Part Two? I dunno...chapter titles are silly

The dreams...they were always so...bright...alive...different...

When she was awake, it was dark...except for the circles...

Everyone said she couldn't see, but she saw the world through those circles...but her dreams...they were...different...She couldn't find the right words to talk about it, so she didn't. Her parents probably wouldn't understand anyway...right? Wake time was always so dark and familiar...but sleep time...if they were open, she was sure her eyes would scream from the bright...but in a good way...it was odd...but she loved to dream...and she never forgot them. Not a one.

Like the circles, the dreams were all different kinds. Some were light, others were still dark. Almost completely dark but for tiny dots...more than she could ever count...but it was soothing in a way. Not like the running dreams...She never knew what she was running from, but she could never stop. Those were...her body was soaking by the time she would wake up...

But sometimes, about once in a blue moon, she would just dream of floating...being in water without the wetness...those were her favorite. She was floating when it happened.

"Wha-...why is everything getting so dark? It's not morning..."

"Choose."

"Choose..? Choose what?"

"Observe, and choose."

"Choose between those?
Ok...um...Papa always says bigger things are better so...besides, it's so much bigger than the other on-AHH! That sound...! That wailing...! That laughter...that sick laughter...My ears are burning...! ...Now it sounds like...someone...crying...despair...I can feel...the hatred...this...is death...No...No, I want the other ball! Take me away from this...please...please...No, not more laughter! ...Wait...this sounds like...a child...a child's laughter...of...joy...no, children...it sounds lovely...now cheering...now...life...love...Why is this...so much smaller than the other...?

"Have you chosen?"

"Yes, but-"

"Very well. Awaken, Rhia."

Blue Motion

This piece is a pretty kick-butt example of marimbaing, with assorted accessories on the side. It starts off peacefully enough, with the first minute consisting of marimba and vibe riffs accompanied by rhythmic backgrounds. Then the bass and hi-hat really kick in and the song's main theme comes out. One thing I really love about it is the constant drive, the continuous pulse you get while listening to it. While just what the hell a caxixi is continues to elude me, I can't wait to get my hands on this (hint hint?). Sheet music shouldn't be so bloody expensive...

Oh, the only other problem? It's also a bloody duet.

http://www.tapspace.com/BlueMotion.html



P.S. Disney knew what they were doing when they made Fantasia.

Aha!

Eureka! By Jove, I think I've got it! That's it! Success! Mission accomplished! Of course! Brilliant! I can see it now! It all makes sense now!

I found it. The answer. Yeah, that one. The one that answers that most personal question, that most important quandary, that most deeply embedded curiosity. You know the one I'm talking about. That thing you were always too scared to ask. Too scared of what the answer might be. Might have always been. Might become. Remember it now? Guess what? I know the answer.

The solution to every problem that ever came around actually needing a solution. The missing gear in the mechanics of Life. The looking glass through which thirty-seven shades of gray become crystal clear black and white.

I know it.

And you know what?

I'll tell you.

Listen closely.

I'll only say it once.

It depends.

What...?

"Why did you do that?"

"...do what?"

"Don't smart off to me, boy!"

"I...don't have any idea what you're ranting about."

"Drop the stupid act. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Do I now?"

"Yes...it bloody well saved my life."

"So you burst in from nowhere, screaming to me? How grateful."

"Yes, that was unseemly. You have my apologies..."

"Accepted."

"Quite, quite. Ah...whatever happened to that salamander figurine you had? The one of porcelain?"

"That little thing? The story it has now...but alas, I sold it to a very deserving home."

"I see...pity. What about those diamonds...the ones that glow with a light of their own?"

"They're in better hands as well now. But is business the only reason you came?"

"No, I suppose not. Can't quite remember what the real reason was though."

"Haha, you seem to be growing senile."

"And you seem to be growing fickle. Last I was here, those items weren't for sale."

"Maybe not to you. You never needed them."

"Well of course. No one needs diamonds."

"No, not the diamonds...but what they represented to the person who now possesses them."

"What else can a diamond represent but wealth?"

"See, a person in your situation couldn't understand...would never need to understand."

"I don't know if I should take offense to that..."

"Are you happy?"

"Aren't you blunt? I suppose it took me a while...but yes, I believe I am."

"It took you a while?"

"Money makes fools of us all."

"How eloquent...but why did it take so long for you to realize this?"

"Dear boy, it just occurred to me."

"Hm?"

"You never answered my original question."

"Which was...?"

"Why did you do that?"

"Sigh...do what?"

"Kill me."

Blanks

Seeing this huge, white expanse is a little depressing. I had an idea, then I saw this thing and thought "How am I supposed to fill all this space up?" Writing short stuff is all well and good, yeah, but it's sort of a challenge to try and beat the blanks back, filling the ranks of my alphabetical army with meaningful phrases and philosophical words that can actually tie together into a theme understood by more than just me.

It sort of raises the question, why do I write? For myself? Certainly not, silly stranger. I like to think of myself as being a less selfish person than that (don't we all) and besides, what would be the point of actually writing it down in that case? If the writer wrote only for himself, he'd be better off just keeping it all in his head and away from that harsh mistress we call public criticism. After all, the mind is far better suited to the organization of thoughts and ideas than [digital] pen and paper. No, any writer who claims to write for himself is just being silly.

That pretty much just leaves one other option, right? While maybe the least flashy, writing is still an art, and easily one of the most powerful. We write so that others may read. Read and hopefully be changed for the better. We write to leave our mark on the world. We write to be analyzed. We write because, hell, it's way more fun than school gives it credit for.

