other with smiles on our face and waited for him to say something.<br />
<br />
We were in his cabin, his cabin was confusing, because it wasn't nice at all. In any way, not even in an old wise way. There was a shocking amount of underwear hanging around. There were plates with molding food on them, and a lot of flies and other bugs, of types I had never seen, hanging around his place. He was dressed in a pink housecoat. Or at least, the patches that weren't brown from stains whose origins I choose not to speculate, were pink.<br />
<br />
He took out a box. The box was filled with cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it with a match. And he sat in a old brown chair. We could see his junk hanging out. It was hard not to look. Then finally, after some scratching and adjusting. He spoke:<br />
<br />
"I have a constant vision in my mind that haunts me. There is a boy, and he has long sandy hair, and a t-shirt and shorts on. He's caught in some type of storm. And, in truth, I do not know what kind of storm. The backround of my vision is an unnatural white. He's clutching his breast to a pole. He's miserable and alone. His hair looks fantastic in the wind. And that's all I see. Whenever I close my eyes, or if I just get lost in thought, this image comes to me over and over. I don't know what it means."<br />
<br />
Then he politely asked us to leave.<br />
<br />
We assumed that we wasted our time. That there was no wisdom there. We thought maybe we got the wrong cabin. He had just wasted our time.<br />
<br />
Years later, my travel companion, whom I had not spoken to in as much time. Called me.<br />
<br />
"Hey."<br />
<br />
"Hi?"<br />
<br />
"I was just wondering."<br />
<br />
"Yeah?"<br />
<br />
"When you close your eyes now. Or get lost in thought"<br />
<br />"I see the boy."<br />
<br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-77986986823006796242013-04-26T12:59:00.001-07:002013-04-26T12:59:33.270-07:00Hate.There was so much hate in the air, it was hard to breathe.<br />
<br />
Someone was manipulating someone, someone was accusing someone of something. Someone was purposefully doing it, while being completely unaware at how horrible the behavior was. Someone was so overcome with hate, anger and fear. That they didn't know that everyone around them was trying to love them. So she deemed the love that they gave her, inadequate and empty.<br />
<br />
She thought that they were doing to her, what she was doing to them. When people are blinded by their hate, anger and fear, they only see themselves. When someone was kind, she waited for the catch, when none presented itself. She made one. She would spend days of manipulation in order to create one. She would make something out of nothing. Or she would take love, and talk about how selfish it is. Because, love makes you feel good.<br />
<br />
So we're all hypocrites.<br />
<br />
This writer wishes this was fiction. This writer wishes that this was just one person.<br />
<br />
It's not just one person.<br />
<br />
He hated himself so much, that there was no comprehension that he had value. That his value was not as quantifiable as others. That his value was his smile, his laughter and his joy. He didn't know his value because he never learned to express those things. Hate can lead to something that feels like power.<br />
<br />
Hate is not a power, it's a force. It's a force that lives in all of us, that leads to an action of negative value. All actions of negative are pointless, because they go backwards instead of forward. They move against the goodness of the world. The actions of hate lead to more hate, hate has no point. So the actions are pointless.<br />
<br />
That's why they hate, they are afraid of having a point. So they make sure that they don't. They hate. Hate keeps life, and lives pointless.<br />
<br />
That's as far as this writer can understand it. That's as far as this writer is willing to try.<br />
<br />
It's impossible to write too much about hate it seems. Since it's pointless, no matter what, whenever one tries to write about it. There is a realization that you're writing about nothing. There is no point. It's just hate. It's a waste of time.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-51141305494636484492013-04-24T10:44:00.000-07:002013-04-24T10:44:13.861-07:00Pink Elephants. A memory." I was reading something the other day, and they found an actual <i>pink elephant</i>!"<br />
<br />
"No they didn't!"<br />
<br />
"Yes they did! I read it in a magazine!"<br />
<br />
"Which one?"<br />
<br />
"Cosmo!"<br />
<br />
I was clearly lying, but I was ten years old. So it was okay. I don't think that counts as a white lie, or a bad lie. Simply, a stupid lie. Serving no purpose, other than an exploration of the boundaries of what you can get away with in conversation.<br />
<br />
I'm better at it now. But still, that kid had to go home and ask his mom if she read that there was a pink elephant is Cosmopolitan Magazine. That must have been a great talk for his mom.<br />
<br />
"Mom, is it true they found a pink elephant?"<br />
<br />
"No, who told you that honey? Pink elephants don't exist."<br />
<br />
"A kid a school said he read it in Cosmo."<br />
<br />
"They don't write about pink elephants in Cosmo honey."<br />
<br />
"Oh, okay... Mom?"<br />
<br />
"Yes?"<br />
<br />
"What <i>do </i>they write about in Cosmo?"<br />
<br />
Ha! I'm picturing the look on her face. Amazing.<br />
<br />
I guess now you know what kind of kid I was. I miss those kinds of lies. The lies of adulthood tend to be so serious and believable.<br />
<br />
Hard to navigate sometimes. You know?<br />
<br />
