Forever, but never, my castration is clever, but I say whatever, we must sever my endeavor, to strangle whoever gave this answer.
But to keep alive, this prize, arrest my eyes, for those who cry over the spilt size of my thighs, and supply these guys with the skies to realize their disguise.
For not to kill this skill with chill, for my will shall scale this hill, and destroy the veil with this pill I take with thrill.
As I am cloud nein, with my fine canine, dining on wine and steak, devine! While my mind is sunshine, my body Frankenstein, dear Valentine you have a deadline, I must decline thine Einstein shrine, to design my maze vine and protect my mind from your confined resign.
To feed on bits, avoid your hits, but benefit on these tits, and told I need permits to show off my splits, and admit that my poems
Transferring into a university takes time and preparation. Getting started takes even more time and patience. Once started, there is very little time left. So, that’s where I am.
I still write often. Poems more so than fictional stories. I haven’t found the time to sit and focus on posting anything. That usually requires time to type, edit, edit, edit, post, reread, revise, repost. Aside from what I post, I am also using up my free time for a book I started early last year. No end in sight, yet.
In the meantime, I’m drowning myself in music and trying my best in life. A quote about the importance of music by Plato goes something like this: “[Music] gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.” Or stated more bluntly by Nietzsche, “Without music, life would be a mistake.” So, with that, I turn up the volume for some feel-good music to blast my eardrums and continue work. I wish everyone to find contentment in life through their own tunes.
The couch housed a being. A body had slumped into the cushion and begun to slump further in.
Daryl couldn’t stand life. Nothing was wrong. The work he did was grand. His social relationships were healthy. However, he failed to see the light in life anymore. At times, it felt as if there was something resting on his shoulder. Something heavy. Something pulling him down. Something watching. Like the monkey resting on ones back.
A shift was made in the couch–Daryl moved to lay down. His feet rested gently on the base of the arm rest, while his head lay on a cushion. His couch was quite large. Closing his eyes, he began to question his quite sudden depression. In the attempt to find the culprit and eradicate it. As Daryl relaxed, he began to feel a tingling on the toes of his left foot. He looked, but nothing was there. Pushing it from his mind, he began searching for answers once more. Once again the tingling occurred. And, once again, nothing. Daryl shifted his foot that held the annoyance away from the edge of the couch. He imagined that someone was tickling his foot in an odd way, but he knew nobody else was home. In fact, he was the only resident. Within the search of answers to his sudden depression, some thoughts came to him. That maybe something he experienced from his past is coming back to birth itself anew into his emotions. To attach itself to his psyche and multiply until something is felt. He remembered his cat, Barley. Barley had died very young and it tore through Daryl. He never got over the death, always blaming himself for it, and it came up every so often. But Daryl didn’t think that was the cause of such severe depression. Memories of Barley flooded his thoughts. The memories that made you smile and tear up. Good remembrances. How Barley would always greet Daryl when he came home. Or, feeding him little bits of sweet desserts when Daryl was in the kitchen. Or, how Barley always slept against Daryl at night–either directly next to him or close by on a neighboring pillow. A smile spread across Daryl’s face. However, as if it was on cue, and as if the good memories led up to this point in a sadistic way, the death of Barley ended the pleasant memories. Like drop of black dye in a clear glass of water. Continue reading Knock Knock pt. 3
The week was hard. The day itself was harder. Daryl was not able to reach the shower much and smelled like an unkempt horse’s stall. Still in sweat, clothes peeled from his skin just as he walked in through the front door, worry about the upholstery in his car wouldn’t leave his mind. The act of roughly sliding his body out of the clothes, and feeling the birth of a cool air glide across his skin, reminded him of a blistering sun burn. When days later, for amusement, he would peel the skin away from the burn, sometimes pulling it too far and having to yank it off in a strategic fashion, allowing a sensitive pink skin to birth into existence. The water heater in his house wasn’t the fastest. Upon starting the shower, Daryl was to wait for the water to build to the desired temperature. It usually took more than ten minutes. This day, he couldn’t wait. He squinted and drew away from the icy pain only once, then jumped in without a second thought. His arms wrapped around his front, hoping to deter the pain, as if it would leave his presence upon seeing his cowardice. Daryl had forgotten, in his hurried motion, that he turned the knob until it couldn’t go any further for hot water. Impatient to wait and hoping that if it were to be on full heat, the water heater would work full force and he would achieve the perfect temperature faster. Against his hypersensitive skin, the new temperature hurt more than before. From an overheated core his body produced, to icy cold water, back to hot. Water shielded Daryl’s sight, leaving him blindly searching for the temperature knob. Luckily, his hand knocked into the knob and turned it slightly, allowing it to cool. Daryl stood, savoring the now comfortable water. It rained down in streams atop Daryl’s head, flooding his face and flowing down his neck, finding its way down his back and off his chin, slapping the tub with consecutive thuds.
