Wither
Wither (At Relationship's End)
I remember once, when it used to be Summer,
I shared with you my secrets and memories,
and all my deepest carnal desires
of sin and beauty and pleasure.
Even little moments blossom into poignant memories,
when I shared them with you, heart to heart.
But as the seasons changed, and sadness
rose from the horizons,
You grew distant, like the rainbow which disappears
as soon as one tries to get closer.
The leaves crumbled and the trees grew barren,
and the familiar scenery eroded into
a hollow shell of that warmth and lushness
I once tasted with you.
Winter came, and I see you've found that happiness
without me,
and I, in all my shame,
could only stare as if caught behind a glass window,
lest I wither you away from my touch.
It is hard to admit defeat,
but the truth is - it's better to be the one letting go,
than be the one who's let go of,
like an old branch falling off the tree.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's better to numb
your heart to the feelings that once were,
instead of absorbing pain from the happiness
which once was,
but then I realise, it once was, instead of it never was.
Perhaps, trudging forth to the future that holds no assurances,
I may find a new happiness,
keeping you close in my memories.
Kiss of Death
Kiss of Death
In a blue night, I visit his room through his windows. He is sleeping soundly on his bed, his body a comfortable contour under his sheets.
I linger over him, adoring the way he looks in the darkness. A part of me wishes to join him beside in his comfort, and silently, I'd hear him breathe, in and out, the only noise besides the ventilation, and the hum of his alarm clock.
But that is not what I am here for.
His face is turned sideways, resting on his pillow, and I head over and kneel down by his bed, and there, by his closed eyes,
his lips.
I feel his breath on my face. And then I lean in, and quickly wrap my mouth over his in a tight kiss.
His reaction is immediate; his eyes jolt open in rudeness, and he begins to squirm -- for my lips have been coated with a deep black poison that carries with it a taste of blackberry and the most extreme pain.
So with my hands, I cradle his face securely - while he struggles to pull away from my lips, his muffled screams adding to my delight.
I'm kissing him, not because I know him, or someone has sent me on their behalf to kill, but because it is simply wonderful. Like a music all on its own. Each and every homme is different and unique in the kissing; some of them would breakdance in their beds, some of them would moan and cry, while others would gag and even try to vomit. But all the same, I savour them with the utmost joy.
In his case, he is thrashing on his bed like he's being possessed -- the mattress squeaking and his bedframe rattling; he'll wake up everyone else with that noise, so I climb onto his bed, on top of him, and I hold my own body, my breasts against him to muffle his erratic frenzy.
*unnnghhhhh*
He tries to paw my face away with his hands, and he does succeed; a brief lapse of my kissing, and saliva spills from his mouth, mine and his - he frothes and gurgles, and coughs out, and I recognise the inhalation before the scream --
I won't let him scream. So I interrupt his gasp with another kiss, and I promise never to let him go until the end.
I hold onto his hands, my fingers clutching in-between his in a deadlock (like lovers), and he is utterly helpless in my embrace, as his moans eventually diminish, and his squirms reduce to petite quivers, and finally, nothing.
And even though he is lifeless now, I linger over his lips for another minute, the fine texture of them bristling with tender lines. The rush of the experience has surged warmth all over my body, and I feel my heart palpatating - I brush aside my hair from my sweat-stained face, and at last, I pull away from him.
His eyes are frozen wide open, the shock of the seconds ago etched onto their expression, a few tears still wanting to escape, and it is a haunting beauty to see.
I leave his room as silently as I've entered it. I don't dwell on how terrible his family's cries will be in the following morning - only on how my next partner might be like.
The End
Far Beyond Eternity
Far Beyond Eternity
In the dark confines of the closet room, Renton Thurston stares out the plexiglass window at the billowing clouds, orange and purple they are from the unseen setting sun. The wisps make their lovely patterns all around, a blanket of sorts, beneath the violet-streaked dusk sky as the Gekko-Go heads its steady course. And there is this urge within him, just to go out, and fly, fly in this beautiful scene, maybe out in the Nirvash.
But what of this beauty, if there is only Renton there in the air, alone? It would be leaving out the touch of spice that makes spaghetti taste so wonderful.
Immediately, he thinks of the one person who makes his heart beat faster in joy, and his cheeks flush warm with red. He pictures the flowing cyan hair that comes down to her petite neck and those alluring violet eyes. There wasn't anyone else he'd met who had such pretty eyes. He imagines her by his side, in Nirvash's spacious cockpit. How wonderful it must be to share the beauty of this moment with her.. Eureka.
Renton must hurry though. The sun won't wait for them before taking its rest beneath the covers of the horizon. What if I get in trouble? Holland and the others might not like it if I just.. take the Nirvash out for no reason..
These doubtful thoughts are soon forgotten though as Renton takes one last look outside, and then he heads out into the hallways, over to the communal room where Eureka spends her time playing Maurice, Mater and Link at a game of ping-pong. You can see spacious windows revealing more of the passing sky, showering the room with ethereal hues.