I read somewhere recently that somebody hacked into a news network and reported a couple of explosions at the White House, where the President lives. It actually affected the stock market for the day.<br />
<br />
The thing that I don't understand about it is; if you have the power to hack into a news network and report fake news. Why choose something something so horrible? I get that you're probably a special kind of asshole that probably has issues beyond my own understanding. But imagine the mass hysteria if CNN had reported the discovery of a pink elephant.<br />
<br />
That probably would have stock market too. <br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-14314173715429845092013-04-22T01:24:00.002-07:002013-04-22T01:24:25.257-07:00What I am.<br />
It's dark outside, because it is night time.<br />
<br />
There is a chill to the night, but it does not bother me.<br />
<br />
There is no wind.<br />
<br />
I see shadows moving as I walk under the street lamp. The outline of a body.<br />
<br />
As I continue to walk the shadow gets longer and longer, the darkness of it fades.<br />
<br />
Slowly into nothingness.<br />
<br />
Then, near the shoes, a new shadow begins. The shadow starts off so dark it seems alive.<br />
<br />
Then it fades again, only to have a new one take its place.<br />
<br />
From my sight, I can relate more of myself to the shadow, than I do to myself.<br />
<br />
To me, a creature is moving along this street. Of which, I have no relation.<br />
<br />
I am a glimpse of life. Only for a moment. Until I fade away.<br />
<br />
I am not the creature.<br />
<br />
The creature keeps moving, despite me, forcing me to move on.<br />
<br />
To fade away and be replaced.<br />
<br />
I don't have enough time, the creature is moving too fast.<br />
<br />
But as I dissipate. I know what I am.<br />
<br />
I am a shadow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-58413020318098525892013-04-20T18:28:00.000-07:002013-04-24T13:02:11.420-07:00The Way of Things. In a small town in the north, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, and people will gather, and share in conversation what it is that they are looking forward to in their lives. Expecting parents will relax and look forward to the joy that will soon be in their lives. Children already with them, will run and play outside, imagining new worlds and dreams, never imagined before. New loves and old loves, will feel at peace with each other, refreshed and excited for the unknown future that will soon be a happy present. All because of the warm wind that comes with the change of the season. All of these things, and more, are known. And all of these things, and more, are expected.<br />
<br />
It is the way of things.<br />
<br />
This year though, there were no new loves, there were no expecting parents, there were no children running in the streets. There was nothing to imagine, there were no new worlds, or, the new worlds were too dark to imagine. The warm wind, blew it's warmth on the town. But, like a widow crying on her husbands coffin, it fell on deaf ears.<br />
<br />
Somewhere far away from this place, for reasons beyond most of the residents understanding or appreciation. A small group of people made a mistake. Because of this mistake. The town was dying. There were no jobs, those that still had them could barely afford their modest hard working lives. And they didn't know what to do.<br />
<br />
This had happened before, they had heard the stories, they had heard about the darkness that swept across their continent. They had seen the movies all about it. <br />
<br />
In remembering this time, some of the people knew that they had to band together, to work together, they had to form large communities, and work hard together to survive. To give, when there seemed that there was nothing else to give. To create a community of struggle, compassion, and understanding.<br />
<br />
The last time this horrible type of mistake was made, they survived, the town survived. In the time of absolute darkness. Where there was no hope. The people shone at their brightest. Brighter than they ever had before, or ever have since.<br />
<br />
This time when the troubles hit. Everyone seemed to gladly leave the town, give up on each other, and keep what was theirs. To share none of it. To give to no one. To make everyone fend for themselves.<br />
<br />
Eighty years since the last one, the world had changed dramatically.<br />
<br />
When the old man that spent his winter taking his tractor out and helping pull cars out of the ditch, lost his farm. He had nowhere to go. His family had long since moved to the city. No one in the town took him in, no one offered him a meal, let alone cash to be able to take a bus into the city. No one wanted to help him. No one felt that they could, or should.<br />
<br />
When half of the teachers at the school were let go, they started a protest. No mothers or fathers came out in support. They were left in the cold, protesting an injustice, unheard, and uncared for. No one felt they could help them, no one thought that they should. They all had so much to worry about for themselves.<br />
<br />
More and more people fell on dark times like this, more and more people were left on their own. To face, a dark world of loss, alone, with no home, dreams, or hope.<br />
<br />
People forgot how the land was truly won. People forgot what really happened in order for so many, to have it so good. People forgot that those that stand alone, fall the easiest.<br />
<br />
They forgot because, they were told to. People started calling each other lazy. Pointing fingers, and breading hate. <br />