Daryl grabbed the soap to help with the layer of grime. The dirt was caked on, like a shield that protected him from harm, but the thick dirt did the opposite and he knew it.
With soap in hand, top popped ready to be used, the shampoo on the recessed shelf dropped. Daryl hadn’t noticed it, and when it crashed to the tub bottom, it surprised him. When it hit, he jumped several inches in the air, not landing level with the ground. Instead, one foot landed at an angle, making him slip on the tub surface and sent him flipping backward. In doing so, one shin scraped upward against the tub faucet, the back of his head cracked against the back rim of the tub, and his tail bone landed on the bottle of shampoo, which lay on its side. The corner of the bottle dug its way north of his buttocks. Daryl screamed out.
Continue reading Knock Knock pt.2
Daryl had lived the last decade of his life as spiritually as possible. Beginning his spiritual endeavors at the age of 43, he felt that it was as good a time as any. He did not want to associate himself with a specific religion, but instead tap into his spiritual being. To be closer to the heavens of his inner mind than ever before. To be in touch with the spiritual realm.
A year into his spiritual pilgrimage, Daryl experienced something unexplainable.
The process of his meditation was slow and relaxing. Relaxing enough to put him to sleep most of the time. But mostly, he lay half conscious. He began every meditation as the same. Breathing and reciting cooling dialogue. As he lay, beginning to fall asleep, a creaking came from across the room. Daryl blinked himself awake, allowing the soft glow from his table lamp to contract his pupils; the pain helped with the wake. Daryl looked toward the sound. The creaking came from a stool at the foot of a rocking chair. The stool moved back and forth on its pivotal axis, what it was made to do, but on its own without a body or force to push it along. It looked as if someone were sitting on the stool itself, rocking themselves to sleep. The only thing was that there was no one there.
Continue reading Knock Knock pt. 1
John had arrived home beaten by the world. His car broke down in the parking lot at work. His boss yelled at him in, what had been thought to be, the safety of his office. He had spilled coffee all down his shirt. And now, money was low. So low, there were barely any funds for food for the last week of the month. John had fell into his couch in defeat, not knowing what to do about sustenance. John lived in poverty all his life. But he never experienced a time when providing for himself became an issue.
He then thought of some change he might have in an old bank he made. John flung himself from the couch and went to his closet. Upon opening, a few old shoes, some with missing laces, some with holes ground through the bottom, and a few clothes he never wore, that were bought from a thrift store, fell from the cramped pile. John pushed some boxes on the top shelf to the side, spilling other items onto the floor. Eventually, he found his closed jar. It was something he had made years before in art class. It was indeed a coin holder. It was oblong in shape; flat on the bottom, and fairly egg shaped around, with a thin and poorly made slot. The coin slot was not centered at the top. It was as if the cooking process had allowed the once centered slot to droop over from the heat. Since there was no opening on the bottom to retrieve the coins easily, John had to decide if the coins inside were worth it. John shook the jar hoping for a hefty rattle.
Cracking into the piggy bank, hope did not thrive. A few coins, barely enough for a meal consisting of fast food; a onetime meal, fell from the shattered mess. The hopeful savings account was now smashed to bits of ceramic shrapnel.
John sat. Shifting through the coins, he humored himself by arranging the coins. After counting, it summed up pocket change. John looked around to ensure himself that he found every coin that fell from the exploded pig. One penny found its way across the room, almost hidden within the brown 70’s carpet.
Upon picking it up, John noticed that the surface touching his index finger was smooth. Turning the coin in hand, the face of the president that once was on the coin was now a silhouette of a figure. Only one side of the penny had been greatly smoothed out by a previous owner. The penny’s face was unknown. The words were gone. The details, vanished. John’s thumb found its way from one side to the other, again and again, feeling its soft surface. It entranced him.