Go on. Fill in some blanks.

Steps

"I can make a difference by....no wait, scratch that. I WILL make a difference by...Wait, how can I make a difference? I'm just a naive child...No matter how grandiose my plans may turn out to be, who would lend their ear to a mere child...? An immature youth, completely unversed in the ways of this darkening world. A world delving deeper and deeper into an inescapable abyss...An abyss in which greed, envy, and pride reside. Three triplets whose charms have eternally ensnared the hearts of mortal men, who wreak havoc on the moral values of the world, who are only growing ever stronger...What is one child against the powers of such demons? We've been waltzing down a crumbling bridge, never once looking back into our ruinous wake. The sun shines on the path we chose not to take...the path that we started down...one step at a time...One step...after the other...If I just start with what I can do...maybe...no, not maybe. I will start with what I can do. And what I can do, right here and right now, is write. Write about what's wrong, write about what's right, write about what is dark, write about what is light. All I have to do is...believe in my writing, meager though it may be. For if one believes, it will become two, then three...All it takes is one. One mind. One voice. It can make a difference. It will make a difference. Just believe...yeah...that sounds about right."

-So wrote the young apprentice upon his very soul...

Can You See Clearly Now?

Light = Knowledge

Darkness = Mystery

That's how we see it, right? But why? Why can't it be Light = inside the box and Darkness = outside the box? Concrete versus Imagination? What's the big deal with Light always being good and Darkness being the evil witch, cackling up to her horrible, melting end?

Don't give me that crap about what I just said. It's a matter of perspective and you know it. Some old guy way back when decided how to think and everyone else decided to think what he had thunk without giving it much thought themselves.

Light equals the past, the known, the written, the has-been, the essay already written, the problem already answered, all that is tangible.

Darkness equals the future, the unknown, the soon-to-be-written, the will-be, the brainstorming, the empty blank, all that is intangible.

Am I shedding any Light onto the situation?? (haha, jokes) 'Cause I'd rather be making it oh so Darker.

Proper Grammar

I after We except when....wait what? No, I always goes after We. And We always goes after Them. So I goes after Them always too. I, being singular, takes second place to anything that is plural. We is inclusive of I however, so it too must concede dominance to Them, as Them is not inclusive of I. I stands alone, We stands together, They stand without I at all. I has the power of selfishness, We have the power of disguised selfishness , They have the power of selflessness. One finger. Five fingers. Five hands.

Bad.

Good.

Best.

Quick Review

We've got two arms to work and toil.

We've got two legs to carry us far.

We've got two eyes to seek out the truth.

We've got two ears to listen and learn.

We've got one nose to tell us what's wrong.

We've got one mouth that can open and close.

What do you want?

Another one to eat with?

How come people are only silent when they're eating?

Eraser

The pencil flew across the desk.
The darkness welcomed it with open arms.
The pencil flipped and did its duty.
The darkness cried and slowly gave way.
The pencil would not relent in its duty.
The darkness gave up and clung tight.
The pencil turned to darkness from light.
The darkness still there and now it had spread.

Angst

Man is a social animal. Such are the words of many a pompous blowhard who wanted seem wise. It is true though. Some people would do just about anything if they felt it would bring them acceptance. While some are minor, others are far more serious. I keep asking myself why. Are humans really so afraid of being alone? Afraid of the dark? Afraid of...rejection? Humans are stupid. I am also human. I am stupid, but that's beside the point. Man's overbearing selfishness as a whole has led us down this bloody, scarred bridge that may soon crumble to dust.
An age where it's better to conform to the standards of others than to voice your own. A corrupt age where the light is slowly dying out. An age where people cry out for a cause to believe in, because they are afraid to lead their own. Chivalry has been dead for ages, but now the rest of its family is fading away, one by one. An age where most people, if given a choice between money and happiness, think they know the obvious answer.

The horizon, how gray it is...

-The Angst-Ridden Teenager of Yesterday

Some General Rules

1. We know nothing.

2. We know nothing of ourselves.

3. What we do know, we do not acknowledge.

4. What we do not know, we imagine as we please.

5. We know nothing of others.

6. What we do know, we choose to condemn.

7. What we do not know, we choose to ridicule.

8. We do not care.

9. We do not watch.

10. We do not listen.

11. We place ourselves before all.

12. We are trapped.

13. We refuse to believe any of them.

Be There Martians?

Sometimes, when I read some thing that's just really out there, I start wondering just how people get the idea. It's a pretty simple process I guess. You take a basic theme, boil it with thoughts for a while until it becomes fiction, add some genre, then sprinkle it with style and you're done, right?

Some of the stuff though...I just start thinking, what if God was putting these ideas into our heads because they aren't ideas. Maybe ours isn't the only Garden of Eden out there, but merely different branches from the same roots. Maybe Holmes sits in his study late at night reading about Hurricane Katrina, or Luke watches holograms of The Beatles in his spare time, or somewhere in the far reaches of space, there actually is a planet full of spiky-haired gold people who eat steroids for breakfast before they get constipated on their monkey tails.

Or maybe we're just more creative than I give us credit for.

Monochrome Rainbows part 1

In a time beyond remembrance, a child was born with sightless eyes. The child's mother and the child's father lamented their daughter's eternal fall into darkness, and did everything in their power to try and bring even the smallest lantern within her gaze. To bring an inkling of color to those stark gray eyes. Nothing worked, but the child was content. Content because, quite honestly, she had no idea what they kept rambling on about.