<br />
In towns across North America, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, people gather, but they don't talk. Expecting parents scowl at the behavior of others, afraid of the world that they are bringing new life into. Children, already with us, are no longer seen, and are especially not heard. They are inside, despite the warmth. They are imagining what they are told to. They are dreaming dreams that belong to someone else. New loves, and old ones, will look at each other, doubtingly. Always afraid to lose each other, knowing that they could, at any moment. Afraid of a future unknown, that will become a present, despite themselves. All while a warm wind blows in. None of these things, and more, are known. And none of these things, and more, are expected.<br />
<br />
It is the way of things.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-71315745204660589702013-04-19T12:51:00.002-07:002013-04-19T12:51:06.568-07:00Welcome to it Now. (Prequel to Making them Count, Sequel to A Bad Situation)
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Kelly was down on the ground with the bag of our shit, ducking down
like a pussy. What was he expecting Jacob to do? <i>Not</i> use the
gun I bought him? We couldn't pay rent, did he think we could pay for
the drugs? Come on man, think!</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But he wasn't much of a thinker, he was just some skinny kid from
suburbia that wanted to see the real world that he had been sheltered
from.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, you're <i>welcome to it now, you piece of shit.</i></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob was pretty scary though. I have to admit. Even I was freaking
out at him. He looked like he really liked using that gun. Staring
with that kind of creepy intense hatred.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He looked up at me after a minute though, because we were all, sort
of frozen. Staring at the two guys, now just two bodies. He said:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've never done that before.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So I kissed him. To make him feel better.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's got a real kick to it”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Fucking creepy.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Kelly was still on the ground, crying. He had no idea what was going
on. We had to pick him up off the ground. He pissed himself.
Pathetic. Then he just started screaming at Jacob.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You killed them, you killed them, you killed them...over and over. As
if, we hadn't realized that he had killed them.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We got him in the car, and we went back home, mostly so that Kelly
could shower off the piss smell. Maybe he could get back some dignity
while in the shower too.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob was cool a cucumber though, I hate to say, he was, he looked
intense. Well, even more so, he always looked like an intense guy.
Like he didn't want things to go badly, but he was always willing to
act accordingly in any situation. No matter what. It was in his eyes.
Steel, stark blue. I was staring at his face when he was killing
those guys... it was the same look he had when he was laughing at
something so hard that he lost control of himself.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In all honesty, I'm glad I peed before we left.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob checked the news, but there wasn't going to be anything. Like,
that only happens in shows. When they're creating a believable world,
the real world doesn't care about two drug dealers getting shot.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Two hours later, we're all just sitting there. Jacob reloaded his gun
and put it in his pants. We all had a bit of our new weed. I was
giggling at the television, it's always so easy to tell they are
actors faking it when you're high.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Kelly seemed to calm down a bit. A bit. But then he saw the flashing
coming from the bag. A little red dot. He screamed at Jacob and me.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>What the fuck
is that?</i></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As if we didn't all know.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-29549018239826168832013-04-19T12:17:00.003-07:002013-04-19T12:17:59.528-07:00A Bad Situation (Prequel to Making Them Count)
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was scared, because it was scary, so
it made sense.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He brought a gun! I don't know why, but
he had a gun. This wasn't the kind of operation that would require a
gun, was it? I didn't think so, but then again, I've never done
anything illegal. Either had he I bet, I bet he just brought one
because he's seen movies and television.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've never seen a gun in real life
before, either had Sharon, but she was playing cool. I guess I was
playing cool too. It's important to play cool, when someone has
brought a gun, and is playfully pointing it at your face and saying
<i>bang bang bang.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Fuck,
I'm even laughing. Fucking Jacob. I'm so uncomfortable right now. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
guess we need a gun in case our deal goes bad. But I thought we were
just going to pick up like a couple pounds of weed and then sell it.
