Desperate Thinking

Many of the major struggles we deal with as adults are internal. And they surround the perpetual identity crisis the “adult experience” turns out to be. Some of our worst demons reveal themselves to be a major part of our identity.

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In the back of my mind the grind stays in line
Shows up on time
Thick sludge slime drips off ass it goes by
Slow drive
No life, it chases faceless cries
Whines stalking hated ties through crooked lies
It takes or it dries
Created illusions for desperate tries
Feeling asleep still hoping to die
Never real, but always alive
Never bad, but always a crime
Chiming the rhymes of evil
Slides off the tongue perceiving
Fires burn the homes
Screeching iron melting down
Reaching into hollow grounds
Spinning, churning, twisting round
Molten lava leaking out
The creaking shack is splintered, brown
No sneaking in without a sound
The bleak still ring it sings resound
Trapped inside with screams and shouts
Rotted corpses stand about
Mules and horses on propaganda routs
Burnt alive behind the eyes
To all the rest I stand here fine

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Writing by Hand

There is mystery behind not knowing what words come next when hand writing. More difficult to come by when typing. The slow paced nature of writing by hand leaves mystery to uncover, even for the writer.

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There’s a pleasant seduction behind the ink of a pen. Something about not knowing how long until “the surprise” or “the point” lands on the page is alluring. Even knowing where the work will go isn’t enough. The casually paced process is designed to gradually expose.

An arousing lust, flirty and curious for the next words, drives the ideas forward. As if it smiles back tempting possibilities and teasing wants. A sexy little dance, while motionless, wiggles in the back of one’s mind as a playful draw for more proceeds.

Biting a lip, dragging the pen across the page with delicate hands to guide purpose with care. Ever-so-gentle and crafted a letter at a time, the love filled spiral of intrigued pries. Digging up the fertile soil in search of seeds. Fascinated by the limitless capacity of imagination.

Turned on by the reckless direction, starved and animalistic.

A raw, dangerous and unpredictable monster dressed in ink is the hand written narrative.

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Perspective Death

Death to a Perspectivist can take many forms. This is what it looks like for Jack.

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Many mourn with tears upon death, focusing on the absence of the individual life-force.

I consider death no more than the end of a book I’m part of. They’ve moved out of this three dimensional plain and are off to bigger and better things elsewhere in transcendent reality. In seeing it this way I forget about the absence. It’s like a friend moving away too far to communicate with in any feasible way. They’re just somewhere I can’t reach is all. Thus I remember the good times spent with the individual. It’s all there is left to do. The tears won’t bring anyone back or fix any personal problems I might be having. But I can enjoy what was and consider the death a completion of a unique book. I get to revisit the pages as often as I’d like.

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4 Tips

Instead of finishing the project with a clever bang, Jack takes the occasion to briefly list the four most helpful things he learned to not give up during the course of the project.

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Writers Block. On the last day. What’s the point? I already know what I want to write about. I’m done with a large portion of it already. All nice and typed up. But what I was originally writing about felt fake. Instead I will share 4 lessons I’ve learned in the last 365 days of daily writing. They’ve helped me immensely and will continue to be used in all my other work.

 

1. There is no such thing as writers block. If you don’t know what to write about, write about that feeling. Or write an explanation of what you’d like to write about but can’t find the words for. Every time I used this trick, writers block literally became the subject of the work. It gave me a weird opportunity to psychoanalyse myself. Reflect.

2. Scheduling writing into every day way crucial. It only became easy to write daily once I’d planned it ahead of time. It’s like an imaginary deadline that has to be met. A level of imaginary stress builds up as the deadline arrives. Before I know it my brain jump starts the engine and begins to pump ideas in desperation. And poof. It happens. Ideas long before I reach the keyboard..

3. Ignore the audience. Write what you find interesting first. Then edit it to be understood by the audience. If you love what you’re writing it’ll write itself. If it feels like work it’ll be stressful and take a toll on you. In my experience this took the form of experimentation. I would try out various writing tricks or test my skills with entirely different forms or writing. Other times it would just be a reach into a topic others feel uncomfortable discussing. If readers don’t like it they don’t have to read it. Once editing I decide how to word it to best convey it to a reader.

4. Don’t worry about how it sounds on the first go. The existing text can be edited, but it must first be written. This is basically a take on “Write Bad.” In allowing myself to write poorly first, to exploit the general idea, I discovered much more time existed on the tail end of the session to make the work read the way I want. I could edit for as long as I wanted knowing if time runs out I’m always finished.

 

That’s it. No epic boom. No party. Nothing more. Just for tips that helped ease 365 days of original content.

Don’t know what’s next. Probably more of this.

At a pace I feel more comfortable with.