She could see just fine.

She saw how the village elder was a lecher, how the scholars studied only how to act as though they studied, and most of all, how deathly afraid each and every one of them was. Afraid of the darkness they could never understand. Afraid of the darkness she couldn't hope to understand either, only because she understood it so well. None would admit it, but she knew all the same. They would cling to their fire like a starving wolf to its hard-earned prey. She had found her own lantern in time though, in her own way.

"Rhia, come away from that moon-cursed flower and do your chores!"

leap of faith

she jumped into the sky
and spread her wings to fly
without thinking she could die
because she just wanted to try,
the clouds sank past her eye
of their embrace she was not shy
to ignore this feeling would be a lie
but she couldn't help but let out a sigh
for she found she could not fly

but you know what?

she tried

while her brother sat there and cried

A Letter of Introduction

I guess it saves a lot of time, but writing has got to be one of the most fallible and infallible ways of getting to know someone. It would be pretty simple to cook up fantastic tales, lavishly coated with sugary details everyone else conveniently forgot and topped with the most enticing sprinkles we never saw. Of course, few are petty enough to fabricate a letter read only by their tenth grade English teacher (and assorted others should the author in question choose to post it on his or her writing blog beforehand).

Does that sound arrogant? It sort of does now that I'm rereading it, but thems the breaks I suppose.

First and foremost, hobbies. Music is my first love, and as you already know, I'm a drummer. Not a drummer in the traditional high school sense, as in someone who's touched a drumset for a few minutes, but every little tidbit in the Percussion family of instruments. For marching band, I play the tenor drums, but this is only my first year on the line. Timpani, which also happens to be the instrument dearest to me, was the part I played last season. I also play drumset and the vibraphone in Cinco's Jazz Band, or whatever else the music says. There's just this indescribable feeling that you get when you hear something beautiful and you think to yourself, "Hey, I did that." Should I go professional or not, this isn't something I'll ever be letting go.

As oh so subtly mentioned before, I enjoy writing as well, even though I don't get around to it near as often as I should. I maintain a humble little blog that was started up about half a year ago, which contains most of my free form short blurbs. I say free form only because rubrics for anything to do with writing just irks me to no end. Yes, it's necessary for grading purposes, but it always just feels as though it chokes the work in a way. Writing to a specific type or theme is a useful skill, but it never feels quite right. These blurbs are read by a rather small audience, but they're all I want, as just knowing that I'm not the only one reading this really helps fuel get into the creative fire.

Lollers, too bad I misread the board and didn't have to do this after all. Not letting this work go to waste though D:!

And for my next trick...

I think it's sort of silly to be writing about nothing, and deeply shameful to boot, since there's always something to be written. But I've had many a conversation about nothing at all (quite literally too), so I figured scribbling a blurb about it could be fun.

It just seems like a testament to how close people are if they can actually talk about nothing at all but still be talking, and for awkward silences to be an unthinkable notion. Starting with a typical howdy-do, generic responses, generic re-responses, a few perfectly comfortable silences, hilariously unfunny but still funny pokes at just what the topic of this exchange is, nonchalant answers leaning in the obvious direction, more awkward turtles that landed on their feet and walked off, the obligatory inquiry as to what each party is investing their valuable time into at the moment, with an assortment of smileys thrown into the mix before achieving blissful randomosity.

But that's just one recipe, should we choose to call it that. Another consists entirely of insults, each getting more and more offensively ridiculous and often having to do with mothers and faces. This will carry on for a while until one party grows tired of the monotony, and calls a ceasefire, which is occasionally followed by a bombardment of grandiose compliments. I suppose it isn't really nothing, but it's ludicrous to call it something.

Needless to say, I lovems my friends, I do. Those bestest broke the sparkling new mold they came out of.

Reach for the Sky

Everything that humans can imagine...is a possibility in reality.

-Willy Karen

Quite a few people would laugh in derision at this. Those new age sillies who think dreamers ought to see a number of doctors as soon as possible. The ones who don't yet realize that while proving something exists is all well and good, proving that something doesn't exist is an entirely different kettle of fish.

Which makes one wonder who came up with that saying because as far as kettles of fish go, there really isn't much to be said about them...

Besides, even if something we can imagine doesn't currently exist, it is still a possibility. We've done the impossible before many times. As someone else once said, impossible is only a word, used by the weak to discourage the mighty. It may have a bit of a holier-than-thou sound to it, but stands true in virtually every application. So far, no one has succeeded in placing an actual limit on just what we are capable of.

Go ahead. Just think of the most ridiculous thing imaginable, literally, then prove to me that it couldn't exist. We've proven our worth with negative uses for our creations, so shouldn't we work on the positive? While it may no longer be literal, the sky is still the limit.

A Question

Body...or soul?

If you had to give up one, which would it be? Without one, you have no anchor to this physical world, but without the other, there's no point. Of course, this could depend on one's current situation. A young buck in his prime cares more about the here and now then the far and away. But the latest addition to the Shady Acres retirement home is likely concerned about where his spirit will be roaming in a few years.

Sadly though, this question is likely what drives some to commit those less tasteful acts...but though it could also be taken literally, the question of now or later is always riding on our minds, isn't it? If I eat this now, I'll just get fat. If I make the deal later, it'll earn more. Really, which is more important? One's mortal body or one's immortal soul?

One answer, however idealistic and simpleminded it may be, is that both tie for first place.

Besides, we all know the heart is the most important anyway.