What could possibly go wrong right? I mean, yeah, like, a lot. But
not like, </span><i>gun</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> worthy
shit right?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">It
made me uneasy, like maybe Jacob didn't have his share. Like maybe he
was planning something else.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I told
him to put the gun away, jokingly...nicely. It worked. I said that we
were going to be late picking up our stuff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
three of us are roommates. We've only been living together for like,
a couple of weeks. When Jacob can't come up with rent. Either can
Sharon. I'm fine, I have a job, not a good job, but a job. I can pay
rent. That's when Sharon said that she knew some guys who wanted to
sell a fuck ton of weed, and we needed to just buy it, and then we
would sell it, and everything would be fine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Money
is money after all. Of course I agreed. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">So
yeah, now we're in a car. Jacob's I guess. Never saw it before. I'm
realizing like, half way there, that it's probably stolen. I really
wish I knew this guy better, but Sharon says he's cool. So he must be
cool right? I know Sharon pretty well.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
fucking </span><i>thought</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I did.
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">We
pull in to the back alley. We get out of the car. We wait.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">We
waited for what felt like an hour. It probably wasn't, I was just
really stressed out. I couldn't get it out of my head that like,
maybe I was making a huge mistake. I know that if anyone who knew me
growing up could see me now, they wouldn't be overly impressed. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But I
had never really been that impressive.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A car
pulled up. Two guys came out. I had a brown paper bag that was
supposed to have to money in it. I walked up to them, said hello.
They didn't say anything back. I gave them the bag. They gave me a
black duffel bag. I walked away, with my back turned. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Just
head towards the car, that's all I was thinking.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But
that's when I heard the shots.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
dropped to the ground. I peed myself. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Not
surprising. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><b>*Authors
Note – </b></span><i><b>One more perspective to wrap up this story,
coming up soon*</b></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-41476925677562313682013-04-19T10:32:00.001-07:002013-04-19T10:32:37.015-07:00Non Fiction. Some thoughts and imaginings.My favorite moments, have been the moments when I've been able to take a step back and feel as if I am floating through my life, outside looking in, and I can appreciate the love, dreams, hopes, and beauties that are comprised in it, allowing me to feel at peace. There is a sigh involved. My shoulders fall back and I am relaxed.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was a song that made me feel this way. Maybe it was just a beautiful smell. Or boredom that shaped itself to bring me back to a charming memory.<br />
<br />
In those moments I can laugh to myself and smile. Not even bothering to look around to see if anyone is looking. Just smiling and laughing.<br />
<br />
I'm not the first person to write about this kind of moment, or feeling. I hope I am not the last. While somethings are redundant. I don't see how space battle after space battle. A group of rebel travelers trying to overthrow a king. Detailed descriptions of horrible living conditions in some places of the world. The struggles for love, peace and respect are more unique, and more worthy of our attention and writing than that of happiness and love. Tragedy is great. All life has tragedy. Most life has happiness. But the reminder that we all share, every now and then, the moments of appreciation and happiness, can never be redundant, if those other subjects aren't considered to be as well.<br />
<br />
Back to the moment, perhaps you already know it. It's imagining yourself on a beach (Which in my personal experience has always been better than <i>actually</i> being on a beach) and hearing ocean waves, calming and breathing and feeling alive. Basking in wonderment, allowing each wave to overcome you, because despite knowing why they wave, that doesn't take away their power.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I can get a little silly with my imagination to get me to that place. I'll imagine giving and alien a hug. The spaceship comes down, and they say greetings, and I hug them, and give them all the love that I have in this world to offer. And the alien creature and I run skipping down a boardwalk.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I'll imagine bunny rabbits dressed up like people, walking along a rainbow road. Trying to act like people, but it's hard. Because they are rabbits. They're having fun trying though. They aren't dressed up like real people. They're dressed up in nineteen twenties dress. Like The Great Gatsby.<br />
<br />
