Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Days of Gray
i hear the voices outside, carried by a chilling wind through the screen of my open window. the sound of my drapes being blown back and forth makes a subtle clapping noise, like a solitary admirer with a pitiful heart. the voices dissipate into footsteps on salted walkways and leave only the distant drone of hidden mechanics to accompany me. i look out through the obfuscatory window and see a sky painted with gray such that even the clouds have no definition; it is a blanket of melancholy listlessness. fitting, that it should be the day before i leave which decides to depress me. is this the culmination of my first full term here? a day that cannot decide whether to be itself or night, and a campus devoid of any sentient life... i find myself again lying on my back staring at the ceiling for comfort... hoping for a sheath of whiteness upon which i can sketch my thoughts...
Friday, November 30, 2007
Sunday Long Run
This post has been a long time coming - I've posted this piece on every blog I've ever had and I do it because it is essentially a part of me, and if anybody reads this thing... ever, I want to have at least one thing on here that I can truly say was poured from me as a testament to who I am... (I have recently updated it too, so its not the same as it was last year).
So, to avoid delaying what has happened so frequently before now, I give "Sunday Long Run."
The alarm rang and it was 7:00 in the morning. He lethargically removed himself from his single bed and slipped on the felt-inlayed jogging pants this time of the year required. He walked downstairs to the kitchen window to observe the blanketed white that signified this…winter was here. The thermometer read twenty-two degrees but, to his luck, the forecast showed no sign of continuing snow. With the shades of the windows in his house all casting the radiant sunlight towards the ground and the last sip of his water reassuring his hydration, he was off on his Sunday long run.
Hurdling over the barriers of snow the plows had made the previous night, he entered into the mindset of the fifteen-mile run. As he ran past the fellow morning-runners, not once did he regret deciding to run by himself. He was glad to be alone. The drudgery of repetitive day-to-day life took its toll, often times more so than his workouts did; there was something different about his long runs. Although long runs bear the misfortune of being notoriously boring, he enjoyed the solitude, taking it as a chance to gather his thoughts and relieve his mind of trivial worries. The torrents of these worries and thoughts wreaked havoc on his mind when he did not have the bitter wind against his face to awaken him to rationality; for there were inside of him demons. These inexplicable, unfathomable forces that resided within him were what tortured his consciousness with over analyzed frenzies of suspicion, doubt, and worry. It took ninety minutes of sheer physical exertion to tame these demons, to tame them into the form of harnessed rage that awoke in him the primal nature that could be heard through the malicious wheezing of a monster exploding into the last sprint of a race.
But to the inevitable detriment of his health, this beast too had to be tamed. Fortunately for him though, the long run was fraught with its own means of comfort and familiarity. The endless, rhythmic pounding of his shoes comforted the primitive instincts that told him to attack all who opposed him. But most of all, he was alone. There were no coaches, there were no spectators, and there were no adversaries. The long run gave him a feeling of absolute independence, and the freedom of mobility allowed him to go wherever he wanted to. He enjoyed the isolation, he enjoyed the distance, and the monotony! How he thrived on the monotony! He even enjoyed the cars, because with each one that passed by he could play the role of narrating his own life.
“Why on Earth is he doing that?!” the cars would ask.
“Because I’m the most dedicated son-of-a-bitch you’ve ever seen,” he would retort.
These small, triumphant, hypothetical scenarios, where in every turn the confrontation took, he could deliver the most devastating quip, the most disarming one-liner, and the most profound, inspirational proverb, gave him the inert confidence that allowed him to endure the heckling of ignorant car passengers. He thrived on the thought that, to them, he was just a nameless icon, inspiring a newfound respect for all those other anonymous emblems of perseverance.
He signaled to the automotive community that he was turning left, and passed by his former high school. A plethora of memories, both incredible and bleak, surrounded this building; his first girlfriend, the exact spot of his first kiss, the track where he had set his share of school records, the patch of snow on top of the ground upon he’d had his first and only fight, and the menacing section of the student parking lot where he had lost his first girlfriend to bitter jealousy. All of these wrought their own signature sensations but it was this sound that sent his stomach into a tortuous pattern of aerobics. With every echo of this sound a shot of adrenaline would choke his gut with emotion, producing yet another wave of jolts. He looked to his east and saw the beautiful and unpredictable formations of Canadian geese, honking their marvelous choruses of honks. Back and forth to each other, at each honk he increased his pace, inspired by the occurrence, racing, but only against himself, striding out every emotion in a fit of spontaneity. He was smiling now, for this was why he enjoyed the long run so very much. The complete and utter solitude of purging one’s body of all negativity, becoming one with the majesty of nature, never having to worry about anybody but himself, and the pain, oh the pain that so gloriously signifies everything that he lives for, because this human being is invincible!
He was flying.
It was as if he had become part of the migration and was now racing through the air, following his companions to the bitter end, not caring which way they went. Through the fields where corn used to so proudly stand, past the barn where the grade school kids had played baseball with friends, past the rock quarry, barren and closed for the season. He flew past the neighborhoods that housed oh so many stories of suburban Halloween horror, and past the football fields where the desperately eager to please sons of fathers, long aloof of their children, fought to maintain their rights as kings of the mountain.
He came upon a partially frozen creek and bounded over it without a second’s hesitation. Nothing could interrupt the fluid perfection of his stride, the effortless glide of leg past leg and the skilled pattern of breath that was barely above a whisper.
Down past the creek he entered into the enormous public park that was the location of the infinite number of grueling practices his former coach had pressed upon him and the rest of the team. The many times he had exhausted his body’s every resource in this park were now buried by the foot of snow that had fallen the night before, and because of this, he was hardened against all the feelings of pain and suffering that would have otherwise emanated from the ground. To this portion of his memory he was cold and distant, for the surrealism of ever pushing his body to the point of submission seemed beyond anything he was capable of. He did not want to experience that pain again; it was more unbearable than anything he could remember.
Yet at this he unconsciously turned onto the road that lead back to his home and in doing so he felt a small droplet of water form in his eye. The road that held as much familiarity as his very own home had become a blurred vision of disillusionment. His breathing became less fluid and he began to periodically graze the inside of his leg with an unwary stride. He tried to choke back his emotions but in doing so only caused them to erupt more. His lungs forced out a cough and his breath now contained a wheeze. Why was this happening to him? He didn’t know how to deal with whatever had come over him and out of impulse did the only thing he knew how. He was a little over a mile from his home but the primal demon that resided within him tore out through his heart and began to sprint for his front door.
