Current-Events

Reality is changing. Revolution is taking charge once more, and the military has once again become a protector of the people, for the people. Governments are checking themselves and their actions in fear and hope combined, and in turn are making a frightening and beautiful world. Dictatorships are crumbling under the voices of the individual protesting for fairness, and Democracy, and the common man is once again turning to art to gain understanding of humanity, and to express his own views. Creative values are triumphing. Mother Nature is reeking havoc on the most powerful and polluted areas, attempting to fight back, but destroying much of the same life she provided. The Gods are questioning us. How did we allow all of this evil into the world? More importantly, how are we planning to cleanse ourselves of it? Poseidon is drowning nuclear intelligence, and swallowing the fuel that had poisoned the ocean barely a year prior due to the lack of good judgment in men. Yet the forests are repopulating at a rapid rate by the hands of human beings using the technology to provide clones of ancient life. Time is coming full circle, not only proving its relativity, but proving the repetitive nature of humanity and nature alike. We will forever be waring with each other, and battling between evolution and devolution. But we must remember the role we play. We must remember that as individuals we are insignificant , but as a whole, we're a substantial threat to our entire existence. And we must accept that nature will fight back; simply because, like good and evil, there must maintain a balance.

Here I Go

Here’s an attempt at honesty,
At setting down the mirror,
And letting symbols do the work
To quiet all our fears;
I’m showing you, I think I know
The pain from love and loss
I too have seen the beautiful,
Asked favors from The Cross;
I know the shame of desperation,
I’ve seen weakness crumble lives,
I recall wishing for childhood,
Before too many goodbyes;
So here’s my go at no more hiding,
I have a story to tell,
I’ll make life a little more exciting,
This tale begins in hell…

The Perfect Story

This is the part that’s supposed to make you want to keep reading; the witty one liner, or the overly descriptive shocking image and relatively rough transition to the next, not quite as eventful line. Then, brief exposition exposes the story of a young man/woman searching for something and ending up somewhere unexpected. This is where our story begins. Characters are introduced, accents are written into the dialogue, and appearances rarely expand past the cliched outfits which help associate them to someone in the reader’s life. There’s bound to be a love connection between at least one of the main characters, which lends itself to the pulling of heartstrings, and allowance for cheesy metaphors. And there will be a moment towards the end when the supporting role, the more likable character, is in grave danger of some sort (physically or emotionally). But the best stories are the ones that don’t end with everything coming together perfectly, and everyone getting what they wanted, or have learned to want. The best stories still continue once the book is put away on a dust-ridden shelf, or sold at a yard sale for twenty-five cents; a story that has no definite end, because in reality an end is purely fictional and is the most difficult part to relate to. You can be hooked at the first line, and fall in love with the characters, and sit on the edge of your seat while they struggle with something significant; but once you have closure, you’re pulled away from everything that made it reality. An ending kills your protagonist’s hopes and dreams, and simplifies everything the author struggled to make meaningful.

So understand, as you follow along, this will not have an ending, because closure is purely death to fiction. This living, breathing world cannot be shut, or bound by covers; it continues without ink-stains on parchment into your daily experiences and choices. Do with it whatever you’d like once you’re finished, but remember that your life shapes the words in this book as much as it will shape you. Every character is someone you personally know, every choice that’s made is what you would have done, and the climax will excite and devastate you more then anyone else who sees it; because this can be selfishly yours. It grows up with you, and for you; but will live past your death, and the end of everything you know, simply because life continues when you do not, and the things you’ve done will reverberate off of everything you’ve ever encountered. Keep that in mind as you explore the possibilities and opportunities you’re given. Don’t skip any pages, or skim through any long, seemingly uninteresting paragraphs; every word holds importance. Don’t try to figure out what the last page will say before you get there, because it’s just a waste of time; you’ll get there eventually. Lastly, if you don’t understand why something happened the way it did, or when it did, or to whom, feel free to flip through the previous couple chapters and re-read. Trust me nothing happens that isn’t bound to happen. Chapter 1: Once upon a time

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was afraid that she'd misplaced her originality. She remembered having it at one point, or so she thought, because she'd look out any window at any given moment and appreciate things that no one around her appreciated. But one day, when reading a book, she read words that she wished she had the eloquence to say, describing all the beautiful things in her world. It was then she realized that her ideas weren't new, but instead, very old; and probably done over thousands of times.
She was beyond discouraged. She was in pain. Soon, nothing she felt or thought felt worth sharing. "This has all been felt before," she thought, "nobody cares to hear about things they already know so much about."
But she needed to do something. Days turned into months and months turned into years and she had barely spoken of anything she saw, or thought about. Her mind was merely sitting, filling up with ideas that rotted away right where they were, until her whole soul was overflowing with dead creatures made of creativity.
All the good parts still left in her head and in her heart were being blackened, suffocated by the corpses.
When she looked out a rain covered window, she no longer made stories of the droplets, and the meetings and dates they ran off to in such a hurry. She stopped pretending to be fooled by natures magic tricks, claiming she knew it was commonplace, and not to be looked at as anything special. She even stopped thinking too much of her dreams during the day, knowing that the moon would bring them back the next night.
But one night, they didn't come back. She awoke the next morning untouched by the phenomenon. She made breakfast as usual, and headed off to school, sat through all her classes fantasy-less, ate lunch and headed to work. After work, she drove home, brushed her teeth and went to bed to have another dreamless night.
This continued for months.
Until one day, she awoke, remembering a memory from her childhood. She was playing princess dress-up with her best friend. Common for little girls. And the princess aspect just made it even more cliche. But she was having fun, and that is what's important. She was probably dreaming every night and daydreaming all day long then, allowing herself to live in a fantasy world, no matter how Disney-typical it was.
Then she started to look closer at her current way of life. Nothing was more overdone and tired out as her current daily routine.
It was those bursts of creative ideas (that she thought weren't so creative) that set her apart from everyone else in the world. The fact that she struggled to keep her imagination alive was enough to earn her, her dreams.
Before going to school, she sat outside for a while and listened to the world hum and whistle around her.
The wind started blowing away the old rotted fragments of dead creativity and planting new seeds of ideas.
She was happy once again, and content with being an artist.