Always puts a smile on my face. <br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-27316402269924932592013-04-17T17:14:00.001-07:002013-04-17T17:14:55.866-07:00UNTITLEDThere is a soft hand touching my back. It's gently moving up and down, on it's way up I can feel the blunt part of the finger tips. On it's way down, it's nothing but skin. I wonder, which way I prefer. I can't decide which one is better. I hope, that these sensations will continue long enough for me to decide, and longer still for me to enjoy my knowledge of the preferred.<br />
<br />
There is a breath in my ear, it says <i>I Love You</i>. The touch hasn't stopped. God, if you look upon me now know that Samurai have killed themselves for less. This moment can never be repeated. This pure joy and ecstasy can't last. I might as well stop after this moment. Nothing will top it. I'm in love, and there is no tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<i>Passion is to suffer, to suffer is to live. A life without passion is no life at all.</i><br />
<br />
Don't take me back to the old moments. Don't push me back in to a world that doesn't hold on to this. Don't. Please, I need this.<br />
<br />
<i>Passion is to suffer, to suffer is to live. </i><br />
<br />
I'm not alive without this. I wasn't alive before this.<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>I'm meant to live without it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-13507482457714310392013-04-17T14:14:00.001-07:002013-04-17T14:14:53.654-07:00Making Them CountThere was a shattering explosion and we knew that there was nothing we could do. Panicking did nothing. There was going to be nothing but pain soon. The three of us, were about to go down.<br />
<br />
I wanted to react, I wanted to do more than panic. I wanted it to be over quickly. I had the means of making it happen too. They were going to be coming in from all sides. I knew I had no time, the room was no longer a room, it was a war zone. There was no exit or cover, they were going to come in, and try to arrest me. I wasn't about to let them. I <i>was </i>about to let them shoot me.<br />
<br />
They were looking for a reason, I was going to give them one.<br />
<br />
I had a gun. I'm not much of a gun guy. Never respected them much. Never though too much about them. I'd fired this one a couple of times in a back alley. Taking care of some business. It was a six shooter. It had a hell of a kick.<br />
<br />
I took it out while I was diving down from the explosion. All panic left my body, all I could do was aim. The first cop came in, I fired and he went flying back. Into a couple of his buddies. They were trying to sound serious. But I could tell they were excited. Who wasn't? I guess Kelly. Kelly was crying with his hands up behind is head. On his knees. In the way. A cop was approaching him.<br />
<br />
I didn't want any of us to last. I shot Kelly in the head and the bullet passed right through into the cops groin.<br />
<br />
Longest thirty seconds of my life. I had no idea how I was still alive. Four shots left. Making them count was all that mattered.<br />
<br />
Sharon was screaming at the top of her lungs, and a cop was dragging her by the hair, her feet were fighting. A loud crack came from my hand and the flailing feet stopped moving. Another crack and the cop didn't have a hand to hold her corpse with anymore. His scream was worse than hers.<br />
<br />
Two shots left.<br />
<br />
I was never a violent man. The sight of all the blood was starting to hit. I had no idea how I was still alive. Clearly people were shooting at me. How was I not down?<br />
<br />
I tried to get up. I couldn't. I looked down. Most of the blood I think I was seeing was pretty clearly mine.<br />
<br />
Good. They got me.<br />
<br />
They were staying back. The cop with no hand was moaning. So I shot him.<br />
<br />
One shot left.<br />
<br />
There was that fucking stupid ceramic pig that Sharon had bought for me. That fucking piggy bank that I had to pretend to like but hated. The cops were clearly waiting for me to bleed out or something. Somehow that fucking pig had survived all the chaos. I wasn't about to go out knowing it was still there. The fucking eye sore.<br />
<br />
Empty.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Author's Note - <i>A less violent prequel will come up at some point. Hope you enjoyed this though.</i>*<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-32523505602601801402013-04-17T13:04:00.000-07:002013-04-17T13:04:41.370-07:00Trip to the BathroomA translucent film was slipping like a cloud over her vision, making everything seem as if it was underwater. Her perception was joyous to the change. She looked at her hand and they seemed almost cartoonish. Rounder, and smoother. Less flawed and less real. She giggled on the mattress. And scratched at the bed bugs.<br />
<br />
She was forgetting where she was. The walls were blank and bare, their color and texture was oppressive. She needed to pee. She needed to find a bathroom. She needed to find the door out of the room. She needed to stand up. She needed to make sure that she was wearing clothes, because she didn't know who or what was on the other side of the door. The door that needed to be found. She needed to find pants at the very least. There were no pants. She needed to find a sheet. There was no sheet, other then the kind with elastic on the corners. It smelt bad. She wore it anyways. She needed to find the door. She found a closet. She found the door. The air was different. She stepped out of the room.<br />
<br />
It was a hallway. To her left was a full wall mirror. It showed her. In her sheet. She looked at her face and it started to mold and become different. It was fascinating. Her cheeks were becoming dark black holes, and yet for some reason they weren't sucking in her eyes. Her skin was raising and shifting, as if the texture of her matter had become fluid, and something was throwing tiny sand pebbles into her one at a time. It grew more and more uncomfortable when she realized she couldn't control it. It wasn't enjoyable. She needed to turn away. She turned away. She was in a hallway.<br />
