InsideI watched my best friend die.
It wasn't in a hospital and it wasn't an accident on some road somewhere. There's a saying, and I guess it's also… funny… how you never know what's going on behind closed doors.
I guess you're probably thinking of suicide - overdose, hanging by the rope, or (god forbid) the knife, but... it's not that.
Because it's one thing to die and it's another to die. I believe you can exist without properly living.
What is a life? We are born into this world with no say on the matter, and yet the majority of us take for granted that tomorrow we will wake up to another morning, another routine, another day in this same old life.
Are we happy in this life? Inside, where it counts, are we happy?
My best friend came from nowhere. One minute I had no one, and the next… I guess it's a sort of blessing that my best friend arrived when I needed comfort the most.
We began to go out and have wild trips galumphing up the roads. We made war with b
Pokemon Rant on PaulWhy I Hate Paul
The Paul I am referring to is a character in the pokemon anime, who is currently Ash's primary rival while the group is in the Sinnoh region. Paul is really a varied character: on the Serebii.net forums, the Paul character discussion thread has, at the time of writing, nearly spans twenty pages, though most of it is saying how "awesome" he is. However, I do not think he is awesome. I hate him more than I hate Harley from the same show. I want to strangle Paul and break one of his limbs. Most probably won't know why I feel this way, so I will explain.
First, Pokemon are sentient beings in this setting. As Linkara pointed out in his review of "Captain Planet and the Planeteers #3," if animals were truly intelligent enough to make their own decisions and follow orders, animals would easily be given rights. Considering that many pokemon in this setting are shown to be smart enough to qualify, pokemon should have a bill of rights. In the real world, Paul's trea
CollisionI looked out the window of my car, holding the wheel straight as I took in the sight of the thick fog blanketing the field next to the back road I was taking home. My driving disturbed the sluggish billow of clouds that, this morning, were just too heavy for the sky.
A man sang me a melancholy refrain through my car’s radio: Here by my side, an angel…
There was a certain peace to the way the fog blended everything together into indistinct shades of white and grey. The occasional mundanities of traffic lights, hydro poles, and billboards had faded into nothing more than nebulous shapes, an alien scene from another world. With no other cars in sight, it felt as though I was the only person to exist. Just me, surrounded by innumerable suspended droplets, each of which would be transparent up close, but from a distance they fused to become something entirely different in their solidarity, something opaque. As I mused on this, a paral
Unacknowledged Love LettersA Collection of Unacknowledged Love Letters
In the Spring, you’re different. You’re new.
We meet for the first time (again).
I remain the same, patient and waiting.
But you Begin (again).
I’m often envious when I watch you in the Spring. So soft and faint but eager and unafraid. It must be beautiful to learn everything all over again. I’d like to rediscover the love letters carved into mountains by rivers, or the way the ocean behaves when she sees the moon - how she reaches. The hopeless romanticism of water. I’d like to see the sun all brand new and feel the touch of heat and light for the first time again. I’d like to forget everything that has made me so hard and sharp and be soft again.
I haven’t been new that way in eons. Back then I was still alone; churning and molten and shapeless. It was before I knew you, before the seasons and the rain and the ocean. When it was only the sun and the stars and I. The moon hadn’t even lef
BareI stand at the edge of the forest.
A pink and purple sun sets as cold blues illuminate the icy snow blankets.
My breath, slow, painfully inhaled and reluctantly exhaled, mists in front of my dotted vision.
I can see through the entire forest, long bare vessels of awaiting life in a hardened sea, into spaces once full of green now void.
No, not bare.
And not void.
People say that Winter is Nature's Death, and Spring is Its Birth; beautiful renewal after harsh termination.
They are wrong.
They are hypocritical.
They are Death.
We are the ones that huddle in masses, buried in sheet upon sheet of cloth, cursing the frozen season and then after finally receiving the the warmer temperatures so desperately pleaded for, we recoil from the humid muck and wish for the cool.