The Leaves...They're Changing

Winter...is it death..or is it life? Just...a beginning...it seems. Harsh winds promise trials like no other, yet within this darkness is a beacon, granting warmth to those who bathe in its light. Some would call it the most wonderful time of the year, but whether this attitude stems from honest good will or materialistic greed seems to be in a constant flux. While the outside is surrounded by a wreathe of ice, the inside serves only to draw us together. Color me blue.

Spring...certainly a time of life and refreshment. Those that hide from Winter's fury finally emerge to greet the sun...just as if this was the true beginning. Though cascading rains often alter the serene beauty, they wash all the grimy troubles away. It's a time of energy...of youth. Just trying to squeeze some fun into those busy work hours to lighten Atlas's load. A lovely splash of cool water to the face after a long winter's nap. Color me pink.

Summer...a time of fire. A time to burn passionately and dive headfirst into a new project. With such time on our hands, how can we not? Of course, the lazy days go hand in hand...the sleep days...the hot days...those darn dog days. Sometimes it just seems as if that raging energy has been put to bed early. It's a time of rest, of family, and of friends. Party central? Hardly, but exciting all the same. Color me green.

Autumn...one could call it a time of death...sheltered in a veil of blazing art. Time seems to slow in these calming months. Fire gives way to ice, and the passion begins to fade. The young look upon this time with disdain, as the return to responsibility beckons. The old...well, the young cannot speak for them, but a reversal would be somewhat sensible. Light begins to wane, the colors whither away, but this is no ending. Color me orange.

The cycle of life...never changed and never ending.

Petty Thievery

Who gave you the right? When that barrel sends the angel of death searing into some one's heart, who gave you the right? The right to take EVERYTHING from that person. You have not stolen his funds, or his estates, or his family, or his dearest friends, or his past, or his present, or his future. You have stolen everything. And not just for him.

Who gave you the right? To steal the apple of their eyes. To dash it to pieces that may never be repaired.

Why? For personal gain? For revenge? For defense? For a...good time?

Flounder with excuse all you like. NO ONE gave you the right that you never stop exercising. But who is there to enforce this?

That is for us to decide...

The Wheel Turns...

I'm turning 16 in a less than two weeks (yes Mom, I'm telling the scary internet stalkers how old I am o:). And it sure does NOT feel like it. 16 is supposed to be one of those milestone ages, right? I guess I'm happy that I'm getting a car and all...it is representative of newfound freedom in a way. The bird's wings are gaining strength at last...but it means more responsibility too, not that I have much at this point anyway.

I don't blame Peter Pan for never wanting to grow up. Many adults seem to have a twisted view of the world...whether it's merely a lack of that childhood innocence or some delayed effect of puberty or something else entirely, I'll never know, but parenthood seems to be a decent enough cure. I'm a bit scared that this may happen to me, since I do not plan on becoming a father. Unfortunately, the newer generations seem to be learning their lessons from this lesser side of maturity. Is it really so hard to take the slightest bit of responsibility? It's not as if our education system is teaching valuable skills, so parents should be doing more work rather than less. Having a job is understandable, but having misplaced priorities is not. Nurturing those little bundles of promise into spoiled brats is the equally bad opposite end of the spectrum, but that is another tale.

What does physical age even mean anyway? How much punishment your body can take? Doesn't really prove too much, does it?

Some of those times...

*brrrrrrring*

"Ohp, there's the phone, wonder what's up...A movie? That sounds like a good plan for today....oh perfectly typical. They want me to decide between the two they voted on...ugh."

She thought over the two options placed before her...a comedy or a deep thinker...pretty clear cut.

A philosophical tale, made to target those thoughts we never thought of. It would certainly give rise to things her friends wouldn't think about without such a provoking catalyst. Moving themes, subtle statements about the world, opportunity to truly look inside oneself. It would be a little like watching a mirror...just the sort of awakening any person needs. With the attitude of this generation, we need some seriousness...

But then there's the comedy...

Laughter...it doesn't look like one of those trashy movies either...just comedy in its purest, simplest form. It's got a fair share of deep in its core of humor, but it was made to make people laugh...to laugh at themselves, and the things they take far too seriously...to dispell the miasma of everyday life. Someone once said the key to a healthy life was laughter...maybe they had a point.

"Haha, listen to me ramble...man, I need to lighten up sometimes."

Candle Light

We all want to be a hero. It's in all of us, that desire to be a beacon. Be it the whole world or just one person, we all wanna be a hero. The one that inspires others to great heights. The one that gets them off the couch and up to the stand. Not the kind that wins awards, but the kind that wins a special place in someone's heart. The candle in the dark...they may flicker and waver the tiniest bit, but they will never disappear into the night.

We all want to be a hero. To stand up and FIGHT. To stand up even if we're going to LOSE. To stand up only to be shot DOWN. Because a hero will always STAND.

We all want to be a hero. And Heroes never stop.

Sandman's Whims

Why does a dream mean? Do they have any meaning? Are they just an amalgamation of all our subconscious thoughts? Do they reflect anything at all about us?

When you dream in black and white or in crystal clear color, what does that mean? What if we have a dream where we are someone else? What if our eyes and ears are not even attached to a living avatar, but are instead just floating around in the airs, unable to do anything at all. When you have a nightmare, is your subconsciousnes trying to tell you to stop being scared of something? Was it even about something you feared?