 

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Faded Patterns

It’s hard to deal with change. But it’s hard to deal with change only because we believe it’s hard to deal with change. Change is impossible..

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Troubled by freedom. The thought of it.

The cage opens and the creature, too scared to leave, quivers at the door.

Long within the bar box. The concept of walking the grass is nauseating.

Overwhelming to not know the other side of the hill.

Perhaps a storm lives there.

Although no phobia for water, there is fear of getting wet.

Never once does it occur to raise the half empty glass to the crying sky.

One of the paintings is crooked and I can’t stop looking.

Jekyll in the lab, but hide when there’s no distraction.

Rhythm was the meditation.

Songs no longer play with open eyes.

Abandoning systems to rise above.

The realization, that which was left was but a fraction of the picture.

Safe outside the cage. Just a bigger box out there.

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Five Sentences

An entire story summed up in the last paragraph. Only five sentences.

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“Next time a fairy wakes you to go on an adventure into the demon realm, call me,” Adam says playing with the pendant he brought back. Still it glows with the energy of the demon now trapped inside.

“Eliza will love it,” Ralf says. “She wouldn’t have been able to escape without your help. That’s all she cares about.”

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And Then Some

Fight through. What’s on the other side is worth the isolation, focus and hard work.
You have to live for your own goals.

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Tic, tick, toc, tock
The gray, oh how grey it is
Peaking while peeking
Was told what the toll was
Armed up I’ve got them with their arms up
Cuz, you’re your cause ‘cause you the jerk always jerking off
Duck the low flying duck
Get blown by some bitch seeking blow
One with a red bow in her hair, she bowed arrow in hand bow in the other
Bearer of hearts barer apart than together
Plan a route to the root of the problem
But banned the band from coming
Weigh what matters and take the rest out of the way
Wonder why’d the wide issue fade

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Hypothesis

Most of our reason go unconsidered. We don’t stop to question ‘why?’ We come up with an answer and roll with it. When the only true answer can be discovered through search, not manufactured.

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For a second in space time, wrapping my spaced mind around disgraced slime
Faced with stress I hide my face, lies, and chase distracting mistakes, stand idle in place
Might faint, fried, just to cry under my face
The sound is too loud to shout it out of the crowd so drown it down
Won’t wait a few seconds after pulling the pin to toss the damn thing
Take cover and hope my ears don’t ring

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Gargoyles Part III

Sebastian finally finds a Gargoyle. Nothing how he expected it would be. And he’s forced to fight for his life.

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30 feet tall, the size of a small house, the gargoyle stands before Sebastian. It’s body covered in rough stone armor. It shrieks like Godzilla and spreads its hundred foot wingspan across ready to pounce.

Sebastian finds himself caught between excitement and fear. He found exactly what he came to see. Events unfolding different than he’d imagine them. He takes off dashing into the woods.

Again, the gargoyle shrieks. It stomps behind Sebastian crashing down the trees as it proceeds. It gains on the boy with each slow giant step.

The woods tear apart behind Sebastian with the roar of an earthquake. The ground beneath his feet shakes viciously. He can barely keep his footing. Noting the gargoyle closing in he opts to attack it instead. He turns around and unloads one beam of deep purple energy out from the palms of his hands. They ineffective against the creature. The panic sends Sebastian running again.

“I didn’t even scratch it,” he says. “What am I going to do?”

He thinks back to whether or not he’d read about a weakness in Isaiah’s book, but only it’s armor was explained.

“If I can get rid of it’s armor I can attack that weak point,” Sebastian says out...

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Gargoyles Part II

Sebastian investigates the church and discovers it to be a prison. Finds only a priest and no gargoyles.

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The chilly early autumn night breeze flows through the trees. Shhhhh, it silences the rest of the woods.

Sebastian eats up the excitement. The large church before him stands tall, a cathedral. Using the woods for cover he creeps over. Careful to not crack too many leaves or make any movements visible from outside the woods. Eyes peeled for priests and celestials. His eyes keep marveling up at the large gargoyle statue on the roof of the church.

In front of the church he dives behind some bushes. A priest comes out and stands at the bottom of the stairs from the entrance. Several seconds later the priest walks off into the woods. The coast is clear.

Out of the bushes and into the church Sebastian races. Hides between the pews and crawls to…

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Gargoyles Part I

 

Curious about the animals from the celestial realm, Sebastian sets off to find and see one in person.

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Floating dust particles shine through the sun rays breaching the window. A loud snore fills the air. Sebastian tries to tune it out, nose buried in Isaiah’s books. There’s hundreds of them. They’re everywhere. On chairs. On couches. On the dinner table. The man’s only activity appears to be studying. Not common for someone so rude and obnoxious.