Renton goes to approach the joviality, watching on to his amusement as all the combined efforts of the young trio can't seem to catch Eureka's quick curveball. His heart begins to beat faster in anticipation, looking at her supple face – and she looks to him too, noticing.
"Renton?" Eureka goes. He cringes for but a second, as the trio on the other side of the table gaze to him with dirty looks, Maurice especially. ("What do you want meatball head?") Poor Renton, almost forgetting what he'd like to say, let alone why he'd followed his urges here. Link stifles a giddy chuckle under a little hand.
Luckily, Renton manages to regain his composure, and slowly comes closer to Eureka. "Hey.." he says, looking aside at the table and the heat coming out his collar. "Erm.. would you mind if I can talk to you for a minute?"
"He's gonna do it!" Mater blurts out. "With her—"
"Mater!" Eureka shoots that pesky girl a scowl, before turning to him. "Yes. I would love to." She smiles. And thus, he leads her to a more private corner of the room, trying not to mind the children throwing raspberries behind his back.
"What is it Renton?" she goes, looking upon him with the faintest curiosity.
"Well. Um.." His mouth doesn't seem to want to move at this time, being frozen in tense hesitation. This has got to be the most insane thing I'm about to do.. oh man, what am I thinking?
"Is something the matter?" she asks him.
"Oh no.. no, nothing's the matter.." He lets in a little gulp down his throat. How should he put all this feeling into proper words? It all feels like it makes sense, and yet it's all outlandish when it comes to saying it out. "I just.. I just want to fly outside, with you."
Eureka blinks, taking in Renton's words. Her face even lightens up a bit, while his seems to blush so bashfully red.
"It's so beautiful out there," Renton half-mumbles. "All these clouds floating around.. I want to fly out with them. Because it makes my chest.. want to cave in. But it wouldn't- couldn't ever be the same if I'm by myself." His heart pounds against his chest incessantly. "So I want to go fly, with you."
Eureka holds her breath in, being so flattered, and so unsure. It feels like the longest and most unbearable wait in Renton's life, her just standing there, before he receives her answer of her hand clasping around his, feeling so warm and tender, and her reassuring smile. "Yes."
Did he hear her right? It's a whisper of a "yes" from her, one he could barely hear, and yet she has her hand with his. "Yes," she tells him.
"Okay."
He takes her through the hallways of the Gekko-Go, passing by and greeting Mischa along the way – the Doctor eyes them pensively before she continues down. Every step he takes, Renton feels a little more queasy, light-headed. It just feels like a good vivid dream that will burst at any moment now, but the feeling of Eureka's soft hand in his feels all too warm to be some figment of his wandering imagination. If so, then he wishes that none of the others would come across them and put an abrupt end to this moment.
After taking the elevators down to C deck, Renton can hear more of the low, distaff humming of the Gekko-Go's engines, as he leads- Eureka leads him over down into the expanses of the dock, where the gargantuan Nirvash rests within the abyssal darkness. As they step down the staircase from the light of the hallway, suddenly the lights illuminate the place in light of Renton and Eureka's presences.
"Renton?" Eureka asks. "Are you sure this is okay?"
A certain urge is compelling the boy now, far beyond proper reasoning. He would in all likely respect turn back if it were any other time, but not right now, not when the sun is on the verge of disappearing and the moment being missed.
"Yes," he goes, a strange confidence in him now, and he's smiling from out the corners of his heart, and they head on to clamber in one of Nirvash's two spacious cockpits. Renton snuggles himself snugly beside her on the seat, feeling her warmth emanate by the shoulders.
"Shall I drive?" she asks. Now that she's mentioned it, Renton had never really considered who would be flying in that imagination of his. It would be fine for him to show and guide the Nirvash in the painted canvas of air, while she can be free to look around and enjoy herself. Renton imagines he could grasp most of the manoeuvres almost as easily as Eureka can (including the famous cut-back drop turn, ja!) but there is one thing that had always troubled him the most – taking off and landing in the dock itself; the enclosed space would always threaten to collide with the Nirvash while the air never does.
"How about.. you take off from the Gekko-Go," he says, "and then I take over from there?"
"Sure," Eureka goes. She wakes the Nirvash up from its sleep, and the lights of the cockpit come to their shining life as Nirvash assumes a stand-by, idle position. Renton takes in a gulp and feels his stomach sink in preparation for the fast lurches of speed to come.
After checking up on Nirvash's status and knowing that the Nirvash is all right, she sends a command in the adjacent console to set the launch pathway up for take off. The noise of the blaring alarms and screeching of the launch gate being lifted up are numbed and dulled automatically in the canopy for Renton and Eureka's benefit. Through the opening of the gate, Renton can see the pathway angle itself downwards, to the outside purple clouds that flow past sight.
When the launch gate has completely risen, the pathway lights up in glaring green and yellow light leading the way out. Out of force of habit, Eureka finds herself shouting "Eureka and Renton, Nirvash typeZERO, launching!" Renton watches her hands gently push forward the control joysticks, and feels the slow lurch of Nirvash's movement – moving so slowly to the start of the pathway—
Renton blinks.
