REPORT A PROBLEM
I dreamed I was falling, falling though a rainbow of endless colours and they blended together, slowly turning a murky shade of black or grey. I was engulfed in flame, my dream slowly bringing me to my death. It is here that I came to the conclusion that I would fall forever, if only as ashes in a moonlit chasm, for there is no end to life, only to living. The bottom of this pit will ever elude me, and I will spend an eternity here, falling, endlessly, like an angel with a broken wing will ever fall to hell.
Will life forever pass me by? This I cannot say. Looking into the night, I see too much to sit here wondering. Flowers have but moments, in the vast wastes of time, and we, as humans, can only live, as long as we're alive. Does this mean that I, myself, am already prepared to die? Again I ask myself the questions that I, a human, can not yet answer, I cannot see that far. I cannot look into my soul and view all that I might, for mine eyes are blind to such things, as moles are blind at night.
She smiled into a small, clear pool from her position in the branches of a willow tree. It seemed as though she had spent an eternity sitting there, gazing into the crystalline waters, and still she sat. She did not wish to move, to disturb the gentle surface of the mirror with even she smallest of footsteps on it's silvery shore. The honey-green leaves that surrounded her were the only things that dared to move in the summer heat, fluttering in a gentle breeze that brought with it no relief from the waves of warm air wafting from the earth.
'If ever I were to sleep, would I wake to find myself trapped in a dream?' the girl wondered, again gazing quietly into the now rippling waters of the pool below. 'Or would I simply sleep for ever?' She then spoke aloud, the first words she had created in many long, silent years. "What is sleep anyway, but another form of life." As if in response, the liquid silver below shimmered in a kind of agreeing way, a slow, gentle ripple running over its gentle surface. She nodded, as though it had actually spoken. "Quite right, my friend, quite right."
The world itself seemed to be covered in a curtain of silent waterfalls, all blurry and bright. She didn't like to look at it, so she continued to stare down, below her feet into the deep depths of life, seen inside a gentle pool of water. Its surface shrank and swelled, as though it was the breast of the earth, breathing in a regularly erratic manner. "Do not worry." She muttered to the spring. "All shall be well once more." There was a pause in the water's breathing. "Oh, everything." She said, as though it had asked a question. "Everything."
She dreamed her way through the next few days, feeling the sun drift past overhead, caught in its endless chase for the moon. She woke as the rain began to pour down, wetting the world with the moon's gentle tears. The pool below her was alive with motion, with the endless little ripples that each pure, silent raindrop left on its surface as they plunged down into its watery depths. Her spirit swelled with overflowing joy as the sky leaked down its misery. She loved the rain. She loved the way it pattered gently across her skin, cleansing her soul.
Fire, intense and blinding fire. It surrounds her. It is all that she is, all that her future holds. It is her past, her present and her eternity. Wherever she goes, whatever she will do, the fire will lead, and she will follow like the wolf that follows the helpless sheep. There is nothing in her world that is not made of heat and burning flesh. She cries again, her tears scalding her cheeks and eyes. Nothing will end this, just as nothing was done to begin it. It is, and always will be. That is the way of life.
I cannot stand this anymore. This incessent wondering. I cannot sit patiently, waiting for something to bear its soul. My dreams are as worthless, cryptic, insane. Yet I wonder what they mean. If I am, myself, insane. If I were to jump from the edge of a cliff, so high up in the sky, would I fall forever more, or would I learn to fly? If wishes are horses, and horses were dreams, then how many times would we dream our sleep? How many times would we stop to weep, crying in this endless world, of hate and angry words.
Time is but a dream, a concept of our lives. It is there so we can measure life, but is it right? We put an hour to everything, marking the passing of the days, but days are only segments of the week, which in turn become months, the years.
We pass though life unknowingly, on our way through space and time, leaving our fingerprints on walls and our footprints in the sand. We go through oceans of memories, but never stop to live. Through years, over roads, ever clueless. Charging as a knight so bold and going on our way.
Malevolent gazes, sparkling stars,
Gazing down, a furious figure,
As she wanders the desert sands,
She watches the all-seeing, the gravedigger,
As he plows his way through the earth,
Deep into the central core,
Where all that is of worth,
Opens to our eyes, laying naked in darkness,
Where all was once shielded by light.
Everything cowers, under her watchful gaze
Her light reflecting through the night.
For she is the moon, and the sun is her hunter,
Ever he's chased her; ever she will run,
For if she's caught she will burn
And die; no more will she watch.