His arms started to stray from their positions next to his chest and his legs began to lose their perfected form, but he still sprinted onward. His breathing took on an almost panicked quality and he noticed for the first time the sweat trickling down his forehead. The wind that had played so little a factor at the beginning of the run now tore savagely at the patches of his body that had the misfortune of being exposed. The tears had begun to flow, but he could not for the life of him understand their origin. He could taste a subtle metallic substance in the back of his throat, which had become chapped from the repeated gulps of the cold, dry air. With every step he took, he felt as though there were some unseen force pushing back against him, some inexplicable being holding a locked arm forward bearing a shield that he could not overcome.
Then there emerged from his mouth something that surprised even the incubus holding the barrier before him. Out of the depths of his body an abhorrent scream, more, a roar, shook the very foundations of the earth beneath him, and it was then that nothing could stand before him. With an explosion of animosity, of sheer malice, he felt the very essence of his soul forsake all physical limitation. The sound of his heart in his ears, his lungs groping for oxygen, his eyes no longer able to hold a steady focus, he blazed onward with a prayer for numbness that wouldn't come. White patches began to encroach on the already faint sight of the road before him until every time he blinked he was blinded by the absence of color, the absence of rationality.
The last footsteps he took were more closely akin to phantoms than that of actual steps; whispers when sounded together with his tortured gasps for breath, the needles they evoked with each meeting of the ground never allowed him to ignore that every pore on his body was screaming with pain, a pain that he had all but banished from his memory. It was at this point that his world became quiet, a black and white projection of false reality - it was like a movie played without sound and he was a detached and impartial viewer. He saw himself crying and sprinting to nowhere, but in his eyes he saw something else. He saw relief, resolution, confusion, and anger. He saw the realization that this day's run had shown him things he had never hoped to see, it let him experience things as if for the first time, it had broken him and restored him tenfold. It gave him something he may never be able to feel again...
Upon reaching the sidewalk that directed visitors to his two-bedroom town house, his body collapsed completely. He rose up to his knees and coughed a speckle of blood into the snow. Wheezing, he dragged himself inside and his muscles buckled under the weight of a body they had just carried a mile’s distance in less than four minutes. Passers-by would later recall that he was running the same speed as the cars that curiously overtook him, and that they could have sworn the very sky above them had opened up with the echoes of his deafening scream.
For what seemed like hours, the community that had witnessed this phenomenon stood statuesque and in silence; it was as if an atomic bomb had been detonated and this was the sound of a nuclear silence. The only sound was that of the belabored breathing coming from a runner who had long ago proven to himself, and to the world as he knew it, the sheer enormity of human spirit, of human emotion and desire. With quivering legs and a taste of blood in his mouth, this runner resigned himself to the inexplicable…the beyond.
For on that day, he had run with the angels.
So, to avoid delaying what has happened so frequently before now, I give "Sunday Long Run."
The alarm rang and it was 7:00 in the morning. He lethargically removed himself from his single bed and slipped on the felt-inlayed jogging pants this time of the year required. He walked downstairs to the kitchen window to observe the blanketed white that signified this…winter was here. The thermometer read twenty-two degrees but, to his luck, the forecast showed no sign of continuing snow. With the shades of the windows in his house all casting the radiant sunlight towards the ground and the last sip of his water reassuring his hydration, he was off on his Sunday long run.
Hurdling over the barriers of snow the plows had made the previous night, he entered into the mindset of the fifteen-mile run. As he ran past the fellow morning-runners, not once did he regret deciding to run by himself. He was glad to be alone. The drudgery of repetitive day-to-day life took its toll, often times more so than his workouts did; there was something different about his long runs. Although long runs bear the misfortune of being notoriously boring, he enjoyed the solitude, taking it as a chance to gather his thoughts and relieve his mind of trivial worries. The torrents of these worries and thoughts wreaked havoc on his mind when he did not have the bitter wind against his face to awaken him to rationality; for there were inside of him demons. These inexplicable, unfathomable forces that resided within him were what tortured his consciousness with over analyzed frenzies of suspicion, doubt, and worry. It took ninety minutes of sheer physical exertion to tame these demons, to tame them into the form of harnessed rage that awoke in him the primal nature that could be heard through the malicious wheezing of a monster exploding into the last sprint of a race.
But to the inevitable detriment of his health, this beast too had to be tamed. Fortunately for him though, the long run was fraught with its own means of comfort and familiarity. The endless, rhythmic pounding of his shoes comforted the primitive instincts that told him to attack all who opposed him. But most of all, he was alone. There were no coaches, there were no spectators, and there were no adversaries. The long run gave him a feeling of absolute independence, and the freedom of mobility allowed him to go wherever he wanted to. He enjoyed the isolation, he enjoyed the distance, and the monotony! How he thrived on the monotony! He even enjoyed the cars, because with each one that passed by he could play the role of narrating his own life.
“Why on Earth is he doing that?!” the cars would ask.
“Because I’m the most dedicated son-of-a-bitch you’ve ever seen,” he would retort.
These small, triumphant, hypothetical scenarios, where in every turn the confrontation took, he could deliver the most devastating quip, the most disarming one-liner, and the most profound, inspirational proverb, gave him the inert confidence that allowed him to endure the heckling of ignorant car passengers. He thrived on the thought that, to them, he was just a nameless icon, inspiring a newfound respect for all those other anonymous emblems of perseverance.
He signaled to the automotive community that he was turning left, and passed by his former high school. A plethora of memories, both incredible and bleak, surrounded this building; his first girlfriend, the exact spot of his first kiss, the track where he had set his share of school records, the patch of snow on top of the ground upon he’d had his first and only fight, and the menacing section of the student parking lot where he had lost his first girlfriend to bitter jealousy. All of these wrought their own signature sensations but it was this sound that sent his stomach into a tortuous pattern of aerobics. With every echo of this sound a shot of adrenaline would choke his gut with emotion, producing yet another wave of jolts. He looked to his east and saw the beautiful and unpredictable formations of Canadian geese, honking their marvelous choruses of honks. Back and forth to each other, at each honk he increased his pace, inspired by the occurrence, racing, but only against himself, striding out every emotion in a fit of spontaneity. He was smiling now, for this was why he enjoyed the long run so very much. The complete and utter solitude of purging one’s body of all negativity, becoming one with the majesty of nature, never having to worry about anybody but himself, and the pain, oh the pain that so gloriously signifies everything that he lives for, because this human being is invincible!