The Nirvash bounds forward, its legs propelled along the track to frightening speeds – Renton is continually thrust against the seat, teeth clattering and sweat on his face dripping back; he can feel the bile of the stir-fried dinner welling in him. Eureka keeps her calm, no sign of any worries whatsoever on her face as Nirvash finds itself free in the outside sky. To finish the sequence, Eureka presses a button to have Nirvash deploy out and ride the ref board to glide along the trepar waves in the air.
The billowing purples and blues of the dusk seem much more vivid and haunting from the view of the canopy than Renton had ever hoped to see. Gold streaks from the tip of the setting sun on the right, bathing Nirvash in a yellow tinge.
Eureka's purple eyes meet with Renton's - a hint of beckoning in the glint. She waits, keeping her hands steady as Renton's reachs out to grasp onto her hands, her soft and lovely hands around the joysicks. When he seems to have a good hold, she lets go. In the brief moment, Renton wraps his fingers around the dual controls, feels all of Nirvash – every nuance of its being come upon himself.
He and she fly in the pretty skies, as carefree and joyful as they can be. By his side, Renton sees Eureka avidly admire all the colours, quite sure that she is seeing the same poignent beauty he sees.
"Renton! Look!" Eureka nudges his shoulder, pointing her hand down to the left. And from perking his head over, he sees a vague formation amongst a puff of cloud below, coming closer and clearer. They are little skyfish, an endless swarm, rising up and out from the vagueness, and with their beating wings they fly to be with Nirvash's side. Renton remembers from class that the skyfish would come be attracted to beautiful moments, shared in tenderness. Their lush wings seem to beat forth in time with each other, with the euphoric beating of Renton's own heart.
"It's so beautiful, Eureka."
As the sun becomes a faint orange haze along the dark of the cloud horizon, Renton begins to notice the sharp orange glow of the read-out displays on the dashboard - the Gekko-Go's position lies on the bare edge of the radar, almost out of Nirvash's range. By now, it would seem a good idea to turn back and call it a night. Holland and the others might be worrying, and the thought of receiving Holland's punishing beat downs makes him nervous.
But Renton decides to ignore the pleas nagging inside his mind, instead turning the Nirvash over to chase the last throes of daylight. Maybe this night will be special. Maybe this night holds a wonder somewhere in the air, waiting to be touched.
The stars begin to shine and glow above on the sky – a canopy of bright beacons that stretches on like an ocean of eternity. They seem to be adrift in interstellar space now; Eureka is leaning by Renton's stiffened shoulder, absolutely still on the edge of the seat, taking in all of the night. Renton too. The stars are like he has never seen them before, being such a refreshing and blissful sight. If he reaches up high, he could feel them lap and melt in his hands like snowflakes.
A streak of purple trails gently down the canvas. It's a shooting star.
"Hey," Renton goes. "Wanna make a wish?"
Eureka is hypnotically looking upon the purple, her warm hands clasped around Renton's. For a long while, she does not say anything. Then she turns to him. "I have. What about you?"
Renton looks back to the shooting star, unsure of what to think. He feels the happiest he has ever been in his whole life, so glad of the moment, and there doesn't seem to be anything else he could ever want. Deep inside though, he knows it will all have to end eventually. The thought of this moment, lost in time feels so overwhelmingly.. saddening..
He tries to hide it in, and keep this happiness close to his heart, forever. But it is all too much for one to bear, and he feels it all about to burst – a balloon taking in too much air at once. He finds it hard to breathe.
"Renton?"
The tears come down from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks.
"What's wrong, Renton?" she asks.
I.. don't know.
Eureka reaches out to caress – he feels her gentle fingers as they stroke over to brush away his tears. He turns to her, finding a solace in her caring, purple eyes. A sincere, appreciative smile comes upon him.
She looks back, curious and unsure.
His heart on the verge of caving in, Renton lets himself go, and holds Eureka so closely and dearly in his arms, his head by hers over her shoulder. He feels her heart beating faster and faster with his through her chest, her breaths brushing by his bare neck, and the overall blushing warmth from her.
And for this blissful moment, they lie so peacefully still in each other's side, glad.
After what seems like forever, Renton leans back from her, and looks to her straight in her eyes. He has no idea what will happen next, if only this happiness may continue.
"I.." Renton finds himself trying to make words, say something, anything at all, but the words just won't come.
"Hm?"
Then suddenly it comes, as miraculous as it is to him as to her – Renton locks his lips with hers in a kiss. It is so indescribably wonderful. He can feel her hot breath mingling with his, the rush of excitement, a wholesome feeling of gratitude in his heart for this moment.
It is the last thing he can remember so clearly upon awakening in the cheap excuse of a bed within the closet room. The blue of the morning sky shines through the little plexiglass window, being the only light there is here.