What about your actions in a dream. Are they really your own? Should the events of a dream mirror themselves in reality, will the outcome remain the same? Is it truly what you would do? What does it mean? Even if it is not what you would truly do, what does it tell you about yourself?

I ask this because I dream so little. The answers do not lie easily within my grasp. Whenever I do dream however, I do wonder these things.

And I know this does not make up for the long absence, but summer fever be upon me :D

Gather Round...

What's your writing voice? When someone reads your work, do they smile their special smile? Do they know who wrote without even asking? Does your voice shine through?

It's not the vocabulary, the grammar, the proper (or improper) punctuation, tHe FuNkY CaPiToLiZaTiOnS, or any of that other syntactical mess. Trying to get all of those rules right just grants you the satisfying effect of sounding just like a snobby prick with nothing better to do. I guess maybe some people want to be known as The Thesaurus Guy, or Grammar Police, but that's not voice.

The voice is in all of us, a different shade for every heart. But you've got to LISTEN for it. Only when you hear the VOICE can you properly use your own. That little force sitting in the corner of a dusty attic, muttering quietly to herself about what sounds just right. Mixing and matching, drawing from the pool of experience, looking for that almost perfect fit. Adding in a pinch of sarcasm, a dash of melodrama, or just dumping in the whole jar of storytelling. Speaking of storytellers, they're the ones you've got to talk to. The best of them practically created this art and they wield their words like a master swordsman and his blade.

If you would hear me out, I could spin webs for you. This little dish is just the appetizer. But do remember one thing. Keep your theme obvious. No one likes having to argue about how much better their interpretation is than yours. After all, misinterpreted books have led to wars, y'know...

The Tinker

This is the story of a snowstorm. The story of a tinker. The tinker's name was John, and he came to a certain village every winter, to stay at a certain inn. The village was in the middle of a deep forest called the Forest of Waters. The name of the village was Worthing, because the name of the inn was Worthing. John Tinker stayed at the inn because it was his brother's. He lived in a room in a tall tower in the inn, with windows on every side. His brother was Martin Keeper, and he had a son named Amos. Amos loved his uncle John and looked forward to winter, because the birds came to John Tinker. It was as if they knew him, and all the winter they were in and out of his windows; during the storms they huddled together on the sills.

The birds came to him because he knew them. When thy flew he saw through their eyes and felt the air rush by their feathers. When the birds were ill or broken, he could find the hurt place in them and make it well again. He could do this with people, too...

When he came to the village, they brought their sick to him, their lame, and he made them well again. But to do it, he had to dwell inside them for a time, and become them, and when he left, he took the memories with him, until the memories of a thousand pains and fears dwelt in him. Always the memory of pain and fear, never the memory of healing. So that more and more he was afraid to heal others, and more and more he wanted to stay with the birds. All they remembered was flight and food, mates and nestlings.

And the more he withdrew from the people of the village, the more they feared and were afraid of him because of his power, until at last they didn't think of him as a man at all, even though he had been born among them, and he did not think of himself as one of them either, though he remembered almost all their agonies.

Then came a horrible winter, and the snow was so deep in one terrible storm that it cracked the roof beams of some houses, and killed and cripple people in their sleep, and froze others so the sickness crept up their dead legs and arms. The people cried out to John Tinker, Heal us, make us whole. He tried, but there were too many of them all at once. He couldn't work fast enough, and even though he saved some, more died.

"Why didn't you save my son!" shouted one. "Why didn't you save my daughter, my wife, my husband, father, mother, sister, brother" - and they began to punish him. They punished him by killing birds and heaping them up at the door of the inn.

When he saw the broken birds he got angry. He had taken all the years of their pain, and now they killed the birds because he could not do enough of a miracle to please them. He was so angry that he said, "You can all die, I'm through with you." He bundled himself in his warmest clothes and left.

The fourth day after John Tinker left was the bottom of despair. Not a soul left alive that had not lost kin to the storm, saving only Martin Keeper, who had but the one son, Amos, who was alive. Amos wanted to tell the people, "Fools, if you had only been grateful for what Uncle John could do he wold not have left, and he would be here to heal the ones with frozen legs and the ones with broken backs." But his father caught the thought before Amos could speak, and bade him be silent. "Our house stands, and my son lives, and our eyes are as blue as John Tinker's eyes. Do we want their rage to fall on us?"

So they held their peace, and on the fourth night John Tinker came back, frozen from wandering in the storm, weary and silent. He came in and said nothing to them. And they said nothing to him. They just beat him until he fell, and then kicked him until he died, because they had no use for a god who couldn't save them from everything. The end.

-The Worthing Saga

Page 1842 please

*Ding*

Alright class, take your seats. You all won't be here much longer and we've simply no time left! That final won't take itself! Right then, get your notebooks out and let's review what we've learned this past year. Who can tell me what the focus of this course has been?

"Erm...nothing?"

...

Yes, exactly right.

I am not teaching you moralistic values, nor how to utilize logic in everyday situations. I am not teaching you how to be what is essentially considered good. I am not teaching you what is just, what is right, what is evil, what is cruel. Chivalry? Please.

I teach you how to look at a map, how to rip apart dead animals, how to use a calculator, how to follow a constrictive rubric, how to read a book the correct way. I teach conformity. Greed. Competition. Gossip. Paranoia. Betrayal. And most of all: drama.

Time for a short lesson in breaching the fourth wall. Did school teach me to write this way? To weave my feelings into words as naturally as breathe? My dive into literature was not achieved through a modern education. My teacher was another. One who is many. Many who will recognize themselves should their eyes ever wander to this little corner. They did not intend to pass anything on to me. I merely watched...and learned. The ability to do as such is what is truly required in our learnings, I think. That and a sense of right and wrong. Now back to your regularly scheduled rant.