He was flying.
It was as if he had become part of the migration and was now racing through the air, following his companions to the bitter end, not caring which way they went. Through the fields where corn used to so proudly stand, past the barn where the grade school kids had played baseball with friends, past the rock quarry, barren and closed for the season. He flew past the neighborhoods that housed oh so many stories of suburban Halloween horror, and past the football fields where the desperately eager to please sons of fathers, long aloof of their children, fought to maintain their rights as kings of the mountain.
He came upon a partially frozen creek and bounded over it without a second’s hesitation. Nothing could interrupt the fluid perfection of his stride, the effortless glide of leg past leg and the skilled pattern of breath that was barely above a whisper.
Down past the creek he entered into the enormous public park that was the location of the infinite number of grueling practices his former coach had pressed upon him and the rest of the team. The many times he had exhausted his body’s every resource in this park were now buried by the foot of snow that had fallen the night before, and because of this, he was hardened against all the feelings of pain and suffering that would have otherwise emanated from the ground. To this portion of his memory he was cold and distant, for the surrealism of ever pushing his body to the point of submission seemed beyond anything he was capable of. He did not want to experience that pain again; it was more unbearable than anything he could remember.
Yet at this he unconsciously turned onto the road that lead back to his home and in doing so he felt a small droplet of water form in his eye. The road that held as much familiarity as his very own home had become a blurred vision of disillusionment. His breathing became less fluid and he began to periodically graze the inside of his leg with an unwary stride. He tried to choke back his emotions but in doing so only caused them to erupt more. His lungs forced out a cough and his breath now contained a wheeze. Why was this happening to him? He didn’t know how to deal with whatever had come over him and out of impulse did the only thing he knew how. He was a little over a mile from his home but the primal demon that resided within him tore out through his heart and began to sprint for his front door.
His arms started to stray from their positions next to his chest and his legs began to lose their perfected form, but he still sprinted onward. His breathing took on an almost panicked quality and he noticed for the first time the sweat trickling down his forehead. The wind that had played so little a factor at the beginning of the run now tore savagely at the patches of his body that had the misfortune of being exposed. The tears had begun to flow, but he could not for the life of him understand their origin. He could taste a subtle metallic substance in the back of his throat, which had become chapped from the repeated gulps of the cold, dry air. With every step he took, he felt as though there were some unseen force pushing back against him, some inexplicable being holding a locked arm forward bearing a shield that he could not overcome.
Then there emerged from his mouth something that surprised even the incubus holding the barrier before him. Out of the depths of his body an abhorrent scream, more, a roar, shook the very foundations of the earth beneath him, and it was then that nothing could stand before him. With an explosion of animosity, of sheer malice, he felt the very essence of his soul forsake all physical limitation. The sound of his heart in his ears, his lungs groping for oxygen, his eyes no longer able to hold a steady focus, he blazed onward with a prayer for numbness that wouldn't come. White patches began to encroach on the already faint sight of the road before him until every time he blinked he was blinded by the absence of color, the absence of rationality.
The last footsteps he took were more closely akin to phantoms than that of actual steps; whispers when sounded together with his tortured gasps for breath, the needles they evoked with each meeting of the ground never allowed him to ignore that every pore on his body was screaming with pain, a pain that he had all but banished from his memory. It was at this point that his world became quiet, a black and white projection of false reality - it was like a movie played without sound and he was a detached and impartial viewer. He saw himself crying and sprinting to nowhere, but in his eyes he saw something else. He saw relief, resolution, confusion, and anger. He saw the realization that this day's run had shown him things he had never hoped to see, it let him experience things as if for the first time, it had broken him and restored him tenfold. It gave him something he may never be able to feel again...
Upon reaching the sidewalk that directed visitors to his two-bedroom town house, his body collapsed completely. He rose up to his knees and coughed a speckle of blood into the snow. Wheezing, he dragged himself inside and his muscles buckled under the weight of a body they had just carried a mile’s distance in less than four minutes. Passers-by would later recall that he was running the same speed as the cars that curiously overtook him, and that they could have sworn the very sky above them had opened up with the echoes of his deafening scream.
For what seemed like hours, the community that had witnessed this phenomenon stood statuesque and in silence; it was as if an atomic bomb had been detonated and this was the sound of a nuclear silence. The only sound was that of the belabored breathing coming from a runner who had long ago proven to himself, and to the world as he knew it, the sheer enormity of human spirit, of human emotion and desire. With quivering legs and a taste of blood in his mouth, this runner resigned himself to the inexplicable…the beyond.
For on that day, he had run with the angels.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Ceilings
why is it that the times when im at my happiest i start to deceive myself?...
it's irrational to believe me to be capable of such, yet it happens.
im pathetically captivated by my own sense of perception -
its as if i decided everything that happens does so simply because i need to analyze it.
as if the fact that im me, means that i can decipher the world
one occurrence at a time...
if i look a certain direction and see something i didnt expect, it was put there for a reason,
a reason i dont understand, no matter how deep into i look.
perhaps thats where my fault lies - im digging too deep and hitting rock..
maybe i need to dig in other directions, but what other direction do i dig if not down.
do i look to my sides for ways around the stone?
do i look to the sky for answers i'll probably never know?
or do i wait for a fog to roll in and blind me to my quandary entirely..
its abstruse... and it's fitting that my blog be named as such too.
"the fluid mechanism of abstrusity"
the only thing fluidly mechanical about any of this was that i was way too cocky when i named this site.
way too cocky to realize that my mind would play the kinds of tricks on me i thought my words would play on everybody else.
i read the entries below this one and try to remember what caused me to write them...
and i see a pattern.
they are almost all of them fraught with a degree of arrogance that i merely masquerade,
yet i read them and share them as if they define me...
but do i want to be defined as maligned and bitterly introspective?
thats not me.
i dont even know what's happening anymore..
and when i think i have a grasp on what's around me...
it slips away...
staring at ceilings is a great way to make myself think...
and right now..i think im just tired...
it's irrational to believe me to be capable of such, yet it happens.
im pathetically captivated by my own sense of perception -
its as if i decided everything that happens does so simply because i need to analyze it.
as if the fact that im me, means that i can decipher the world
one occurrence at a time...
if i look a certain direction and see something i didnt expect, it was put there for a reason,
a reason i dont understand, no matter how deep into i look.
perhaps thats where my fault lies - im digging too deep and hitting rock..
maybe i need to dig in other directions, but what other direction do i dig if not down.
do i look to my sides for ways around the stone?
do i look to the sky for answers i'll probably never know?
or do i wait for a fog to roll in and blind me to my quandary entirely..
its abstruse... and it's fitting that my blog be named as such too.
