It's a good feeling, being loved. Even if it's only one person
Remember when Mommies and Daddies used to tell it to us all the time?
Well, now it has meaning. Theres a rhyme and reason for love and loving.
I don't know who you are, but I'm sure I love you too.
Don't feel alone.
Except for you, Adrian.
(i don't actually know any adrains, but it's worth it to mess with all the Adrians in the world.)
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Intro
The streets are crumbling, falling apart. I walk past buildings that are still aflame from the razing. I grip my shoulders as a cold wind blows through the deserted shell of a metropolis. In the distance I can hear gunshots, women screaming, violent explosions. I continue walking, looking for even a shred of surviving life. Amidst the rubble I see signs of the peaceful life these people once had. I shudder and wrap my nightgown tighter around by trembling frame. I feel so vulnerable, so easy a target. Compared to the bleak landscape, I stand out like a shining star. Or like a snowflake, so small and white, and oh so delicate. I walk for what seeems like centuries, past the collumns of buildings and the broken fountains and murals. I must be in the art district. Not that it matters anymore. I step into the shelter provided by a derelict library. Inside I find that most ofthe texts have been removed or set alight in large piles all over the floor. All that is left of literary masterpieces is charred paper and the smell of burning. I find one book not too destroyed and sit down to wait out the night. Novel for a makeshift pillow, I try to fight away the lingering images from the raids as I drift away. Before I completely fall from consciousness I think the same thought that brings along my terrible nightmares. Sebastian is responsible for all this? ...What have I done?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Oh Well
Red, Green, Yellow, Blue, Orange - quick repetitive movements, more like muscle memory than anything else, really.
I don't know why I still do this.
Everyday, grinding out precious hours, burning my eyes out until my visions swims and wearing thin the cartilage that once kept my fingers so nimble, but now barely allows me to round out "Through the Fire and Flames."
Imagine how detrimental that must feel, deep down.
To be a great metal band, recognized by millions - but only because you were lucky enough to have found your way onto a videogame playlist.
Sometimes suicide is forgivable, I suppose. Hey there, Kurt.
I am a slave to the new age. All we've done is upgrade our shackles. Instead of a ball and chain, these new ones come compact and wireless. Hammering away at color-coordinated buttons and triggers to trump my peers in points.
These things, our Gamerscore, our games, are they essential to our survival, in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word?
No.
Oh you filthy whore, at least use your own words! Can you not choke out a meaningful piece of work without resorting to cheap lines taken from film sources?
Genocide: –noun. the deliberate and systematic extermination of a national, racial, political, or cultural group.
2. The eradication of the culture of a group of individuals by means of destroying the populace or removal of cultural representations.
We are the teenage SS, Hutus? You've got nothing on us. We have no time for art or music, save for the moving pictures we interact with and the audio that accompanies them.
We blindly trample over the works of men and women who create beauty from nothing, and applaud those who keep us sheltered from the outside world, inside, alone, our only friend a glowing little rectangle that feeds on our wallets and quite frankly, our souls.
Oh yessir, our souls. Or lack thereof.
I don't know why I still do this.
Everyday, grinding out precious hours, burning my eyes out until my visions swims and wearing thin the cartilage that once kept my fingers so nimble, but now barely allows me to round out "Through the Fire and Flames."
Imagine how detrimental that must feel, deep down.
To be a great metal band, recognized by millions - but only because you were lucky enough to have found your way onto a videogame playlist.
Sometimes suicide is forgivable, I suppose. Hey there, Kurt.
I am a slave to the new age. All we've done is upgrade our shackles. Instead of a ball and chain, these new ones come compact and wireless. Hammering away at color-coordinated buttons and triggers to trump my peers in points.
These things, our Gamerscore, our games, are they essential to our survival, in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word?
No.
Oh you filthy whore, at least use your own words! Can you not choke out a meaningful piece of work without resorting to cheap lines taken from film sources?