After that kiss, Renton could not seem to recall the later memory of the night, being only a vague, jaded recollection of things. Perhaps there was the flying back to the Gekko-Go, where upon landing he met with a brutal backhand to the face from Holland, or the worried commotion of Talho and God knows who else, or the fatigued walk through the stale hallways back here.. or perhaps there wasn't anything of the sort at all; the kiss with Eureka was all too much to dream.
Still, he is left with a lingering happiness, however bittersweet it is in his heart leaving him wanting more - if only he could have a second longer with her then, he could say he does love her so. Without thinking it, Renton finds his fingers going over his moist lips. Maybe some of the wet from Eureka is still there, if any. But no amount of lip touching ever does sooth the welling emptiness inside him. He is wanting to cry, so much. The morning sky seems even bluer than he remembers it, and he stares out at the puff of white clouds passing by outside. The engines of the Gekko-Go hum incessantly throughout.
After that, Renton feels the gurgle of his empty stomach – hungry for some breakfast. Wanting to take his mind off the sadness, Renton goes to walk down the hallway listlessly, managing less-than-enthusiastic greetings towards Talho and Matthew who pass him by.
Then he sees her standing, pressing a hand on the windows to the blue skies. The emptiness inside hurts the most now on the sight of Eureka, aching, numbing, overwhelming. But however much it is to bear, Renton tries to bury it all deep inside as he did not want to upset her in any way. He continues his way slowly to the mess hall, as if nothing has happened. He shall forever cherish the imagined moment in his heart, if only to convince himself that such a happiness may happen, sometime, somewhere.
Eureka slowly turns to look to him with her usual shy smile. "Good morning Renton."
He gulps, pausing. "Morning, Eureka."
Then he notices something different in her expression, though he could not tell what exactly about it that strikes him so at first. Whether it is the same look of wonder from that wonderful moment in her purple eyes, or the loving feelings that hint on her smiling lips, Renton subconsciously takes it in, and the tightness in his throat is knife-sharp now, and he could not breathe at all.
"I.. love.. you.."
A looming pause, as she looks back with her quivering eyes.
And she comes forward to meet him, and she blurs before his eyes, and he goes to her blindly. When they meet, his eyes clear and he sees her for a first time, can not help but smile. He knows it is all right, and he reaches out to her with his warming hand, and the fear inside him disappears away forever.
(The white sloping road continues into the sky
Flickering heat haze envelops the two children
Nobody noticing, all alone
They keep ascending
They fear nothing
And then they soar
Longing for the sky
They soar across the sky
Their lives an intertwining contrail)
And thus, they walk over for breakfast, their hand-in-hand high in the sky.
The End
The Malaise of Wattpad
The Malaise of Wattpad
mug's game - a pointless or futile activity
I don't understand the over-zealous rules Wattpad has about mentioning-- err, "promoting" your own stories. On the club forums, you're not allowed to post links to your stories except in those designated threads like this one.
Only once in a thread, amidst hundreds of other stories, until the thread gets refreshed (which is 'whenever'). Do you honestly expect readers to go through every advert in every page, so to give these stories a fair chance at being appreciated?
In reality, your story gets drowned out amidst many voices, like that moment in Titanic where the ship has sunk, and you see Rose struggling in the waters amidst hundreds of others, looking for Jack. Since around April of 2013, when they decided to replace the Share Your Story (SYS) club, not once have I gotten a single reader because I've put my advert up in those "Share an 'X-genre' story here!" threads.
And when it comes to people asking "Is there an interesting such-and-such story I can read," you always see the ambassador stepping in and sanitising the opening post: "No links! No suggesting your own stories!" Like here.
It's okay to mention other people's stories to a wanting reader, but not your own? How silly -- what's there to prevent someone from using a different account and mentioning his own story under disguise, for example?
Ultimately, the way things are set up in Wattpad, you're lucky to even get genuine readers.. that is, if you're not writing the usual "Bad Popular Boy meets Nerdy Girl" plot, or "One-Direction/Justin Bieber/Boy Band" fanfic, or "Hunger Games/Twilight/etc." Young Adult derivative. Or if you're not already an established, published author come to make a token visit to the site:
As someone said, the popular books get more popular and the unpopular books stay unpopular.
It's fucking ridiculous.
Maybe if you're really desperate enough, there is the option of signing up for Book Clubs - but the catch is that once the members do read and comment to a certain point in your story.. oui, they do give some detailed comments and critiques, but they do so not because they really want to read more of your story (without you having to nudge them), but because they expect you to give the same to their stories in return.
For example, my incomplete fantasy story, Demon's Paradise.
On chapters 1 and 2, you'll see the club members' comments. After those chapters though, nothing. Except a lone critique from someone else unrelated to the book club.
Or, for asking some critic or an editor to read your story, you have to "pay" them a certain number of comments on their stories.
The thing that really gets me is when you compare Wattpad (writing) to deviantART (visual art). On deviantART, people can quickly fall in love and tell if they like your work, based on the quick thumbnail glances of your stuff.