"the fluid mechanism of abstrusity"
the only thing fluidly mechanical about any of this was that i was way too cocky when i named this site.
way too cocky to realize that my mind would play the kinds of tricks on me i thought my words would play on everybody else.
i read the entries below this one and try to remember what caused me to write them...
and i see a pattern.
they are almost all of them fraught with a degree of arrogance that i merely masquerade,
yet i read them and share them as if they define me...
but do i want to be defined as maligned and bitterly introspective?
thats not me.
i dont even know what's happening anymore..
and when i think i have a grasp on what's around me...
it slips away...
staring at ceilings is a great way to make myself think...
and right now..i think im just tired...
Monday, November 12, 2007
Of a Fire that Bathes the Dead Forest
It is a sprint...
from here to there through the darkness of trees, menacing as they grope for his heels - he's spitting acid through his teeth with each wheeze of breath that manages to escape him. The fallen leaves shatter beneath each stride and the fledgling branches explode into splinters after whipping his eyes.
There are footsteps behind him...
He hears them, though with each glance over his shoulder the phantom exists only in shadow, so it is with a blind rage that he continues on, following only this luminous malice before him;
The light which leads the way is only that which emanates from the fire in his eyes, burning the spirits of this dry dead forest. Yet in his wake of flicking embers, the footsteps persist.
They diverge, becoming two in unison to his one - surrounding him at a frightening pace, he looks for them but he cannot see them, he breaks his course to attack them but they are always one step further ahead.
And then they speak, yet it is not with words nor any discernible tongue, it is with an abhorrent scream yet whispered so as only to excite his fury further. Like gasoline to an already enraged fire these words fall upon his ears, more grating than nails to a chalkboard, more scathing than fire to his flesh.
In his attempts to scream in reciprocation they only whisper their caustic hatred more vigorously. He closes his eyes to them yet they rake them open with fiery breath.
He sees them now, two of a kind, the most loathsome of beings, with fangs suspended in mandibles that reek of violence and yet pacifism at once, for these creatures exist only with the intention of leeching the happiness out of those foolish enough to enter their woods. They flick their tongues with the enmity of rattlesnakes and feed on his pathetic attempts to banish them, yet they never display a courage enough to touch him outright.
He stops sprinting and with a swing of his hand catches one by the neck, wringing it, letting it writhe in the agony of being caught. It knocks him to his knees and he puts his other hand around its throat... he tightens his grip slightly, making the beast recoil.. it would be so easy to squeeze just a little harder and watch it gasp its last breath... so easy and satisfying...
His gaze strays to a distant part of the forest where he sees a thin ray of unassuming light... golden in its brilliance it causes the creature to wince as if in pain. He loosens his grip and the ray of light grows in girth to match his opening hand. The wretch is struggling more vehemently than ever, and even though his hold on its neck is loosened it is powerless to escape his fingers.
Realizing then that the ray of light is this creature's ultimate bane he looks with pity down into its eyes... and sees nothing. Staring back at him are eyes that had long ago forsaken the soul that was housed behind them...
At this he rises from his knees and says to the creature, "You, you are a satanical, dim skewer - and though you have teeth like needles and skin like razored blades, you cannot pierce me." With that he released his grip completely and was deaf to the creature's screams as he walked away. The further away from the wretch he walked the more the world became illuminated, until at last he had walked into a place bathed in lighted coruscation. He turned back to look upon what was left of the demon and saw only a blackened hole in the ground where it had met its timely and gratifying demise...
from here to there through the darkness of trees, menacing as they grope for his heels - he's spitting acid through his teeth with each wheeze of breath that manages to escape him. The fallen leaves shatter beneath each stride and the fledgling branches explode into splinters after whipping his eyes.
There are footsteps behind him...
He hears them, though with each glance over his shoulder the phantom exists only in shadow, so it is with a blind rage that he continues on, following only this luminous malice before him;
The light which leads the way is only that which emanates from the fire in his eyes, burning the spirits of this dry dead forest. Yet in his wake of flicking embers, the footsteps persist.
They diverge, becoming two in unison to his one - surrounding him at a frightening pace, he looks for them but he cannot see them, he breaks his course to attack them but they are always one step further ahead.
And then they speak, yet it is not with words nor any discernible tongue, it is with an abhorrent scream yet whispered so as only to excite his fury further. Like gasoline to an already enraged fire these words fall upon his ears, more grating than nails to a chalkboard, more scathing than fire to his flesh.
In his attempts to scream in reciprocation they only whisper their caustic hatred more vigorously. He closes his eyes to them yet they rake them open with fiery breath.
He sees them now, two of a kind, the most loathsome of beings, with fangs suspended in mandibles that reek of violence and yet pacifism at once, for these creatures exist only with the intention of leeching the happiness out of those foolish enough to enter their woods. They flick their tongues with the enmity of rattlesnakes and feed on his pathetic attempts to banish them, yet they never display a courage enough to touch him outright.
He stops sprinting and with a swing of his hand catches one by the neck, wringing it, letting it writhe in the agony of being caught. It knocks him to his knees and he puts his other hand around its throat... he tightens his grip slightly, making the beast recoil.. it would be so easy to squeeze just a little harder and watch it gasp its last breath... so easy and satisfying...
His gaze strays to a distant part of the forest where he sees a thin ray of unassuming light... golden in its brilliance it causes the creature to wince as if in pain. He loosens his grip and the ray of light grows in girth to match his opening hand. The wretch is struggling more vehemently than ever, and even though his hold on its neck is loosened it is powerless to escape his fingers.
Realizing then that the ray of light is this creature's ultimate bane he looks with pity down into its eyes... and sees nothing. Staring back at him are eyes that had long ago forsaken the soul that was housed behind them...
At this he rises from his knees and says to the creature, "You, you are a satanical, dim skewer - and though you have teeth like needles and skin like razored blades, you cannot pierce me." With that he released his grip completely and was deaf to the creature's screams as he walked away. The further away from the wretch he walked the more the world became illuminated, until at last he had walked into a place bathed in lighted coruscation. He turned back to look upon what was left of the demon and saw only a blackened hole in the ground where it had met its timely and gratifying demise...