Class, does a numerical value between 0 and 100 determine who you are? What you're worth? Whether or not you'll ever amount to anything useful? Sadly, to the fools in power given to them by other fools, that is exactly what a number means. To them, you will never be anything more than a number...an insignificant statistic.

Class dismissed. Study hard.

Let's Carpe Some Diem

You've got one chance to get it right. There are no magic spells to bring your stone back up the river of Time. No reset buttons or save points to start over where you decided to screw up. Once the die rolls, that's it. Better make that shake count, eh?

Lady Fortune lays down her cards.

Tough luck there, mate. Doesn't look like the chips are yours this time around. No use crying over spilt milk though right? 'Tis just milk after all. What about spilt blood though? Sometimes you've got to look back at the bridge you just crossed. Sometimes that bridge has already been burnt to ashes. A thin line it is...not worrying about everything and not worrying about enough. Walk through life looking behind you and that's just where you'll get: nowhere at all. Of course, walk through life never once looking back and one day you'll wake up with a lovely little knife sticking out of your back with a dash of crimson upon its blade.

Watch your back, lad. That's a good hand you've got there. Make sure you don't waste it.

Twist and Turn

What's in a name? Does it reflect who we are? Were we fated to receive the perfect calling card? Or is it just the whim of our parents that decides what we will always be known as to our closest confidants?

Let's see if an example helps. My name is Will. Now will is quite obviously both a name and a word. One could even call it a state of mind. The will to act, live, think, write, create. The will to resist temptation and stave off the darkness. The will to be the light of those in need. The will to open the eyes of the world. All things I'd like to live up to, but one could hardly say that it describes me, right?

But let's take another angle.

See Will is obviously not my full name; it's short for William. My first and middle names were both derived from a pair of special men, but that's another story for another time. A few years ago, I had an English project where we had to research our names and figure out its origin. William is derived from the old British name Wilhelm. Wilhelm was in turn derived from two words that were strung together to describe the first owner of the name. Understand where I'm going? Those two words were will and helm, or the will to helm, which obviously comes out as roughly meaning guardian or protector. So in essence, I am the protector right? Does that describe me?

I don't know, but I do think that even if it isn't a perfect fit, our names always reflect something about us. Just a bit of rambling thoughts here.

Two Roads

Could you imagine being someone else? Taking your soul, mind, and memories and placing them into another person, whether they really exist or not? I don't mean roleplay characters, I mean a completely different person with a completely different life. Could you? Is your life so horrible that you would throw it all away and completely change who you are?

Should you answer yes, I have nothing but the utmost pity for you. You envy someone else so much that you covet not their money, nor property, nor social standing, but their very life. You despise your own life so much that you wish to erase it completely for another. I fail to comprehend such a tortured heart. Yes, many people suffer and many lead horrifying lives, but without suffering, happiness has no meaning. If everything were handed to you on a silver platter, if would bring you no joy. Not unless that silver platter had taken years to obtain and even more time for whatever was upon it. Likewise, pain could not exist without even the smallest measure of bliss, however short. Without one, the other has no meaning. Pain and happiness. Darkness and light. Cold and warmth. Chaos and order. The very definition of one is merely the absence of the other. Without one, the other is simply there, but at the same time is not. Personally, I believe that any life, no matter how terrible, still has something to live for. Any hope of happiness, however brief, is worth seeing the sun rise again for.

Should you answer no, then in my books, you are happy. You hopefully understand what true values are. Even if you possess an evil heart, you have not given up on yourself and for that, I commend you.

beyond the numbers

I just don't get it
all this good will toward everyone
inspired by horrific deeds
and following other's leads
hopping on that bandwagon
"I'll be nice too, cause
everyone is doing it" but
I think you're all nut....s

Does someone have to die
disappearing to the sky
for you to stop this lie
and care?

Is it honestly so hard
to give that starving bard
a measly little shard
of care?

Or does he have to die
for you to even try
to close your eyes and cry
and care?

What makes you believe
that life never deceives
so you never conceive
a care?

And now that it has happened
try to remember what happened
don't ever forget what happened

in one bloody month.

Lucky!

You can't stop me. All of your broken mirrors and black cats and hexes and family curses and full moons and black waters and bloody knives and monkey paws and shriveled feet and cracks in the sidewalk and open umbrellas and thirteens fail to intimidate my seven.

My seven. The Seven. My life.

The glue to the mirror. The kind hand offered to the cat. The rabbit's feet and four-leaf clovers. Crescent moons and white sands and silver shields and third wishes. My toes dance amid the cracks while twirling an umbrella with seven folds.

Nothing shall stop me. You can try all you like. Lady Luck is on my side, even when she's not. Because I believe. The light will appear in the tunnel. The dawn will end the night. The candle will burn on through the darkness...

When the wall pushes me, I push back. When the path stretches ever longer, I keep walking. When the chains bind me, I shatter them.

For my spirit flies high in the neverending sky.
----
I have no idea where the idea for this came from. It's almost as if something else put the words in my mind. It's awfully similar to the previous post, but conveys the same message in a very different manner. To be honest, I don't really fully get it myself.

Phoenix Rising

The sword, it's edge dull and chipped, fell to the floor with a clatter. Drops of blood, still warm from the body, stained its worn metal as gravity claimed them. A harsh laugh echoed through the hall.