John forgot about hunger. John forgot about the other change. He leaned back against the rim of his bed and contemplated the coin. His thumb moving from the left to the right, and back again. John sat, feeling the coin until day break the next morning. Even then, all he did was stare at the coin and feel its soft surface.
Continue reading Smooth Features
Elden slept for most of the day. When he finally sat up from bed, his shirt tore away from the bed, and stretched away from his skin, in sweat. For him, it was like a wet band aid that was stuck on for far too long, slowly being peeled from the skin. Mid-summer was unbearable for most, but for Elden it was a relief. The simple refreshing satisfactions on days of peaked heat. To experience the exhaustion and beat down of the day cooking someone alive, then a cool breeze, or a wet pull of clothes from the skin allowing a cool touch, integrates itself into life, and everything seems to be marvelous. Even if only for a few seconds. Today was one of Elden’s favored days of the week–his day off.
Elden still lived with his parents in their average suburban home. It was a two story house, fair sized yard; front and back, and everything was always clean. After changing into clothes which did not stink of a gym locker that has gone years without cleaning–rancid onions, Elden set off for a walk. The walk was not long, since Elden’s goal was the neighborhood park only blocks away. With a large book wedged under one arm and a half eaten apple in hand, Elden felt that this day was already off to a good start.
Continue reading Revitalized Legacy pt.2
A child ran across the open yard of a Victorian house. Ecstatic emotion enveloped the child’s face, running across the field, bolting by towers of bodies, nudging into a few legs along the way. One towered figure held a hand out to the child in an attempt to slow their progress. There was no slowing down for the child. The child finally reached the end of their destination–a table strewn with gifts of all shapes and sizes, colors and even textures. However, the child’s eyes rested on the pièce de résistance; the cake.
A three tiered cake, each tier separated by pillared stands. It sat alone in the middle of all the child’s other selfish pleasantries. Staring for a while, focusing only on the cake, darkness began to engulf everything else around it, allowing the only light possible to shine from the ground image of that masterpiece. The child knew that the exterior was vanilla, even the pinks and the blues giving the cake definition and design would be vanilla, but the child hoped that the interior would be a sweet strawberry. The child stood, only yards away, imagining it melt in their mouth. Taking a step toward the cake, the child felt that they were committing a wrongful act. That there was a velvet rope holding those back with temptation, and the child was crossing it without permission. There wasn’t a rope holding anyone back, but the child felt that there should. With each step closer to the cake the child’s heart pounded harder, looking back and forth among the bodies much taller than they making sure they wouldn’t be caught. The child stood just before the cake. Eying its features once again, the child noticed all the divots in the frosting made from quickened, sloppy work by the bakers, the grease that the icing secreted, and the highly detailed work with the flowers and wavy borders in multitudes of colors. The child loved it more so, for all of its beauty and imperfections.
Continue reading Revitalized Legacy pt.1
Lying in bed after a long, busy day, meditation was generally needed. I would position myself on my back as a plank, palms faced upright, and relax. White light, protection, readying my meditation.
How I began meditations before was to imagine myself in a forest. Forcing myself to feel the leaves rustling and bursting into fragments underneath my feet and between my toes. Looking out among the trees, an endless, open forest awaited to be discovered. Not a lot of time was spent there. Once I was done with the forest, I moved to the beach instantly.
A long, crescent, sandy beach would stretch out to the horizon on either side. Wrapping around to disappear among the trees that bordered the sand. I would imagine myself sitting at the beach front and contemplate. While there, I would make sure I felt the sand that bound itself to me. The salty breeze that seemed never-ending. And once in a while, when I would allow it, the water that made its way up the beach and puddle around my feet. Once I was ready for new scenery, I would change it. The last, and most memorable spot of meditation, was the field.
I always appeared on a hill side across from the main attraction. In a groove in the land, surrounded by hills all of the same size, stood a lone tree. A very large tree. Its roots one with the earth, none straying from perfection. The bark was rough to the eyes, but gentle to touch. It resembled an oak tree with a longer trunk. Beside the tree was a marble bench. Fit for two. After admiring the tree for a few minutes, I would take a seat. Once again, I’d make sure I felt the cool marble beneath my flesh. With a few more minutes here, breathing deeply, I would wake myself from the meditation. At times, I would feel better. It was very calming.
That is how I use to meditate.
I have found a quicker way to achieve the calming state of mind.
Continue reading Meditative Realities