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Shorthand Window Pane
This shorthand window pane, gleaming in the revelry of a now tempest rain, bears my reflected gaze. The blues of my eyes are listless, my expression is morose and of a scant indifference to all that's around me. It's deathly quiet in this room; the air plays host to the scarcely audible whisper of unseen electronics, and the hall is seething with the woe of a lonely brick and marble cave. Lights are of no consolation; we associate light with the living and yet even in the illuminated grandeur of my hospice I can feel only the icy stare of my reflection in this shorthand window. This glass barrier which allows me to see the world outside without letting me forget my place behind it. The clock begins to tick... it makes its oration in unison with the footsteps of reticent passers-by, afraid to make a visual acknowledgement of me, trapped behind my shorthand window pane. The room fills with a caustic steam, impeding upon me, enveloping me in its fingers with ease; let not my screams escape me, let not the sound of defeat berate me... leave this to the shorthand window pane to obfuscate, and in the disparate range of its unlikely decay, let not your reflection, know that you came...
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The Gravel Path
You start to see things.
You see them in a way most people...
tend to ignore.
All of us can do it.
Still only some of us choose to...
The world is a place dense with unfamiliarity.
And yet the easiest way to overcome that,
is to just see.
I don't mean to look;
Everybody already looks at the world.
Look at the leaves in fall,
Look at the deer in the field,
Look at the people living their lives...
To look is to graze the superficial presence
of all that your eye falls upon.
To see is to observe, and to feel;
To become captivated by things
you never before used to notice.
Because when you open yourself
to the world with more than just your eyes,
that is when,
you start to see things.
See the way the sunlight,
permeates the leaves...
See the way the rocks, tumble and flow.
You'll even see the creatures that cause
those distantly abrupt sounds...
And you'll see that rarely is it out of terror
of you...
You'll see that you don't need to speed along,
that small bits of the world taken in like a long
draught of understanding,
yield a much more profound mode of traversing.
Rather than see a lot and take in little,
absorb all that you take,
and take with the moderation of virtuosic serenity...
And when you finally reach the point,
where the next thing you take,
is a seat with which to simply imbibe the moment,
take also a glance at those things which until then
were entirely foreign to you.
You'll see something.
Not an animal of exotic nature.
Not a plant of myth and magic.
Not an insect of immaculate disguise...
You'll see those people who can see nothing at all.
Those determinately blinded wanderers,
Infinitely pursuing the future they've laid before themselves.
And when they finally reach that future,
what have they but a thirst for something more.
They have an insatiable desire to never be content.
To them, content is what a person
of lesser motivation will feel.
To them, nowhere is worth going,
unless its worth sprinting to.
And when you try to acknowledge these people,
Inform them of the epiphany you've had,
Act not surprised when they are blind even to you,
For their eyes have yet to yield themselves,
Yet to distance their gaze from the immediate,
Yet to wander and admire....
They must know this for themselves...
You see them in a way most people...
tend to ignore.
All of us can do it.
Still only some of us choose to...
The world is a place dense with unfamiliarity.
And yet the easiest way to overcome that,
is to just see.
I don't mean to look;
Everybody already looks at the world.
Look at the leaves in fall,
Look at the deer in the field,
Look at the people living their lives...
To look is to graze the superficial presence
of all that your eye falls upon.
To see is to observe, and to feel;
To become captivated by things
you never before used to notice.
Because when you open yourself
to the world with more than just your eyes,
that is when,
you start to see things.
See the way the sunlight,
permeates the leaves...
See the way the rocks, tumble and flow.
You'll even see the creatures that cause
those distantly abrupt sounds...
And you'll see that rarely is it out of terror
of you...
You'll see that you don't need to speed along,
that small bits of the world taken in like a long
draught of understanding,
yield a much more profound mode of traversing.
Rather than see a lot and take in little,
absorb all that you take,
and take with the moderation of virtuosic serenity...
And when you finally reach the point,
where the next thing you take,
is a seat with which to simply imbibe the moment,
take also a glance at those things which until then
were entirely foreign to you.
You'll see something.
Not an animal of exotic nature.
Not a plant of myth and magic.
Not an insect of immaculate disguise...
You'll see those people who can see nothing at all.
Those determinately blinded wanderers,
Infinitely pursuing the future they've laid before themselves.
And when they finally reach that future,
what have they but a thirst for something more.
They have an insatiable desire to never be content.
To them, content is what a person
of lesser motivation will feel.
To them, nowhere is worth going,
unless its worth sprinting to.
And when you try to acknowledge these people,
Inform them of the epiphany you've had,
Act not surprised when they are blind even to you,
For their eyes have yet to yield themselves,
Yet to distance their gaze from the immediate,
Yet to wander and admire....
They must know this for themselves...
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Wind That Chimes the Bells
The wind that chimes the bells
blows through the open porchway
like a passing aire of happiness,
like the breeze that leaves the sea.
It fills the nose and the mind with a
welcome nostalgia, a tranquil serenity,
an halcyon, which it oftly fares to be.
With its fingers of a delicate touch
it moves across my clothes with
the care of a mother to her child.
A life lived without a friendly wind as such
is as a wolf borne without the wild.
And to this I do declare,
Not a more loving friend,
Has run her fingers through my hair.
And how so fondly I do lament her leaving me alone, yet
Her absence is one I ask her not repent,
For in passing we shall again be in the company of friends.
And I owe it to her, my lovely, life changing wind,
To always feel her love and to show her mine in the end.
blows through the open porchway
like a passing aire of happiness,
like the breeze that leaves the sea.
It fills the nose and the mind with a
welcome nostalgia, a tranquil serenity,
an halcyon, which it oftly fares to be.
With its fingers of a delicate touch
it moves across my clothes with
the care of a mother to her child.
A life lived without a friendly wind as such
is as a wolf borne without the wild.
And to this I do declare,
Not a more loving friend,
Has run her fingers through my hair.
And how so fondly I do lament her leaving me alone, yet
Her absence is one I ask her not repent,
For in passing we shall again be in the company of friends.
And I owe it to her, my lovely, life changing wind,
To always feel her love and to show her mine in the end.
Morning Fog
An alarm awakens me with a jolt of life.
It's early, much too so to be any other day.
The sun is nestled neatly on the furthest
ends of the horizon,
And the reality of my frightful awakening
sets in with my concession of nighttime eyes.
Comfort is the warmth one feels under
the down-feather blanket on the bed;
A reluctant yet needed dis-possession.
A few precious minutes are spent gathering
my effects for the day;
A ritual cherished for its delaying of that
inescapable coming of time.