Wattpad by contrast, all you have to attract people is whatever cover you can make, and the blurb/summary you provide for your story. And perhaps an excerpt line or two. The saying "Never judge a book by its cover" becomes a two-edged sword here, where genuinely interesting writing can easily get overlooked by people (it takes 'effort' to read, hurr durr) in favour of the familiar clichés the masses know and love.
Stanley Kubrick once observed that "most films don't have any purpose other than to mechanically figure out what people want and to construct some artificial form of entertainment for them." People seek the familiar. Whether it be a familiar genre, actors, or a specific kind of emotional gratification, films have become delivery systems for the feelings that we crave. -- Snake Eyes review by tieman64
I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore.
~QDesjardin
Ref: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAbGeNqqT6Y
Via Con Me
Via Con Me – by QDesjardin
away, away, get away with me
nothing more binds you to these places
not even these blue flowers
let's get away, let's get away, not even this grey time
full of musics and people that you liked
After the velvet curtain has fallen over the illusionist's performance, the applause seems to go on for a very long time. She can still hear it in her ears, long after the applause has diminished away – as she is in the makeup room, wiping away the white powder and eyeliner from her face.
The grips have removed the props from the stage, rendering it bare, with just the black stage floor.
Soon after everyone has left for the night, only silence fills the auditorium, with the dim hum of the ventilation.
Then behind the curtain, a spotlight turns on. Concentrating on a young woman whose lithe form is laid bare for non-existant eyes to see. She is posed, her back arching up to the ceiling, her arms stretched forth and back.
She begins to dance to an imaginary tune. Her feet tap along the floor, swift and quiet and unrestrained – she shuffles to the left, to the right, around the stage's span.
She comes on her toes, stretching herself as far high up as she can, her hands crossing each other, before she collapses down to the ground, as if the strings that have held her up have been cut.
Her eyes glance mournfully at the curtain that will never rise, a smile forming on her lips.
Finally, she stands up and takes a bow at her unseen audience, and she can hear the roaring cheers celebrating her efforts.
One day, the audience will be real.
Long Live the New Flesh!
Long Live the New Flesh!
It is one gloomy day when I visit my university's computer laboratory that I discover something strange on the floor. Pink and thick organic ooze, splashes of it, trailing down the aisles of Linux PCs. It smells like a combination of raw fish mixed in with that awful rotting egg stench.
I kneel down and take a closer look at the ooze. The pink surface looks swirly, with a mild film of colour (like the surface of a soap bubble).
I take out my pen and I touch it with the tip. The piece of ooze seems to squirm from being punctured, its mass clambering away from my pen's tip, until there is a visible hole around where my pen is. Whatever this thing is, it's alive.
It must be one of those lab experiments from the biology students gone awry.
I follow the trail of ooze, careful not to step on it, until I find its apparent source; there are huge mumps of it concentrated around one computer terminal in the dark corner, staining the keyboard and monitor - with someone's box of Oriental takeout just beside the mouse, and the knapsack underneath the table.
Against my better judgment, I investigate.
(my nose burns and my eyes water)
The contents of the screen show a corrupted terminal interface; someone had been attempting to load 'RAGNAROK.EXE' and the results are a jumble of multi-coloured symbols on the bottom half of the screen, as if whatever ticked the computer off had made it regurgitate all the bytes of its memory.
I notice a scrawled note tucked under the Oriental takeout. Pulling it out, it reads: "The battle for the minds of North America will be fought in the visual arena: the Videodrome. The computer screen is the retina of the mind's eye. Therefore, the computer screen is part of the physical structure of the brain. Therefore, whatever appears on the computer screen emerges as raw experience for those who see it. Therefore, computers are reality, and reality is less than computers."
Then I hear deep, laboured breathing. It sounds as if someone is seriously ill with the flu.
It's coming from the computer screen - the entire screen is shrivelling in and out as if it were someone's chest. I stare at it, baffled, and then I see the screen show Nicky Gumbel, his beady eyes gazing at me and his smile proud and confident.
I see this guy every time I attend Church on Mondays. He preaches about the life of Jesus, and that by dying for us, Jesus took away everyone's sin, so we ought to be grateful for a faerytale character.
"Do you want to know why you are here?" Nicky Gumbel says. "In this room, right by this computer on this very day?"
"Because somebody made a badly mess," I say.
"No! Because you will be the one to help fulfill the prophacy foretold in the New Testament! The Holy Christ shall rise again, and you will be the one to witness it!"
"What happened to the other guy?" I ask.
"He had to go on a vacation," Nicky Gumbel says. "Now com'mere.." A hand pops right out of the screen and grabs me by the collar. It is so sudden that I have no time to react, and I get jerked into the screen, facefirst, squeezing my entire body through the monitior.
To be continued!
The Darkness
The Darkness - by QDesjardin
In the darkness of your room
lying in bed
your eyes open,
Emptiness envelops you
The wistful air
and the orange glimmering light
Your breaths rattle
in and out
Your heart beats steadily on,
That eternal ticking clock
unwinding inevitably towards
Death.
In the darkness of your room
lying in bed
your eyes close.
