Thinking about mortality and the love of creating.
Often conflicted and quite difficult to please, a complicated pursuit to remain busy and create overtakes. It’s aimless, but fueled by the imagination of a mind never silent. Thoughts without sleep. A perpetual anxiety holds on the brink of psychological collapse. Everlasting depression lingers in the background with awareness of mortality and the shortness of time. All the things wanted but only few will unfold before the red curtain drops, the lights shut off and the stage plunges to darkness. Countless tail-chases to the priceless and of meaning. Naming it purpose. Hoping it doesn’t come across as…
A tale of warriors on adventures and worries scared to venture.
There isn’t always a clear path when staring at a journey. Excuses are unacceptable. Walls are no reason. Spilling the ink is the only truth. Yet, warm masks cry reason. Without aim or direction an image forms itself. Narratives aren’t born, they’re crafted from struggles. Pointless clicks and scribbles grab hold of the ether and drag down the fantasies pleasantly floating about. Shapeless as they may be alone, collections get named. Ink formed into abstract ideas discussing themselves. Meanwhile cosplay myths and tales of pens run dry strike fear into the hearts of warriors beginning their path. Religions designed to confuse. Fictions more crippling to the wanderer than the stories eager for design. But the true explorers don’t fall victim. They travel, even with the fear deep…
The great war begins and for those unaware of what’s really going on, it’s not more than confusing chaos and unexplained horrors left and right.
Black leafless trees as far as the eye can see. Like a forest fire ravaged existence itself. Red skies plague a dark aura over all that is left. Dark daylight is as bright as a moment gets. The dirt beneath my boots crumbles like glass crackling under my weight. The great war merely strolled through here. In less than a week the entire state fell. The bunker managed to keep us safe in the meantime. There’s nothing but the aching screams echoing through the air left lingering. Entire buildings up and vanished into the chaos.
My grandmother always said the rapture would arrive without warning. It would just be here one day. And it seems that’s what took place.
One moment I’m at my first day at the office unpacking my things and getting settled in to the desk of a tragedy passed. The next moment my window view witnesses what I can only described as giant winged people attacking a tiny record store across the street. Within seconds their numbers are in the hundreds, then thousands. They’re popping…
Emotionally abusive parents of schizophrenic children should be sterilized.
Draped of silhouettes and contorted figures a dim light barely saves the room from the void. Whispers, maddened by guilt claw at strands of sanity to shred and devour. Fetus on the sheets tightly squeezes its life away, hoping the malicious tones drain out. Louder they get when resisted. Sense of self is ever more vague. Creeping away without hope of return if lost. Angry voices across the door weaken the spirit and give way to the whimpering soul that lay broken while innocent. Confused of cause and with no reason to justify loathe. A burning hatred grows for the sun and the shelter. Welcoming becomes the fade across the shadows with no faces. Simplistic the illusion of nothing. Peacefully resting on the other side of action. Long enough assures bravery for cowardice and silence be witness to the collapsed towers of rage and wrath. Forgotten or at least desired to be the whither phase to the ether. And the river of tears run streams of screams and intention.
We all have demons we struggle with. Fear of them taking control. And sometimes they do. And sometimes it feels good after we’re done with our fear.
Pained finger. Cracks and snaps. Deep breaths to get over it. Get it over with. Nausea at the pit of my stomach. Monstrous transformation I’ve undergone. Malice I begun with. Could use a gun, but the pop would make it too real. I don’t want to run. Craving the numbness. Tight grip, I squeeze. Thought bubbles surface. Words in silence. Boiling water hides the violence. Struggles to keep inside. Hopes to hide. Hopes to die. Tears roll down red eyes. Lingering moments that don’t go by. Branded images. Back of the mind. Persistent twists of liquid mist obscuring things. Rage filled. Caged and ill. Killed will power. Standing still, towers, tall build. Showers of blood ripple. Screaming “enough.” Chilled spine. Raised hairs. Tunnel vision. Blinded sight. Regrets but no want to fight. Sensations that feel right to relieve the pint up aggression. Repression released in the middle of…