I feel alive now;
No longer burdened with the reckless abandonment
of that beloved sleep,
I feel slightly energized by the all too
prevalent familiarity of this routine.
I feel it now as the marrow in my
legs hums with a subtle warming glow;
the grateful promise of greatness to come.
I feel it now too as the emptiness in
my chest is made to live again with the
laboring of lungs.
I've felt this too many times before as
I search for a set to rest my head;
But I've come to love it as much as I
have come to think of it with dread.
It is with a peculiar friendship that I
address the morning.
That lonely drive at the darkest of dawns
to a singularly lit field.
A gathering of shadows tells me the
day is about to begin, but
Not before I lay on the rigid
and unrelenting concrete, to makeshift
the bed for which i so desperately plead.
The atmosphere is palpable as I feel
the fog enshroud my eyes;
Talking is for people far more
lively than me...
Walking is for people far more
animated than me...
Laughing is for people far more
humored than me...
Running is for people...
Just like me...
It's early, much too so to be any other day.
The sun is nestled neatly on the furthest
ends of the horizon,
And the reality of my frightful awakening
sets in with my concession of nighttime eyes.
Comfort is the warmth one feels under
the down-feather blanket on the bed;
A reluctant yet needed dis-possession.
A few precious minutes are spent gathering
my effects for the day;
A ritual cherished for its delaying of that
inescapable coming of time.
I feel alive now;
No longer burdened with the reckless abandonment
of that beloved sleep,
I feel slightly energized by the all too
prevalent familiarity of this routine.
I feel it now as the marrow in my
legs hums with a subtle warming glow;
the grateful promise of greatness to come.
I feel it now too as the emptiness in
my chest is made to live again with the
laboring of lungs.
I've felt this too many times before as
I search for a set to rest my head;
But I've come to love it as much as I
have come to think of it with dread.
It is with a peculiar friendship that I
address the morning.
That lonely drive at the darkest of dawns
to a singularly lit field.
A gathering of shadows tells me the
day is about to begin, but
Not before I lay on the rigid
and unrelenting concrete, to makeshift
the bed for which i so desperately plead.
The atmosphere is palpable as I feel
the fog enshroud my eyes;
Talking is for people far more
lively than me...
Walking is for people far more
animated than me...
Laughing is for people far more
humored than me...
Running is for people...
Just like me...
Midday Reverie
This is a kind of stream of consciousness prose story I wrote today after I got home from school.
It's called "Midday Reverie" because well... I wrote it in the afternoon and it's got some pretty out there thoughts...
Anyway - I hope you enjoy my "Midday Reverie":
"It's past your bedtime," whispered the clock benevolently as the scene faded from her perceptive glance. A sunset screamed so beautiful as to have inspired the grass itself to leap from its stalks, to make the trees bow down from their noble gait by the gales of wind, to make the clouds impart their ways to the favor of light; so beautiful and serene was this setting of the sun that Time herself pressed a reminiscent pause on the inevitability of tomorrow: for just a second more with which to imbibe the parting of Now made the presentation of the Next-to-Come so much more worth the wait.
"To what do I owe this blessed cessation?" posed the sun, a half-grin betraying his suave formality.
"To the simple elegance of your infinite charm," responded Time, with a dually flirtatious flutter of her eyes and smile.
And with the courtships of Sun and Forever now completed, the intrusion of the Moon put a stop to all existence; for the stillness of night was his imminent domain; the imperceptible palpitations of the mind, which put dreams to our eyes, his profession. Wolves howl to his solitary supremacy, and stargazers form their eyes to his origins of light and thank him for navigating their hearts to their truest desires.
"His egoism precedes him," the Stars would mutter, wishing they had but a fourth of his poise.
The night was a bowl - a trough - a goblet; no - a veritable melting pot of unseen grandeur - a shame to miss by having to be planted on Earth. Her familiar hearth is pleasing to the peace-of-mind, but the confines of her majesty existing just beyond ground-level sight made her capacity for unlimited imagination just slightly above speculative.
Out in space, the brethren of night, however, speculation was merely a concept of the past, a time before life and order had defined existence to us all. Its unimaginable breadth captures every thought from every being on every livable hospice in the universe. Scientists will tell us space is indefinitely expanding as a result of the Big Bang; space will tell us it's because we imagine it's expanding.
With the conception of every thought that enters into a fusion of every neural synapse, a singular infinitesimal expansion of the universe is felt - reverberating all the way to the edge of Darkness himself, posing to him as the next invaluable addition to his ever-growing glory. The Gatekeeper to infinity, Darkness heartily accepts the interchange and with the simple assimilation of thought, increases his expanse to encompass a trillion more thoughts that very next second.
"But why," you ask "do we on Earth not feel this expansion? Surely the entire universe expanding would cause some sort of perceptible change..."
Oh, but to you, I say it does. For when night draws nigh to the Sun, he relinquishes his throne as the absorber of every thought that ricochets back from the end of darkness. For his maintenance of light comes from these thoughts; yet when he passes his realm to his brother, the Moon, the Sun is in that instance allowing those thoughts to reinvigorate themselves within the well of their genesis. And through the moon they pass, magnified a millionfold - enough to create the manifestation of an alternate life, and spearing through the atmosphere they find their way into the catacombs of your mind to become the next frame in the story of your dreams.
And so I say to you - cherish your dreams and live each one as if you were actually there, for the power of life to think and dream is what keeps the infinite glory of space from ever ceasing to be.
The End :)
It's called "Midday Reverie" because well... I wrote it in the afternoon and it's got some pretty out there thoughts...
Anyway - I hope you enjoy my "Midday Reverie":
"It's past your bedtime," whispered the clock benevolently as the scene faded from her perceptive glance. A sunset screamed so beautiful as to have inspired the grass itself to leap from its stalks, to make the trees bow down from their noble gait by the gales of wind, to make the clouds impart their ways to the favor of light; so beautiful and serene was this setting of the sun that Time herself pressed a reminiscent pause on the inevitability of tomorrow: for just a second more with which to imbibe the parting of Now made the presentation of the Next-to-Come so much more worth the wait.
"To what do I owe this blessed cessation?" posed the sun, a half-grin betraying his suave formality.
"To the simple elegance of your infinite charm," responded Time, with a dually flirtatious flutter of her eyes and smile.
And with the courtships of Sun and Forever now completed, the intrusion of the Moon put a stop to all existence; for the stillness of night was his imminent domain; the imperceptible palpitations of the mind, which put dreams to our eyes, his profession. Wolves howl to his solitary supremacy, and stargazers form their eyes to his origins of light and thank him for navigating their hearts to their truest desires.