Hiding away behind the shelter of dreams.
Death and Life
Death, and Life - by QDesjardin
To whom it may concern,
I've died. And yet, I'm still alive. It is very strange, oui? But while I have the time, I wish to let you know - there really is nothing you should be afraid of. Because to fear something is to fear Life itself, and that evil Witch in the faery tales - she is really another human being, like you and me, just wounded by regret and pain.
The same wound exists in many other people today, when you bring your dreams with you to someone, and that someone acts as though they have spat in your face, smothering the light in your dreams, and you are left feeling afraid and empty inside.
Many people can be like that.
It's the original Sin they keep talking about in the Holy Bible, when Adam and Eve have once enjoyed a life of paradise, but wanting more than that, they ate from the forbidden tree of Knowledge, and as a result, it seems as if God has cast them aside into the world which is Today. The world where many wars are being fought over so-called Holy Lands desecrated by human blood as sacrifice to their vengeful Gods. The world of school, and academia, where they have you associate the mediocre learning experience of classrooms with real learning. The world where your parents have been taught by life experience to be afraid of surrendering their children to life itself.
It's the world which I'm still inhabiting, even right now, even if you can't see me. Even if it seems like you're the only one who seems truly alive, when you weep, I weep with you too. When you're jumping for joy, I feel joy too.
When you are silent, that is when I can whisper with you -- do not be afraid, dear one. I'm here. I'm listening. I am a ghost, lingering in you, your holy protector. To the extent which I can, I shall deliver you not just from the Temptation of Evil, but deliver you with Temptation into the Good and Noble.
And what is Evil? The natural antithesis of light is shadow - and whiteness co-exists with the blackness in harried symphony. Light is life and goodness, and Shadow is death and badness. But in actuality, they are the one and the same, separated artificially by words. To say that you will devote your life to pure good, and nothing but pure good - it is as false as saying that you can satiate yourself merely by reading the words of a restaurant menu alone.
But if you look at the Shadow (the Apple of Knowledge) as the regions of Life which you have neglected, then you shall see that the darkness is merely natural, that the darkness is the beautiful night in which the Moon and the Stars have the opportunity to shine. In which unspoken dreams may thrive within the beating heart. After all, "The night is darkest just before the dawn," Harvey Dent says in The Dark Knight (2008).
And for that very reason, seemingly dead trees in Winter come back to life during Spring and Summer; they have not died, they just needed to use a bathroom break.
And for that very reason, I am still alive.
I remember an old tale of sailors who were lost at sea. They were clinging onto a small piece of land above the ocean, and they were ready to die of exhaustion and starvation. The ocean waters battered them, and they decided to die a glorious death. They surrendered themselves to the vast currents, and they did not die.
Instead, they found that the underwater corals were beautiful, and that the fish and sea anonemies were beautiful, and that therefore Life itself is beautiful too. The ocean current drifted them to where there was buried treasure, thought to have been forgotten long ago. And the sailors recovered the treasure and managed to return home by a miraculous rescue from their sailor friends, safe and sound.
And that those who 'die' naturally are really just sound asleep, dreaming a more beautiful life than the one they have led prior. Like me. Like you too, someday. Even if we can't see it yet.
Life goes on, in many different ways it can, whether we want it to or not.
The one question remains; with the life you have right now, do you want to live?
Yours Truly,
The Magic of Fiction Creations
The Magic of Fiction Creations
When you go out to see a movie, or read someone's story, or listen to music - you're always priming yourself for what the other meng would pour out for you. You might have the doodads like having earbuds in your ears while reading those words, or the popcorn and audience chatter while the film projects onto the screen.
But what really makes it magical, at least for me, it is the individuality of the artist that's been imprinted in the experience. When you've finished reading something, when you've finished a film - it's not really the plot, or the characters that stick with you (however quirky you might make them). It's the visceral emotion of the experience itself - that's what makes it possible that you can always find something new or interesting when you go back to it after a while.
And the integrity of that emotion, it comes from the author, the director. The honesty in which he is able to express a certain something inside him, into being. That's what gives the work its liveliness and magic to be experienced. It's not really the so-called "respect" the author gives his imaginary audience -- I've read works that have impeccable grammar, spelling, mechanics - but that are ultimately forgettable by the end regardless, because it isn't magical. It doesn't touch. There's a quote from Kurt Vonnegut - your stuff is going to get pneumonia if you try and appeal to the audience, to have the audience pressure you into compromise.
And if you're able to infuse your work with magic, your individuality, then no matter what - I'm sure you can be proud of having made it, even if in the worst case, most everyone else seems to hate it. That is your work, your writing, and that magic in it is going to touch at least someone else's imagination. Because it's true to life as you've experienced it - that life which everyone else experiences also.
I remember there's Karen O punking Lady Gaga - they're both eclectic musicians, and so they might seem similar at first glance. But the real difference as Karen O puts it: "Lady Gaga's so referential. There's a core authenticity missing there. She just takes other things she likes without making it her own." (Reminds me of Quentin Tarantino's numerous hip "homages" to other movies.)