We are the ones that stamp out decaying leaves, dirty the vivid white of the fallen snow, and then after our handiwork call the landscape ugly.
We call Winter Death as a justification of our actions, and think ourselves right
The Parable of the Two ArtisansOnce upon a time there was a travelling merchant. He was an esteemed gentleman who enjoyed many quality things. He knew what he wanted and he knew what they were worth. Today he was searching for ornate ceramic pots, ones that were aesthetically pleasurable as well as structurally sound. He came to a village which, despite its small size, held two artisans. He ordered a pot from each of them. Whoever had come closer to his vision would obtain his permanent service. He would judge their pots in three days.
The two artisans had different ways of making their craft. The first artisan had studied for many years, honing his craft. Each of his pots were sturdy and proved their function, yet they weren't much to look at. The second artisan came about his own techniques. He chanced designs and structures that the first artisan dared to try. Some of his pots crumbled under their own weight, but others became the envy of the town. The two artisans didn't like each other, or each other's work. Th
Sometimes You Don't Have to Change the WorldAres is not what I imagined her to be. The great man of myth, muscular and imposing, shining in his armour, with crested helmet and mighty spear, does not stand before me. Instead I face a young woman, hardly more than a girl. She is soft and delicate, with eyes so large they will soak up the world, and skin like spun glass, that glitters in the darkness. A warm glow radiates from within her, not quite visible, but strong enough for me to feel the heat on my face.
The sound of traffic wafts up to us from the street far below. Heavy clouds block out the night sky, reflecting back the poisonous orange of streetlamps and office blocks. The rooftop is high above it all, and we are invisible. That’s why I chose it, to be alone. The last thing I expected was a visitor, proclaiming to be a god.
“Ares?” I scoff, looking her over with something I imagine to be petulance. If not for the fact that she was so decidedly un-human, and that she had materialised on the rooftop with n
second-chance renewal.i can't guarantee i'll be what you want.
you see, i can only offer you the remaining fractures of a weathered, storm-bruised heart in trembling palms; can only pour the relics into the crevices of your chest. i can only offer you the ruins: tangled and mismatched and soggy from salt-rain. can only give you the junk drawer, the elbows and broken bits no one wanted: the jealousy and anxiety and selfishness and impatience and insecurity. i can only give you these, wrapped in newspaper-covered cardboard boxes, no satin ribbon dressing them up as something they're not.
oh, and you deserve so much more! what i have left rotting isn't enough and it never will be, but, oh, i would give it to you if you asked. i would reach lacerated hands towards my marrow-locks and tear them apart. i'd give you the right combination of numbers and twists and turns so you might undo the not-so-treasure-chest. i'd let you take the choking corpse of my trust and let you try to reanimate it. i'd sell m
dear apollo.your skin is hot enough to ignite this entire world and yet you sleep curled against my frostbitten shoulder blades. you burn in your slumber and i spend my night beating the sparking, smoldering edges of our cotton sheets. myths written on linen and stone describe you as golden with dawn-skin and honey-eyes, but lover, i know you for the truth. you are the charcoal of where the sun has pressed too close, the passion of the wildfire's wake. you are the olive branches of peace and the violence of the charred leaves. you are staining my forearms with the feral licks of your ink-hair and are painting my sides with the soot of your fingertips.
when we wake, it is in the sky's absence of your light and i hoard your warmth like a squirrel in the early breath of winter. the shutters are painted monochromatic in the moon's radiation but our walls are swollen with every rise of your languid chest. i can feel the frost dripping from my flesh, i can feel the ice retreating as you roll over and sp
thingswhen things go bad. its not fun. you feel out in the cold. like theres no-one to help you, rather like you're falling and cannot do anything, even worse, theres no-one to help you. no rope, no net to catch you. just helpless falling. its worse though, when you can see someone else falling away, away fron you, and you cannot help them. you cant put out a net. its either not possible or you just have to leave them too it. thats the worst. i hate leaving people to fall to their death. and all you can do is watch. just watch them fall, away, away.