"His egoism precedes him," the Stars would mutter, wishing they had but a fourth of his poise.
The night was a bowl - a trough - a goblet; no - a veritable melting pot of unseen grandeur - a shame to miss by having to be planted on Earth. Her familiar hearth is pleasing to the peace-of-mind, but the confines of her majesty existing just beyond ground-level sight made her capacity for unlimited imagination just slightly above speculative.
Out in space, the brethren of night, however, speculation was merely a concept of the past, a time before life and order had defined existence to us all. Its unimaginable breadth captures every thought from every being on every livable hospice in the universe. Scientists will tell us space is indefinitely expanding as a result of the Big Bang; space will tell us it's because we imagine it's expanding.
With the conception of every thought that enters into a fusion of every neural synapse, a singular infinitesimal expansion of the universe is felt - reverberating all the way to the edge of Darkness himself, posing to him as the next invaluable addition to his ever-growing glory. The Gatekeeper to infinity, Darkness heartily accepts the interchange and with the simple assimilation of thought, increases his expanse to encompass a trillion more thoughts that very next second.
"But why," you ask "do we on Earth not feel this expansion? Surely the entire universe expanding would cause some sort of perceptible change..."
Oh, but to you, I say it does. For when night draws nigh to the Sun, he relinquishes his throne as the absorber of every thought that ricochets back from the end of darkness. For his maintenance of light comes from these thoughts; yet when he passes his realm to his brother, the Moon, the Sun is in that instance allowing those thoughts to reinvigorate themselves within the well of their genesis. And through the moon they pass, magnified a millionfold - enough to create the manifestation of an alternate life, and spearing through the atmosphere they find their way into the catacombs of your mind to become the next frame in the story of your dreams.
And so I say to you - cherish your dreams and live each one as if you were actually there, for the power of life to think and dream is what keeps the infinite glory of space from ever ceasing to be.
The End :)
Monday, March 19, 2007
Submission to an Ancient Light
Submission to an ancient light
and importune and unseen fortune.
Decrepit and beleaguered;
Reminiscent or malingered;
Cast to the wind and the sun,
a forecast of light-hearted fun.
Ubiquitous, emphatic, omniscient;
Prototypical and ecumenically
A hebdomadal tribute to the one and only,
of a nepotic aberration, one or all...you or me.
To an open door all that seems to be
Is nothing more than a sight through a closed
And aureate vignette of life to a passing homily.
Nonsensical in a way which is easy to understand,
I speak the language of the words through my pen
to my hand.
Into the paper of life I've been given, to what
I design and what I've been living.
Hidden in a guise, left to me by a vagrant
Who's place i knew not.
Only where he was going and from whence he came,
Never where he stood or even his name.
To that i give my regards, for not once do i
Contemplate the past and the shards
of time. Or me. Of everything i believe,
For the time, if i ever thought it then,
Is upon me now as i write it through the nib of my pen.
yeah stream of consciousness!!!
and importune and unseen fortune.
Decrepit and beleaguered;
Reminiscent or malingered;
Cast to the wind and the sun,
a forecast of light-hearted fun.
Ubiquitous, emphatic, omniscient;
Prototypical and ecumenically
A hebdomadal tribute to the one and only,
of a nepotic aberration, one or all...you or me.
To an open door all that seems to be
Is nothing more than a sight through a closed
And aureate vignette of life to a passing homily.
Nonsensical in a way which is easy to understand,
I speak the language of the words through my pen
to my hand.
Into the paper of life I've been given, to what
I design and what I've been living.
Hidden in a guise, left to me by a vagrant
Who's place i knew not.
Only where he was going and from whence he came,
Never where he stood or even his name.
To that i give my regards, for not once do i
Contemplate the past and the shards
of time. Or me. Of everything i believe,
For the time, if i ever thought it then,
Is upon me now as i write it through the nib of my pen.
yeah stream of consciousness!!!
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Lasting Unimpression
A Lasting Unimpression:
A lasting unimpression has left me here
alone, by the fireside of forgotten time.
Work to do, things I should, there isn't enough
time for everything I would.
Self-indulgence is for me to see and you to question, and
Time after time to leave a lasting impression.
But what of it?
I knew this was going to happen - not so
severely however it may be.
A pen on paper is distraction enough for me.
To feel a page enlivened with thought
is what I seek.
To fill these leaves with everything I think.
To call it me and say it's mine
To impress upon the rest the significance of
what they find.
They've found me, my thought, my eyes.
Grandiloquent though it may be, I find it
Hard for me to think of an easier way
To write what I can, and not what I say.
A lasting unimpression has left me here
alone, by the fireside of forgotten time.
Work to do, things I should, there isn't enough
time for everything I would.
Self-indulgence is for me to see and you to question, and
Time after time to leave a lasting impression.
But what of it?
I knew this was going to happen - not so
severely however it may be.
A pen on paper is distraction enough for me.
To feel a page enlivened with thought
is what I seek.
To fill these leaves with everything I think.
To call it me and say it's mine
To impress upon the rest the significance of
what they find.
They've found me, my thought, my eyes.
Grandiloquent though it may be, I find it
Hard for me to think of an easier way
To write what I can, and not what I say.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
My Dramatic Monologue
I wrote this a while back for my application to UNC at Chapel Hill. I was given this line as the opening sentence to a novel or short story and was told to write the first page to that novel.
"What can you say when the world around you seems to be dying?"
What ensued is something that I consider my first plausible monologue...
What can you say when the world around you seems to be dying? Saying anything at all would elevate you to a status above those who’ve yet to utter a single word, those who’ve chosen a path of complicit pacifism, those who’ve resorted to watching the news every night for the faintest hope that someone with more ambition has already spoken up.
What can we change anyway? We’re not doctors; we don’t have PhDs in medicinal sciences…or even social sciences for that matter. No, we are the populace, the masses, the proletariat; we live in harmony with the fact that one voice out of millions is as readily heard as the screams of ants as we casually walk through their finger sized fortresses. With each scream we only irritate the giants more as they continue to tread upon our homes and everything we’ve ever known, but it’s tolerable as long as we’re still alive.