Beyond the Clouds
Beyond the Clouds -- by QDesjardin
In the face of a cold, sometimes harrowing world
when places can turn grey and people
would lose all heart
(and it seems like all the magic is beyond reach)
you'd close your eyes and forget this accursed moment,
forget that gravity exists and forget the aching
and instead see the light-hearted, carefree blue
of that beautiful heaven, you could see
while lying upon the summer meadows
and if you'd wanted, Swan's wings would carry you
into mid-air, and you'd embrace the weightlessness
as if that stomachache were to disappear and instead
replaced with those fluttering
Cerelian butterflies, which arrive in those innocent days
when you saw an Angel sitting in the bleachers
beside you, but you couldn't muster yourself
to talk to her (you could only gaze)
or when you went outside one day for a walk,
and your heart could not help melting
looking at the wisps of clouds above
and realising it looked like the misty bottom
of a waterfall, its motion slowed thousandfold for clarity,
And in the midst of dream and memories,
there you see her, having waited for you,
and she beckons you to come,
Alors! you walk together, through the forest's leaves,
and across the shimmering river,
lit by moonlight,
There, she leans in and tells you with a whisper,
"I know why you cry,
and I know that happiness grows scarce;
but just think of me, and I will be there."
And when you open your eyes, it doesn't seem so grey, does it?
At Rainbow's End
At Rainbow's End --
Follow me to where the Colours are,
See the Red Passions aroused in your blood,
The Sanguine Yellows that brighten your days,
Those Lively Greens that peak in Summer's grace,
The Sky Blue gleaning Heavenly face,
(with clouds that puff and tuffle
like the hazy bellows of a waterfall's bottom)
And Violet, sweet Violet,
Who tenderly caresses your cheek and lips
As you chase after the sunset
And the last of its light and warmth
Before the Earth swallows the Sun whole,
And your involuting heart cries out
Savagely for Mother's nourishing eternal love
While the landscape is loveless, spiteful, and shit
With the occasional kindness
A mere if ephemeral substitute.
Don't you want to follow me to where the Rainbow ends?
The Inspired Writer
The Inspired Writer - by QDesjardin
If you were to describe his Writer's Block, it wouldn't be a shiny, golden treasure resting upon his desk. But tangible, oh oui, for it denies him that source of inspiration flowing through the minds of other writers, a river of emotion and story that mows down as streams and rapids. Who is Marie? Who is Mizuki? By any other writer they would be fashionable characters partaking in the grand plot weaved by some purpose. By him, they are just names with the faintest possibilities; which stories would need them?
He stares at the blank white screen of the document, cursor blinking, almost taunting him with untyped text. He makes a title, deletes it immediately, makes another one and finds no path there either.
So he coups at home, in the midst of golden holidays, indulging in the delights of others' fictions and warm cocoa, doubt always weighing on his creative future. He's written a few works, short stories and dabbled in poetry. Is this to be it? Will he be washed-up and hopeless? Imagine how pitiful it would be, how shameful, he shall join the ranks of the damned, doomed to be mocked as a hack, a petit failure.
This shall not be. Non, if he could help it!~
He spits at Fate and Pity's indifference, and the lightning rings through his nerves, raging him like a painful ecstacy, and he would glee when he cheats those set boundaries and fly away with wings he could call his own. He will call upon Inspiration, and steal away the most prettiest divine Muse from the heavens. Make love with her beauty and shine like a star, truly. He is not a nobody. He will sing, sing, even if he is permanently deformed and ugly, sing anyways - for it will be more regrettable if he never does.
He sits down by the cafe table, those onlookers noticing his envy amidst their self-absorbed chatter. Then he closes his eyes, tuning himself into the world of the imaginary, and sees their Muses - each beauty watching over their Artists. These beauties, these Soul Mates, for each their own unique music radiating from their souls. He doesn't see his. Life has forsaken him, it seems.
No more.
He sucks away what he cannot naturally have, his heart grinning, feeling the Muses' beauty pouring altogether into him, wonderful.
And then he fashions out of each Muse, his own. His Frankenstein's monster. His Pygmalion's Galatea. And his Muse is so beautiful that his heart aches under the suffocation of the entire ocean, and he kisses her, breathing air by her lips, and she kisses him back with all tender love. How much happiness he is feeling is beyond words.
He musters himself back to the blank document, and after taking a bite out of a chocolate bar, he writes a heart-rending story. At last, he finds his satisfaction.
The End (Wishful thinking.)
The Nature of Beauty
If Beauty were such a thing that is as commonplace as the iPad is now, surely people would swoon in their hearts - drinking the precious feeling in. But people don't. Many of those around you continue to live Life, each moment at a time, from waking to sleeping. Maybe you do too. (Do you take it for granted?)
But never does this mean that Beauty is rare. A rare commodity, a luxury like gold in fairy tales. Never will it mean that Beauty will die. It is like air - everywhere, invisible to material sight, not something that you grasp, and when you learn to relax and breathe it.. it fills your heart with that nectar and then your heart blossoms, alive and full. Fulfilled. Meaningfully fulfilled.