‘Gargoyles’ written in big golden letters on the spine of the book Sebastian’s holding. He stares with wonder and intrigue, fascinated at the creatures hand drawn onto the pages. Tiny cliff notes fill the corners of each page pointing out the different parts of the creatures. Weaknesses. How they attack. And he reads every word.

“I could definitely beat that one,” he says to himself poking the monster on the page. “The gargoyle. A bird with stone armor. Capable of flight,” he reads, “it can either stand up-right or run on its arms and legs. Like a gorilla that can fly.”

“That’s amazing!” Sebastian yelps as he springs to his feet.

Isaiah moans. Opens his eyes. Turns to the kid. Then says, “Goodnight mom,” and falls back out of consciousness.

Sebastian, shrunk nearly waking Isaiah and sits back down. Nose back in the book. “Only ever found at churches. A type of animal from the celestial realm.”

The gears in the kid’s head begin to spin. He’s remembering a…

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Fabric Structure

People play pretend quite often. They pretend they know there is a God. They pretend they know there isn’t. They pretend they understand the reasons they behave the way they do..
But they don’t know. None of us do.

Jack shares his thoughts on this.
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It’s not what it seems.

Reality might be beyond the processing power of anything within it. It’s beyond the physics of our universe. Beyond imagination.

The underlying truth is that nature is too vastly complicated. It’ll never be possible to comprehend.

It remains a complete mystery while we're surrounded by it. While inside of it. Even while part of it.

It’s so magnificently intricate that it’s small-by-comparison components remain floating question marks.. What’s in or beneath the ocean? What’s consciousness? What’s out there in the cosmos?

The confusion, dramatic. How much is known about any one thing is unknown.

It’s a string of pretend games.

Imaginary guidelines for the simulation of order..

Arrogant while ignorant.

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Turn Tables

Having tracked and cornered Arthur, the detective has the tables turned on him.

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Static charged, the manic man at large wrecks havoc as he travels far
Terror through fear, like the fuhrer from years ago, then goes steers clear and disappears
Near the sand he stands, hands in the sky, he’s mad, the detective failed his plan
Didn’t matter how hard he tried, the crazed guy got the jump, now the good’ll die
Cries and pleads for life, but the look in those evil eyes say, “nice try”
The gun fires, it’s dark like he’s tired, visions of his dead father he admires
Volume down, all goes quiet, total absence of a riot
Memories fade, euphoria fills the brain, insane malice won the day
  

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The Investigation, Part 1

After Arthur managed to escape the asylum and ravaged a small family the state designated his recapture a priority and an investigation into his psychology was initiated.

The detective roams the house in search of clues.

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The rooms smells of burnt carpet and charred coal. You’d think the scent would have faded by now. If not for the dust and dry air it’d be easy to confuse as fresh.

Candy wrappers, crinkled up papers and broken glass crackle beneath my boots as I move through the abandoned house.

Shattered picture frames and porcelain dolls rest on the coffee table center of the living room. Yellow tape still play the roll of bedroom doors. No one’s stepped foot in the house since the tragedy occurred.

His bedroom is the only part of this godforsaken place that isn’t a complete disaster. It’s untouched. As if he’d not once been inside. As if every waking minute was of each day were wasted compulsively cleaning and organizing personal belongings.

Minus the excessive neatness, nothing seems off.

The report said the family was quiet. Private. Then the incident happened.

What could drive a man to so brutally…

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Those That Make

What you’ve done in the past will influence your future. More so if you’re a creator.

A thought on creativity.

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The ability to create is a muscle in the mind. If exercised there is no limit to the imaginative capacity it might contain.

All forms of creation affect the understanding of all other forms. They cross over. The same amount of improvement you gain from using your imagination in one area will show in the rest. The base tools are what get enhanced. Critical thinking. Problem solving.

The more varied your methods of creation are the more you have to offer in any one area. What you bring is the experience of what was made or attempted in other mediums. And with an elevated understanding of creation you’ll begin to see how what worked for that, with a little tweaking, can work for this.
Re-imagination is the strongest weapon a creator holds. Knowing what old tricks make new art.

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Mara's Book

As humans we hide. We avoid facing our problems and pretend everything ceased existing.
Buried in our vices.
A poem

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Shady tree
Knees pulled up
Book in hand
Quiet
External static
The adventures of a manic hero
Buried in the pages for ages
Battling mages and dragons
Stopping havoc from passing
Adored by all as it is
But the portal back home
It’s closing
Been dozing for way too long
The demons from the frozen homeland
Where evil roams much to often
If the gate shuts and there’s no luck
It’d be easy to get stuck
Fine and dandy
To get away from the madness
No one will miss me

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