<br />
There was carpet now, on her bare feet, and it wasn't nice. It had long fibers that should have felt warm and comforting, but instead they were hard and brittle. They stabbed at her feet. When she looked at it, it was rushing like a wave, telling her to get out. Telling her she needed to be away. She walked into the bathroom. It was a door. It was a door to the left, she <i>knew</i> that. That's how she was able to find it without thinking. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror and turned off the light. She peed in the dark.<br />
<br />
In the dark, shapes came out of sound. The sound of her breath. The sound of her passing water. The echos her noises created from the walls. The walls were responding to her. They were rejecting her. All of her, they didn't want to it. They didn't want to absorb her. She couldn't blame them. She was a weird monkey. They were walls. They didn't have too much in common. She giggled at her thought, and her eyes adjusted to see her hands. She like her hands, they were closer and further away than they had ever been before.<br />
<br />
She loved the darkness. As long as she could see her hands.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-36913513523233738732013-04-17T10:54:00.000-07:002013-04-17T10:54:08.229-07:00ZeusThe amber lights coming off the building were barely luminous in the cold dark winter storm. It was the kind of imagery that could remind one of the end of the world. Yet, it didn't stop over a hundred cars from lining up their way through the driveway, into the parking lot. Patiently slipping and sliding. Never honking. They made their way there, to see the boys play the game.<br />
<br />
They weren't the brave ones, the ones in cars. But the kids that had to walk to meet up with friends, not a long walk for most. Maybe fifteen minutes tops. In a cold blizzard an eternity. But friends were waiting, and game was about to start. So kids walked silently in the dark. Trudging through slowly, in the deep snow covered short cuts. They made their way there, to see the boys play the game.<br />
<br />
For some of the kids who were new to the town. It came, as a bit of a shock, that the boys would be so celebrated in this backwards, small town, for basketball. It didn't seem to fit with the stereotypes. It would seem more likely that football, or baseball, or hockey would be received with crazed passion. That these would be the games that hundreds of people would show up to, to watch. Not basketball. The new kids didn't realize yet, that if there was a sport being played, that was traditionally considered to be a man's sport; the town was going to show up. <br />
<br />
It was that kind of town. So boring, the life blood of the town depends and thrives on the performance of any sport played by a small group of sixteen year old boys. Value of character for everyone is measured, judged, rewarded and punished by the proximity, enthusiasm and envy that is showed for the boys who play the game.<br />
<br />
They were sixteen year old gods. Some of the players were good old boys, who didn't see it that way. Others took the glory that they received, willingly and gladly, inherently knowing that this wonderful time, like all things; would end. But there was the one, there was always one. The leader, the Zeus, of the group.<br />
<br />
He was great at each sport. Football, he was the star receiver. Baseball, he was the star hitter. He casually played track and won each event. He was star forward for his hockey team. For him, his future only seemed to have the problem of deciding which scholarship was he going to take? Football? Baseball? Basketball? The future seemed bright and unlimited.<br />
<br />
Except, no one in town had ever seen any scouts. There was always talk about how, surely, scouts were going to be coming to pick up "our" boy. Take him to the big leagues. They would get him a scholarship and he would head off and make his town proud. Make his school proud. It wasn't any pressure for him. He believed them, he believed that he was just naturally going to make it all happen. He had so far, he had no reason to think otherwise.<br />
<br />
He won the game in the blizzard. He won most of the games. Even when the team didn't win, he did. He always won. He won that year, and the next. And when it came time for school to end, and for the group of kids to move on, that's when it dawned on him. No scout had taken him. No scholarship was headed his way. He wouldn't be playing university sports of any type.<br />
<br />
In fact, he wouldn't be going to university at all. After the summer, it seemed that he disappeared. The town didn't wonder about him. This happened to most of their star athletes, they all left town. Never to be seen again. No one really knew why.<br />
<br />
Eight years later, he was heard from again. In a small town not too far from his old one. Working as a bouncer at the pub. He was bigger than ever, clearly not naturally. He had a boy of his own, kid was four years old. Already playing catch like a champ, at least as far as he could tell, every second weekend.<br />
<br />
Back in the town.The amber lights coming off the building were barely luminous in the
cold dark winter storm. It was the kind of imagery that could remind one
of the end of the world. Yet, it didn't stop over a hundred cars from
lining up their way through the driveway, into the parking lot.