It is there when you glance at these brown eyes. It is there when you fall passionately into those lips, when your feet dance to the rhythm, when you're pouring your words out for anyone. That flow. It's also there when you stare (out the windows) at that blue sky we sit under; that blue, blue sky, so endless and radiant beyond feeling. I love it especially when it is evening, and you see another depth to the sky's character - the oranges, violets and pinks show their face upon the clouds. As you may watch the lightbulb descend until it disappears beneath the ground-- have you ever asked how a sunset feels?
The sunset as you swing in the playground, legs kicking for more momentum, the rush, and that secret desire of letting yourself fly suddenly into heaven.
The sunset, with you sitting atop the hill, caressed by your lover's embrace.
The sunset, as you cry alone in soulful solitude, and you glance at the fading sun for a consolation that will never come.
I love.
But when you do see it.. and try to bring it to anyone else - those flat-earthers who only know the joys of rooting themselves in mundanity - those Lucky Charms are only cornflakes. And cornflakes are just meant to be eaten, yes? Yes. Yet somewhere inside, your heart can't help feeling a little.. sad. Icarus's wings of fortune turns out to be nothing more substantial than wax and feathers, and when he flies too close to the sun, they melt.
"Why don't you understand?"
And for some, that desire to show Beauty's existence, can turn into a lust for madness. There is but a thin line between the mystical dreamer and the fantastical crank, and it carries an aloofness when you try to express or explain Music in non-musical terms. How do you mean, what is falling in love? I love the hair, I love the personality, but that isn't it. I love you for that beautiful soul, connecting these disjointed elements -- notes into a wholesome melody. I love that you have existed for me, showing me a glance of beauty that I can cherish. I love that I have even existed for you, having endured the process of getting born for this moment.
And when you do speak it out loud, you find yourself being the voice of the alone crying into an indifferent wilderness. A one-sided conversation risking confusion at best and getting utterly mocked at worst. That is Beauty: symbolic, eternal, and unintelligible. The language you'd speak is not commonly spoken - in all its subjectivity. The madman can only confess or pronounce. "Fish fish fish fish fish. Infinity is but the expanding and shrinking boundaries of the end. Red fish blue fish green fish goldfish."
This entails the greater yearning: can you bring this Beauty truly over, for all to experience? If you can, that is great. I imagine it would be more than great. Do show them what they have missed. Show them the electric charge in the air, and the killing realisation to their awareness. Show them the profound in the mundane. What those two Italian ladies are singing about, you don't know. You don't want to know.. are they singing about something so beautiful, that it makes your heart ache because of it? I tell you, these voices will soar higher and farther than anybody in a gray place might dare to dream. Like some beautiful bird has flapped into a drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, if only briefly.
Show them that other world which might exist only in the heart. In that world, crossing the boundaries of time, death and probability, imagination lets you reunite with..
And that's beautiful.
Grow Old with Me
Grow old with me, my Love
With a hand in hand by the evening sun
Grow old with me, my Love
Watch the sunset fade and darkness come.
Grow old with me, my Love
Our children scatter by with a romp
Grow old with me, my Love
See them live and die under Time's glomp.
Grow old with me, my Love
Age cannot wither you, this tender heart
Grow old with me, my Love
No regrets need be ever made.
..
And when you're old with me, meine Liebe
I'll be happy I grew old with you
And when you're old with me, meine Liebe
Someday, somewhere, we'll shine together.
Elle pleut
The wet drops strike Quon's cheeks. Amidst the schoolyard, devoid of others and blooming with a yearning energy, she glances at the puddles on the ground rippling like ribbons with every raindrop. She can feel the same rippling on her skin, an electric tingle. Almost as if somewhere within her, something verges on bursting out towards the grey clouds.
She walks towards the field of crisp green, footsteps on the grass - trodded by the pointed soles of soccer teams.
At the end where the fence borders and hedges waver with the breeze, a shed. A lovely shed by the white goalposts. A shed, its wooden frame withered by the elements, and its surface like an old woman's skin having encountered many tales in a lifetime, yet with no voice to share with anyone.
Its door remains closed, the lock is rusted beyond use. Quon almost cuts herself unhinging the lock from the braceholder, then she strains her arms opening the shed.
There are rooks and balls on the shelves, and a spotlight highlighting a little red box at the top.
Quon tiptoes, her fingers finding the box's edges, tingling - the box feels almost alive, like cupping a slithering frog in your hands. It is adorned with golden tinsel in an elegant manner. Inside it is a key, glistening like a solidified river, tempting to drink if it can be poured into a glass.
Yet she doesn't drink it. She unbuckles her belt and pulls up her dress - up above her breasts, revealing the keyhole over her heart. Pointing the key, she slides its blade into her void and she gasps; her inner self climaxes from the fulfillment and holy light dazzles out her body, out the shed into the planes of rain and air.