"Is that all you've got? I expected more from one with a reputation such as yours! Take up your blade now or I'll strike you down as you kneel before me!"

Rasping breaths and more falling droplets.

"Those eyes of yours are quite useless aren't they? You...you can't see a thing. Beyond the walls of physical might...you are blind. Ha ha...quite blind indeed."

More drops.

"Strike me down if it please you. That wretched reputation means nothing to me. Just know that your death with follow mine in short order. You don't understand...you who have never known true fear. When things get their worst...when all seems lost..."

Fewer...

"You underestimate me. My resolve...I will not lose. As long as my will lives on, I shall not lose. The swordsman lives twice."

Stop.

"Come then, fool. Let us finish this farce. One who has never seen the scythe of Death cannot hope to understand true strength. So long as my heart is set, no force can stop me. From the flames of defeat, I rise evermore."

The White Rabbit's Fate

The old me would have been angry. Enraged that such a thing dare happen to him. Almost guaranteed to lash out against all he could talk to...no...he wouldn't feel as though he could talk to anyone. He would save only words of hate for her and her alone.

You writhe impatiently in the darkness, screaming out against the bars of your prison. You wonder why you are locked away? You would take the happiness of the one most dear to you and dash it to pieces to appease your bitter anger. Such selfishness...to sacrifice the feelings of an innocent girl for your own? Are you so arrogant as to believe you're that important?

Heh...foolish questions. Of course you are. You take betrayel for breakfast, lust for lunch, destruction for dinner, and a touch of spite as a light snack. The shadows of human nature...

But you are my shadow.

Though all I can feel is sadness.

Bridges

I hate the world.

To be specific, I hate what humanity has done to the world. Regardless of what religion says, this world was a better place before we came along. We are not superior creatures. The only thing we have going for us is our intelligence and that really doesn't count when you look at how we've used it. All of our achievements have been aimed towards making our own lives easier, simpler, and giving the illusion of betterment. Face it people, humans are lazy. Everything we do is just an attempt to do less in the future. We took the time to tame horses just because we were too impatient to make the journey on our own two feet. When fierce beasts of the wild were deemed too slow for us, along came Henry Ford with his automobile assembly lines.

Speed speed speed. The beauty of the natural world that we're ever destroying is nothing more than a fleeting distraction. Can't have that, lad. Time is money after all. If you can't get to a place as fast as possible, why bother? Can't profit from some silly grass. Gads! Watch where you're going! This jacket cost me a fortune! Already got fifty more where that came from, but why waste money where it's already wasted? Come come now, laddie. Got to get those solid gold socks I've been eyeing, hmm?

It's far too late for redemption. We've led this world down the road of ruin and it's far too late to turn back. That bridge crumbled years ago. That bridge was one of a kind. That bridge was crafted from the rarest and finest of materials...materials that no amount of money could ever buy, because they are already gone. The great beings who crafted that bridge are no longer among us either. No matter how much we regret the past, that bridge will never return.

Might as well make the best of our imminent doom, right? No use worrying about what's already been done. Let's not linger on how that attitude got us here in the first place...





Now before you go thinking I'm a horrible person, go do yourself a favor and look at the date.

This world's still got some fight left in it.

Counting Games

She walked up to the field, stick ready in hand. Ready and willing to strike. Ready and willing to shout out her existence.

Aim...and fire.

Then all went black.

Voices...was she going crazy? Why is this happening? It was only a game...

The 1 ball began: Never trust your first impression.

The 2 ball wondered: Solid or Stripes. Does it really matter?

The 3 ball advised: Coincident is Fate telling you to pay attention.

The 4 ball dared: It is not always best to quit while you're ahead.

The 5 ball cheered: Don't betray your friends. You don't want them to betray you.

The 6 ball declared: Believe what you want. It's your reality.

The 7 ball gambled: Even if you only believe in luck, that's still believing.

The 8 ball whispered: Prophecy proves nothing. Decide for yourself what will happen.

The 9 ball asked: Is winning the best you can do?

The 10 ball laughed: To be the best is boring. To be the worst is just a number.

The 11 ball hinted: No matter how far you climb, you can always go higher.

The 12 ball explained: It doesn't matter what you win, just how you play.

The 13 ball weeped: Superstition and paranoia go hand in hand.

The 14 ball reprimanded: Forgotten? Don't be a fool. You can never be forgotten.

The 15 ball finished: Always remember what you are and who you are. The why comes later.



Wait! The Cue ball shouts: Everything counts.

Do you remember?

Priority

There is a boy.

Now, he had made some mistakes in his day, but his heart was in the right place. Sometimes the wrong thing would happen, but at the core, he was a good person. After he passed through the most difficult times, he began to learn. Wanted to learn. Tried to learn. He picked up more information in a few months than school had ever taught him. Though the lack of credibility in his sources was often replaced with the sheer number of them, he fervently held on to his beliefs. Nothing could shake his resolve, and the passion with which he spoke was unrivaled. Once he began, little could stop his forceful monologues. He was constantly searching for more information, as if struggling to prove to the world that he was not wrong. Little by little, however, the harmless data gave way to corruption and conspiracy. He then spent his time persuading others that his findings were true, that the world had sinister happenings occurring under the surface. He believed more and more in what he perceived to be the truth. Nothing could dissuade him from what he followed. He could talk for hours about the evils of our country and the ulterior motives of each and every action. Reprimanding the layman for being so ignorant of "reality".

The reality that he has done nothing to salvage.