And what is living anymore when the childhood friends we knew have all succumbed to living in dark rooms with closed doors and no windows, lazily sipping from the grail of anesthetized euphoria? Chemically imbalanced endorphins spearing the barely lucid mind with wave upon wave of false hopes and half baked happiness…it’s sickening. The world around us is dying, and it’s dying one hopeless ingrate at a time. Am I being cynical? Maybe a little. There are plenty of “good kids” out there; just enough for one to remember what it was like to be one of them, and maybe even enough to reminded of one’s own latent “goodness.”
I’m a good kid…Aren’t I? I mean sure I start every paragraph with a question, and I’m three times my age as far as cynicism goes – but I’m not like…those kids. My life’s work has culminated in the absolute rejection of the world of those living dead around me and besides, I like being clean…
Someone please speak up. This isn’t right. I feel like I’m making a plea to an inexistent culture to resurface and take back the innocence that is childhood. Virtue has been taken hostage by broken homes and pathetically corruptible juveniles who’re searching for their own peace of mind, for their own sanctuary from…from what, Life? No! Life is nothing to hide from! Live it! It’s not easy, it’s not fair, we all deal with our own demons, get over it! My problems are no graver than yours as are yours no more threatening than mine – in a world where everything is relative, I’ll relate my day to yours no sweat. Sing me your song and I’ll sing you a sweetly subtle tune to contrast even the darkest of your notes.
Life is no more difficult than you choose to let it be and I’ve made my decision. I want happiness not at the expense of others; I want honesty not at the abandonment of sincerity, I want things…to go back to the way they were.
"What can you say when the world around you seems to be dying?"
What ensued is something that I consider my first plausible monologue...
What can you say when the world around you seems to be dying? Saying anything at all would elevate you to a status above those who’ve yet to utter a single word, those who’ve chosen a path of complicit pacifism, those who’ve resorted to watching the news every night for the faintest hope that someone with more ambition has already spoken up.
What can we change anyway? We’re not doctors; we don’t have PhDs in medicinal sciences…or even social sciences for that matter. No, we are the populace, the masses, the proletariat; we live in harmony with the fact that one voice out of millions is as readily heard as the screams of ants as we casually walk through their finger sized fortresses. With each scream we only irritate the giants more as they continue to tread upon our homes and everything we’ve ever known, but it’s tolerable as long as we’re still alive.
And what is living anymore when the childhood friends we knew have all succumbed to living in dark rooms with closed doors and no windows, lazily sipping from the grail of anesthetized euphoria? Chemically imbalanced endorphins spearing the barely lucid mind with wave upon wave of false hopes and half baked happiness…it’s sickening. The world around us is dying, and it’s dying one hopeless ingrate at a time. Am I being cynical? Maybe a little. There are plenty of “good kids” out there; just enough for one to remember what it was like to be one of them, and maybe even enough to reminded of one’s own latent “goodness.”
I’m a good kid…Aren’t I? I mean sure I start every paragraph with a question, and I’m three times my age as far as cynicism goes – but I’m not like…those kids. My life’s work has culminated in the absolute rejection of the world of those living dead around me and besides, I like being clean…
Someone please speak up. This isn’t right. I feel like I’m making a plea to an inexistent culture to resurface and take back the innocence that is childhood. Virtue has been taken hostage by broken homes and pathetically corruptible juveniles who’re searching for their own peace of mind, for their own sanctuary from…from what, Life? No! Life is nothing to hide from! Live it! It’s not easy, it’s not fair, we all deal with our own demons, get over it! My problems are no graver than yours as are yours no more threatening than mine – in a world where everything is relative, I’ll relate my day to yours no sweat. Sing me your song and I’ll sing you a sweetly subtle tune to contrast even the darkest of your notes.
Life is no more difficult than you choose to let it be and I’ve made my decision. I want happiness not at the expense of others; I want honesty not at the abandonment of sincerity, I want things…to go back to the way they were.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
The Bell-Bred Girth
This is a stream-of-consciousness piece I wrote today, enjoy:
The bell-bred girth
racucous, rampant, and sublime
hands are fists, and voices ring though the air of
laughter: conversations unnoticed.
subtle glowing from the television screen
illuminates the deficiency of order and reason.
but smiling with the knowledge of "treason"
lacks the ingenuity of making it worth doing.
speech. voice. noise. loudness.
it's cacophonous to be a quietly serene requiem; and
my head on the table signifies that eyes shut
will rant and rave with the intensity of screams.
wake up a dreaming sleep by stopping the noise,
distract the brain from brooding over its malcontent.
the consumption of earned relationships spends on the nose
like allergies in spring, and eyes in the sun.
Autonomous. Alone. Independence from the tyrant of a
fluidly mechanical abstrusity of lies;
bring forth the pike to have him reamed for his
perplexity of handless management realized.
The bell-bred girth
racucous, rampant, and sublime
hands are fists, and voices ring though the air of
laughter: conversations unnoticed.
subtle glowing from the television screen
illuminates the deficiency of order and reason.
but smiling with the knowledge of "treason"
lacks the ingenuity of making it worth doing.
speech. voice. noise. loudness.
it's cacophonous to be a quietly serene requiem; and
my head on the table signifies that eyes shut
will rant and rave with the intensity of screams.
wake up a dreaming sleep by stopping the noise,
distract the brain from brooding over its malcontent.
the consumption of earned relationships spends on the nose
like allergies in spring, and eyes in the sun.
Autonomous. Alone. Independence from the tyrant of a
fluidly mechanical abstrusity of lies;
bring forth the pike to have him reamed for his
perplexity of handless management realized.
First Entry
Ahhhhh yes, the inexorable popping of the blog cherry, and thenceforth the commencement of spouting my obligatory rants and raves into the effervecent turmoil that is the internet; each and every day i plan on injecting my gregariously proufound thoughts into that subdermal pulse of fiber-optic flamboyance; and with each additional demonstration of my opinion the world will cower in awe, struck with reticence even to approach me, for my stance on any and every issue will rain down upon thee with the fiery sting of complete and utter infallibility.
wow...that was a long sentence...and i really didnt mean any of that. i'll be lucky if i post even once a week. i'm not even sure who'll read this, but i appreciate your patience through that ridiculously verbose declaration of my own conceited alter-ego, "pompous dude." Some people better know me as "mr. know it all" but thats only on a size "baby" t-shirt.
anyway, i'm out. later
wow...that was a long sentence...and i really didnt mean any of that. i'll be lucky if i post even once a week. i'm not even sure who'll read this, but i appreciate your patience through that ridiculously verbose declaration of my own conceited alter-ego, "pompous dude." Some people better know me as "mr. know it all" but thats only on a size "baby" t-shirt.
anyway, i'm out. later
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