Genocide: –noun. the deliberate and systematic extermination of a national, racial, political, or cultural group.
2. The eradication of the culture of a group of individuals by means of destroying the populace or removal of cultural representations.
We are the teenage SS, Hutus? You've got nothing on us. We have no time for art or music, save for the moving pictures we interact with and the audio that accompanies them.
We blindly trample over the works of men and women who create beauty from nothing, and applaud those who keep us sheltered from the outside world, inside, alone, our only friend a glowing little rectangle that feeds on our wallets and quite frankly, our souls.
Oh yessir, our souls. Or lack thereof.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Unsung Heroes
Heroes cannot be ordered at the drive in down the block,
but they can ask if you want an order of fries to go with your value meal.
Heroes are not perfect, flawless, or aryan in their appearance,
but they may spend 4 to 5 hours in front of a mirror preparing to pretend to be.
Heroes are not shrink-wrapped, vacuum-packed, or placed behind a plastic LIMITED EDITION seal.
However, they can be made in China.
Heroes cannot breathe underwater or see extra-long distances at night,
but they dream and fall asleep thinking of people like that.
Heroes are not printed in 124-bit technicolor ink and stapled together in books and issued out for 2.49£
They do shell out their weekly pittance for these books, though.
Heroes don't engage in fiery 1-on-1 combat with extraterrestrial foes.
They do put pen to paper to battle the all-too-human ones, though.
Heroes are not wounded by special minerals like kryptonite and don't have any adamantium fused to their skeletons.
They are caged behind a wooden board affixed to a metal seat and do battle with their .7 inch lead mechanical pencils.
Heroes don't have parades in their honor and are never presented with the key to the city by a gleaming mayor and published on newspaper covers. They make nightly emmissions and fumble awkwardly with new styles of music and art.
Heroes are not, in fact, a minority. In fact, they make up maybe half the population.
And never hear a single group appraisal.
Heroes don't start wars.
They get shot and die, and a mother crys a week after the fact.
The world won't mourn the passing of today's Heroes as they wink out of existence. Funerals won't be broadcasted,
and none of them will be called a "crucial loss for humanity."
Heroes cry where the father's can't hear them and their mothers can't help them.
They dream of a better place for themselves and impatiently wait out the days that are called the best of their lives.
but they can ask if you want an order of fries to go with your value meal.
Heroes are not perfect, flawless, or aryan in their appearance,
but they may spend 4 to 5 hours in front of a mirror preparing to pretend to be.
Heroes are not shrink-wrapped, vacuum-packed, or placed behind a plastic LIMITED EDITION seal.
However, they can be made in China.
Heroes cannot breathe underwater or see extra-long distances at night,
but they dream and fall asleep thinking of people like that.
Heroes are not printed in 124-bit technicolor ink and stapled together in books and issued out for 2.49£
They do shell out their weekly pittance for these books, though.
Heroes don't engage in fiery 1-on-1 combat with extraterrestrial foes.
They do put pen to paper to battle the all-too-human ones, though.
Heroes are not wounded by special minerals like kryptonite and don't have any adamantium fused to their skeletons.
They are caged behind a wooden board affixed to a metal seat and do battle with their .7 inch lead mechanical pencils.
Heroes don't have parades in their honor and are never presented with the key to the city by a gleaming mayor and published on newspaper covers. They make nightly emmissions and fumble awkwardly with new styles of music and art.
Heroes are not, in fact, a minority. In fact, they make up maybe half the population.
And never hear a single group appraisal.
Heroes don't start wars.
They get shot and die, and a mother crys a week after the fact.
The world won't mourn the passing of today's Heroes as they wink out of existence. Funerals won't be broadcasted,
and none of them will be called a "crucial loss for humanity."
Heroes cry where the father's can't hear them and their mothers can't help them.
They dream of a better place for themselves and impatiently wait out the days that are called the best of their lives.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)