Their first meeting, she burst into tears. That she didn't understand made it worse. He was perfect, the dream that nobody expects to see.
He entered the coffeehouse, much to her pleasure, and ordered a drink. The room was full, so he sat at her table. They talked for hours, until the place closed. He gave her a ride home, it was 'on his way'. They talked some more. He seemed content to listen to her, and they liked all the same things. She'd been opening her door when she woke. The man of her dreams was still a dream.
The trees were silent, safe for when an occasional light breeze would sift through the leaves, dry from the summer heat.
It hadn't rained in weeks. The earth was hard and covered in a dusty film that rose up to coat the children's bare feet as they trampled through their yellow lawns as mothers begged them to come inside where it was cooler and fathers refused to light the barbecue. The children all had their hair tied back in some way, or cut short. The grass folded and broke beneath their feet but, being children, this mattered little to them.
I've never been to the desert, but it sounds like a horrible place. Not only would one have to keep themselves covered from the sun, but the heat, of course, must be taken into account. And then there are the nights. I'm told it can go so far as to snow on a desert night, when the temperatures drop beyond the horizon with the sun.
I doubt I'll ever go to a desert, not willingly anyway. Then again, I do plan of seeing Egypt, so I guess I'll end up doing so anyway. Maybe I need to re-think my goals.
I've been looking over the things I've been writing these past few weeks and I've come to the conclusion that I must really like rain. Rain, rivers, springs. I write about them both far too often. Oh, and tears too, so maybe it's water that I love so much. I can't say. I wish I knew what it was all about though. It seems only yesterday that I spent all my time writing about, well, time.
My sleep patterns have also been a little wonky. I keep waking with songs I haven't listened to in ages stuck in my head.
A lark broke out into song just beyond the trees, its fluttering notes swaying across the water's surface to ring delightfully upon her ears. Though there were other birds in the forest, some with a nice song than that of the lark, like nightengales or the robins, to her the lark always seemed to be the better singer. It was sweet and natural, reminding her of her mother's voice, now only a shadow of a memory caught in the tangled web of her mind. Her own voice was more like the wind, quiet and rarely heard in and of itself.
Nothing is more important than a good quote. A message to the world that one can live by. My current favorite is the first verse of a poem by E.E. Cummings. It is as follows;
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Old time is still a-flying
And that same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
It touches me, and I can see the flower as it turnes from blooming to dying in that fast-action movie effect. It inspired my time-obsession. The poem, for those who wish to know, is entitled 'To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time'.
Caroline Dunechaff was not rich, nor was she all that respected. She was old and her only child had gone, leaving her to die alone in her run-down cottage and to rot in the insect-filled garden that covered her yard. None-the-less she was content to live out her days in the same home she had begun them in.
Her hair was grey, silver, white, and her smile only augmented the many laugh lines that littered her face. She was proud of the life she'd lived and, though her limbs now creaked and her back ached round-the-clock, she was at peace.
A single hand that moves around, spining endlessly. Nothing really seems to move but that one hand upon the face. The other two are still as mountains, but deep inside I know they, too, will make their way around the ring. 12:00, 1:20, 2:40, on it goes. I wonder what would happen were I to reach out and stop the seconds from passing away. Would time itself stop with the hand? Of course not, because the clock is not time. The clock is an object, run by gears. It doesn't affect time the slightest.
If it could, would I dare?
I have wrapped myself within a bubble to cusion me from the pain and sorrow of the reckless, hurtful people outside. I remember a time when I walked among them, hurting, stealing and going on my way.
Thanks to you, I no longer live like that. Thanks to you and this broken heart of mine, I no longer sit and watch as angry people deliver angry words to sorrowful souls who burst into tears the moment their tormentor is out of sight. I thank you for this. I may hate you forevermore, I thank you for showing me to see.
The other day, I was watching televsion and a comercial for the hit serise Angel came on. It finished with a line said by the title character; 'Live the way the world were as it should be, to show it what it can be.' This is an amazing little piece of advice, and one I can only wish I lived by. If everybody just did this, maybe the world would become what it should already be. The only problem is, we all seem to have a different view of how things should be. It's still a great quote.
Today I read Xtina Shaolin's entry for June 10th, and was stunned by it. I don't know if you will read this, but I wanted to say that it was a wonderful selection, and I could relate to it. The last line, 'It would be frightening, if I cared' is, point blank, the greatest statement I have ever read. You are a great writer, and I am taking the liberaty of reading some of your other entries, all of which I have found well-written and true-to-the-letter. I look forward to reading more of your works, and thankyou for your paraghraphs.