Patiently slipping and sliding. Never honking. They made their way
there, to see the boys play the game.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-82582258063735230812013-04-12T12:45:00.000-07:002013-04-12T12:45:23.132-07:00Becoming Shadows
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rain was pouring down so hard that the
street became a muddy reflection of itself. Cars past by, splashing
each other with indifference. Street lamps could only illuminate what
looked like disaster. The people walking on the sidewalk looked like
shadows. Creeping through the drenching water like blobs. Faceless,
and without souls.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I stood in front of a shop, smoking a
cigarette, trying to keep it dry, I cradled it under my palm between
hits. The smoke billowed out of my hand in a cloud that acted like a
dream. Slipping through, leaving a memory. Never to be seen again. A
meaningless waft over substance.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Covering myself up. My bus was
arriving, but in that moment I couldn't stop questioning whether or
not I truly had anywhere to go. People stepped on, and off. A
commotion of passive traffic. Apathy towards one another. Random
frustrations towards a fellow human. Why partake?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One things for sure, if you walk in the
rain, without an umbrella, you're going to get wet. It's comforting,
as a direct consequence. It's a minor punishment, a slight
masochistic understanding of the joys of poor judgement. A cheap
rebellion against the world.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Oh yeah? Well I'm going to walk!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">So I
walked. I took the long way too. I was going to be late. I didn't
care. I became one of the shadows, shadows can't tell time. Shadows
can't do anything but hide the light.</span> I was hiding the light.
I was becoming anything but myself. Which was all I wanted to be.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The urgent need to escape builds up in
me like this everyday. The struggle between the conformity of my
comforts. While, having the desire to be free. I'm a slave, which
makes sense. I have no power. Those without power must be slaves to
the powerful. There's no other way to slice that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My long hair was soaked, and when I
slicked it back, it slapped the back of my neck. It was a soft whip;
an unexpected surprise, more slight pains. Pain was good. Punishment
was good. When I chose them that is. No matter how minor they, remind
me that I am, in so many respects; free.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Freedom is more important than comfort.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The more I became a shadow, the more I
liked it. There was something here that I didn't have before.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't think I was ever seen or heard
from again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-23898227415767210732013-04-11T23:48:00.002-07:002013-04-11T23:48:20.449-07:00Pressure.There were pressures that were getting to him, he felt as though, if he allowed things to continue in this fashion. He might end up happy.<br />
<br />
The problem with happiness is that once you have it, it's something that you can lose. When you don't have the things that are actually worth real value in life. You can behave however you want, without fear of too much consequence.<br />
<br />
As soon as something happens, or comes into your life that is actually worth giving a damn about, well, that's when your behavior actually starts to matter again. Because if you truly care about something in your life, even if it's just one small thing. That one small thing actually makes your life worth living. That thing, makes your life; a life.<br />
<br />
So when he actually got something that he cared about, it wasn't until he got scared of losing that he started to act as if he didn't want it. That's how these things work. You enjoy it, you take it for granted. You get used to it. Then, you start to wonder what your life would be like without it. Maybe, the pressure of having your life matter gets to you a little too much.<br />
<br />
The responsibilities. Accepting the fact that not only does what you do matter, but you can go back to it not mattering any time you choose, because you chose for this thing to be in your life.<br />
<br />
It's easy to go back to what you were before, because what you were was rock bottom. It's always easy to fall, climbing takes practice, and a defiance towards gravity.<br />
<br />
So you're forced to choose, the fall, or the climb. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-31602583841233469212013-04-10T12:08:00.000-07:002013-04-10T12:08:38.332-07:00A Painted Face.I painted my face for you today.<br />
<br />
I hope you notice, but I don't think you will. I paint my face for you all the time and you never notice. You take my painted face for granted. You think it's my real face. You force it to be. You'll only notice if I don't paint it.<br />
<br />
I dressed up for you today.<br />
<br />
I know that you won't notice. You think these are my clothes, you think this is who I am. That these clothes are mine, and not yours. You think that I want to wear them. You think that I want to wear them for you. You think I define myself by the standards that you have set up for me. <br />