Starbucks Monologue

I love being in coffee shops at night, because it always feels like Christmas. It smells warm like cinnamon and hot chocolate, but the air is always turned up too high. Most people smile at you because they feel obligated too, not knowing how long you’ll be in there with them. And those that don’t smile don’t affect you too much because you’re positive they must just be in a hurry. In a nutshell, that’s what Christmas consists of.
But that’s not the only reason it appeals to me. I like it because of the stories. The most stereotypical people go to coffee shops, including myself, who all pretend to have culture and class just because they’re drinking coffee or tea, or reading classic literature in a big cozy chair, or eating a croissant, or writing a philosophical essay for a class they’re taking.
Then on top of it all, you have the slew of pretentious music constantly playing. Usually it’ll be something like sad slow instrumentals, or Nat King Cole singing Cole Porter, or an obscure Indie band that isn’t obscure enough, so the majority of people that walk in know who it is and either smile to themselves for their exceptional knowledge of music, or comment to the person they’re with about the EP they own by the same people.
Then the art that hangs on the walls are all things that could’ve easily been done by a college art student experimenting with color, shape, the human form, and incorporating poetry and world studies. And anyone who goes out of their way to stare at one of these pieces for more then a couple seconds is either an art student (who is thinking of a prestigious sounding comment) or a little kid merely soaking it all in.
And there is always an above average looking person working, male or female, who gets hit on at least twice within the period of time you’re sitting/standing there. Part of you is disgusted at the predictability, and part of you is jealous that they aren’t making flirty eyes with you. It is only after this has occurred that you can truly understand Kristen Chenoweth.
Now I’m only allowed to mock all these people because I’ve done all of the above myself at one point or another.
But I love it. I love seeing these everyday people escaping from a life that may not make them feel as special or confident. They might have just come from a terrible meeting, or gotten a paper back that they didn’t pass, or just needed to get out of the house. But here, they can feel awesome about whatever they’re writing, or confident about whoever they’re talking to, because they’re drinking a double-shot espresso with foam. Every person that leaves, leaves feeling better about themselves. And truthfully, that is why there is a Starbucks on every corner; they serve as a wonderful escape.

(Untitled)

Life, slow down.
You’re catching up to me and I don’t know how to look you in the face yet.
I’m not sure how to shake your hand like an old friend would,
Or gaze into your stunning, weathered eyes and smile.
I can’t accept your hovering presence, but you continue to linger in each minute.
You’ve stopped your illusion of strolling through days
And began a race with me that my mind refuses to run;
So you continue alone into tomorrow
Because you decline to take the hand of the little girl who’s sat down on the tracks
Afraid of what may happen to the memory of today
If she tries to keep up with you.

Part 2

About an hour later he ran back across the familiar dark parking lot, the asphalt still soaked through from the rain, and returned to his no longer solitary car. As he drove home, his eyes were fixed upon his newly painted nails. He controlled the car merely with his fingertips, in fear of smearing the fresh polish. His mind wandered, hypnotized by the rhythmic squeaking of the windshield wiper blades. He began replaying what the women at the salon said to him, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you again! Don’t you just look darling?” Their thick Bostonian accents made their comments come across as compliments given from the closest of friends; but he asked himself if they were just making a mockery of him.
He pulled into his driveway, slung his purse over his shoulder once again and stepped out into the rain. He made no attempt to cover his hair as he walked to the mailbox in front of his house. He pulled out a medium stack of envelopes, all of varying sizes and began flipping through them. The majority of them were addressed to his wife, Daria. He put the mail under his arm and listened to his heels clack against the sidewalk, up the stairs in the front of his house and back into his kitchen. He hung his purse over the back of a wooden chair and threw the envelopes on the table.
He picked up his wine glass where he had left it and emptied the rest of the open bottle into it. He raised it to his mouth and finished off the glass. After refilling it again, he climbed two flights of stairs to his bedroom and set his glass on a bedside table. His side of the bed was perfectly made, as if it hadn’t been touched in weeks; on his wife’s side, the sheets and blankets were wrinkled and tossed aside – the way she left them this morning. He kicked off his shoes, carefully pulled back the pristine blankets and climbed in. He lay on his side facing away from the cold, empty side of the bed and watched dust particles fall into his wine.
After a couple of minutes he dared to face the unkempt pillow beside his head. He pulled it closer to him carefully and enjoyed the fruity smell of the shampoo she used, mixed with Snuggle brand dryer sheets, a minty smelling face wash and cucumber lotion. With his face dug deeply into the feather pillow, he fell asleep.