Hate. It spans through us like a web of emotions. It is who we are, and it is unescapable. Sometimes other things get caught in the web; love, passion, dreams. These are the things that make us feel. They control our destiny. What would we be without these feelings… these desires. No matter how hard we try to escape it, hate will always come creeping up on us again, stronger and more vengful than before. It saps our energy and grinds us into pieces, then leaves us by the side of the road to heal and stand up once more.
In times, the world seems to cave in on us, the sun burns out of existence, and we are left to pick up the pieces of broken momeories and try to put together an image of the light it gave. We ourselves are lost in the empty chasms of hate and anger, and love. And nothing we do will save us from our fate. We are lost and cold and lonely. Hearts break into pieces so small they are but slivers, lost in the night. Surely, this is how it will end in the dark emptiness of the never-ending night.
She couldn't see. It hadn't happened suddenly, nor had it happened slowly, progressively. She simply was no longer able to look out at the world and see the sun, or the moon, or just a simple star. Instead she saw the hate and greed of the world, and the despair. The despair was the worst. It dround out everything and prevented her from so much as feeling the gentle glow of the sun on her head. The world was without hope. Love. Light. It would end like this, and it would crumble into nothingness, and nobody would mourn its passing.
I shuddered. There was someone… something. It waited just around the corner. I could feel it. I could sence it. The sun dimmed. I could almost see the stars in the daylight sky. Soemthing moved, brought up a shadow. I caught the glint of silver… steel. A pain erupted in my side. I looked down, dimly registering the thick, warm blood as it covered my abdomen. I wondered what would happen if I closed my eyes. If the horror would fade and disapear. I tested it, but the blood was still there. The world around me died. I did too.
Last night, I dreamed. Really dreamed, not random images comming to mind. A story unfolded in my head, the people were not cardboard cutouts but real people, the sort I might meet on the street. I could tell you what each of them looked like, down to their eye colour, but 100 words is far from enough. I felt, and events touched me, deeper than those of waking hours. Now, I cannot help but wonder if this is not the dream. I am the man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or was the butterfly dreaming he was human?
She lay down beneath the surface of the stream and a sheet of ice set itself over her even as the sky lay a blanket of snow down on the frozen water. She was quite warm, peaceful. The wind began to sing a lulliby and the beasts of the forest quickly joined in, circling the river, protecting her from the harmful creatures of the night. The stars twinkled happily above her, watching with their ever-watchful eyes. And the moon, a glowing disc, set there to serve as her night light, and scare away the deamons of the year long nights.
He was a farmer, no more and no less
And she but a peasent in a torn, cotton dress.
But in their home they lived, a queen and king,
And, of eternity, they did sing.
Their children grew up as they watched together
Old age set in, still they sang of forever,
In the quiet cottage by the trees,
With Lovers walks beneath the leaves.
Happily they sang their song
Years passed, oh-so-long
Lost inside each other's arms
Together they could do no wrong.
And so they lived, long into their years
Until she died and left him in tears.
A world of urban metal, where the sky is dark and always cloudy. This is where I live. This is were we all live, but it's our own fault. Everyday I see advertizements for some new, disposable accessory to make lives easier. It makes me sick. Sure, OUR lives'll be easier, but our children's will be non-existant! We persist in making these products that you can use and through away, meanwhile, our world is covered with our filth, our crap. Is there no respect for mother nature, anymore? And don't get me started on the fight for a drug-free America…
What is happening to this place? What on earth could be wrong with the world that even the children sleep knowing what is happening. Knowing that, across the ocean, where the people are poor, there is a war being fought. Knowing that their fathers and mothers are off somewhere killing even the most innocent of people. I hate it. I hate that we can't just find a way to make it all right. To enable us to fight our wars without the countless, pointless deaths. Then maybe we'd be better off. Then again, maybe not. How am I to tell?
She didn't think of herself as old. In fact, she rarely thought of herself at all. She was but an ordinary woman living in an ordinary home beside Jasper Avenue. It scared her if she thought of herself as anything other than that. As something special. Something the world couldn't live without. Especially now that she was preparing to die.
She had no children. She was the last of her line, and she wanted to go out just another, ordinary woman who'd lived in another, ordinary house beside Jasper Avenue. Fate, it seemed, had other plans for this ordinary woman…
The Tip Jar