Just One Big Mystery

Honestly, I believe that in some shape or form, everyone is scared of death. They might not realize it, it might be purely subconscious, it might even be stared right in the face, but no human being can share a dance with death and not feel even the smallest tinge of fear. Humans do everything in their myriad [of] powers to evade and even stall death. The Philosopher's Stone, the Fountain of Youth... they're even thinking they can prolong the life of our cells with the Human Genome Project.

If you're life is about to be ended, especially prematurely, you will be afraid. At the very least, afraid that you might not have been virtuous enough to escape eternal damnation.

I remember stating this a while ago in response to a survey/study about fear. My second response actually, made after a few anonymous parties clearly stated that they were not afraid of death (which is silly, since it had nothing to do with the original question). After thinking about it a bit, I felt like building upon it.

What makes death so frightening? The fact that we really have no clue what, if anything, happens after it? Or just that we love to live so much that we can't bear to leave it? Is man so wretched that it must fear all that it fails to understand? If a kid comes out and admits his fear of the dark, he'll likely be teased for it. Teased for having an overactive imagination. Teased for allowing his mind to conjure horrible demons from the shadows because he can't see what truly lies there. Teased because his human nature is preparing him for the worst possible situation, regardless of plausibility. What is death? The end of life? Maybe so, but that's all we know. Death, or at least the moment of it, is a gate that we can only see one side of. There could be a gaping abyss, or a bountiful arcadia beyond it. Maybe it's an oversimplification, and maybe I'm asking too many questions, but aren't we all a little scared of the dark here? That eternal darkness lying at the end of the path, the train for which death is the one-way ticket.

There may well be light at the end of the tunnel, but death is the lantern that guides us through.

Katraterra

I likely won't talk about music too much, but this song is my latest joy. The moving melodies and background ostinato patterns fit together perfectly to create an amazing piece. Hearing music like this just really gives me a huge sense of pride in my instrument(s). I'm listening to it as I type this, and though I've heard it probably thirty times now in a span of three days, it still never fails to capture my heart. The feeling never stops building, even in the slower patterns. What really says the most about this song is that everyone likes it. It isn't like some other songs I've played, where only the small faction of hardcore musicians can really appreciate it's intricacies and beauty. Everyone enjoys listening to this song, even people who haven't got a clue what percussive chamber ensembles sound like (that must sound terribly arrogant). It's a pleasure to play, lovely to listen to, and just enlightening to experience.

http://www.tapspace.com/katraterra.html

Change

It's strange to reflect back on how I used to be. Just a few months ago I was completely different. Hell, I've changed a lot from who I was last week. Looking back, it's almost shameful of what I used to be like. Such a child, such a fool...it'd be more suitable to describe me as a sophomore back then, rather than the freshman I am now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a fool now. I'm just more conscious of it than I was then. There's always more to learn, both about others and about yourself. Anyone who thinks or acts like they know everything is only a living reminder of that. Living with a perfect example of such has enabled me to learn that lesson very well.

The physical changes aren't so important, though they are happening as well. People place way too much importance on that stuff. It's almost humorous to think about...

How I used to be...it's kinda scary. If the me of today met the me of last year, I don't think they'd get along very well.

Dreams...

The lad...

few were his years
but great was his mind
fewer still were his fears
he was just one of a kind

to all

to be a hero, a savior
this was his dream
to prove none was braver
but only one task did he deem

was worthwhile

"I'll take my own life"
the boy thought to himself
"To messy with a knife,
though simple with my wealth"

but how

"Surely no act is braver,
seeing my peers cower
death is no thing to waver
before, it's easily within my power"

he decided

to slumber and gain answers in a dream
so he went to bed early that night
and fluffed up his pillow and gulped down some cream
in order to dream of death, his obvious might

to weave

a dream reflects one's true heart
and one has no choice but to play their part
the soul emerges to choose its fate
for better or worse, to love or to hate

a song

the sky was as blue as the purest sapphire
the dream world was stunning, to the boy's great ire
sprinting straight by a youthful beauty
her long bronze hair unnoticed by he

but yet

his glorious surroundings weren't appealing in the least
he wouldn't have cared if he was trapped by a beast
the azure sky ceased, cut by a black ravine
the boy's heart leapt, and so far out did he lean

fear gripped

the darkness swallowed all
but in the murk he saw
a hand gripped like a claw
spying a face he meant to call

a boy

who saw himself in the looking glass
and couldn't believe what had come to pass
he had seen himself slip into the abyss
and tried desperately to understand what was amiss

then understood

a blinding light erupted from the chasm
the pit was now an eerie phantasm
the boy was amazed; it had just been there
but as he awoke, he glimpsed long bronze hair

true feeling

in life, the boy changed his old thought
he knew now what must be done
though with perils the new path was fraught
he made up his mind, he had already begun

so he wrote.

Ideas

I originally meant to use a journal to record my thoughts, but seeing as how I'm a much quicker typist than a writer, this should work out better. With the speed and accessibility, new entries should be much more frequent.

Odd though, that such an organized center of my thoughts will likely only be viewed by one group of friends. A few members of the academic group may see this, the music group would completely lose their conceptions of me, and the distant group will see this, albeit not for a while. It's a new beginning; a seed has been planted. The door has been unlocked and I for one wish to open it. Whether or not people read this is more or less irrelevant (though it would please me), I just want to record what I think in a more tangible form.

Whenever I read this, I'll be able to answer that question about myself: what do you see through the looking glass?