<br />
I have never not painted my face.<br />
<br />
I have never not dressed up.<br />
<br />
I do not know whose fault it is.<br />
<br />
I didn't know who I was again; for you today. If you noticed, you kept it to yourself. You allowed it to happen for reasons beyond my own reasoning. If I knew who I was, would you still be here? Would I want to be? If I was me, would you still be you?<br />
<br />
I don't want to paint my face.<br />
<br />
I don't want to dress up.<br />
<br />
I want to know who I am.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-85062229589782079572013-04-10T11:35:00.000-07:002013-04-10T11:35:07.889-07:00Waste of TimeI have spent, in my life, more time than I would like to admit, imagining what it would feel like to be stabbed in the back, near or directly(if I knew anatomy better) the kidney. Now, that I'm sitting here in a back alley, holding my stomach, as my own blood pours out of me, it would appear that those imaginings were; a complete waste of time.<br />
<br />
It probably looks like a movie, even though it doesn't <i>feel</i> like a movie. If that makes any sense. I'm sure it does, you've seen movies right? You've also been alive? Then you know what I mean. <br />
<br />
I wasn't supposed to be stabbed. I bet you could figure out that that wasn't part of my plan.<br />
<br />
I just wanted to have an adventure.<br />
<br />
I'm nothing special, I have no access to any valuable information, I have nothing to do with government, or power or anything cool or flashy. I have a degree in Sociology. I keep two regular Joe jobs. I didn't and don't, have a need to do all that much with my life. I just wanted to live it.<br />
<br />
I watched too many movies I guess, and I supposed that; though I didn't want to accomplish much with my life, I did want it to be exciting. So, for fun, I grew a pot plant. And then I sold it to my friends. It wasn't very good. I'm not much of a gardener. I'm not like the guy from Breaking Bad or anything. Plus I think he does something other than pot.<br />
<br />
I live in a small city, there are a lot of drugs, and none of them are all that high quality. It's all kind of shitty, so when I gave my own small amount of shitty weed to my friends, guess what happened? They loved it. They loved it so much they wanted more. And they told more and more people about it. So I started growing a whole bunch of weed in my apartment, and selling it to friends, who would sell it to other people.<br />
<br />
It was really easy. And it was exciting. I don't know if you've ever broken the law, but I highly recommend it. Lots of fun. Keep in mind though, I'm telling you this while I'm dying in a back alley. I'm sure you could guess that the two are related. Drug dealers don't get stabbed in back alleys for no reason right?<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm running out of time here, I don't think anyone's coming for me. I don't think I can keep up telling you this story. Blood loss and all. I think this is it. I didn't love enough, I didn't give enough. I'm not sure it has to do with this mistake or not, but maybe it was all the mistakes I made that led to this one that did it. I hope I get to do it all again. I kind of do look like the guy from Reservoir Dogs. That's neat right? Nothing to write home about, I guess...</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571329429030014045.post-89200898494887609772013-04-07T21:19:00.001-07:002013-04-07T21:19:40.640-07:00A Short Poem. Not a short story, but yesterday's was really long. Enjoy!<div dir="ltr" id="internal-source-marker_0.082542817537691" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Look at the rush we’re in.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Not going anywhere. Pushing through as quickly as possible to reach what?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The surface? So we can breathe.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Breathe what? More wasted time.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A man stands alone unless he is with others. But the others have too much influence on his posture.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Women too.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Sometimes I forget to include them. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Because I forget that we’re supposed to be different.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I have no hold. There once was a grip, but something told me to let go.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I did. And now I am floating. Not falling.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I float, not moving, and I get to see every angle of my perspective.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It gives me nothing. A better sense of what I see isn’t what everyone else sees.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s still just me. And I need to let go of me. But.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I have no hold.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Dreams, the stuff of the unknown, abstract is the explanation. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The explanations have no hold either.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12021905910600375191noreply@blogger.com0