The Hole

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I have fallen in this chasmic hole but no fret from me, for I will wait till the rise of day to escape. I had wandered the forest in the pitch black of the night, why? I wish I could say. Unbeknownst was I to the retention of where was it that my mind had meandered and unable of conceiving the correct question I dare ask myself in order to fathom the reasoning. All it is that I could faintly recall is my eyes mindlessly guiding me through the forested labyrinth in the absence of my sense; and yet, I still could not grasp at the palpability of it, it seemed absurd to even consider. Could it have been a dream? Could it have been an illusion? Might this be the presence of deception? In the endless roam of this sullen nightmare, unclear I was on what I faced and unforeseeable was the path, all that was, an abysmal void of black but to hear what was occurring around was horrific. I felt the swift breeze that swept past my ears in an endless stream, as though I had been sprinting but in this case, it was as if I was drifting across the ground. For a moment, forgetting was I to the fact that I had limbs as I listened to the constant, helpless flail in my motioned running brush by the bushes, snapping the twigs, crackling the leaves, and pounding the soiled grass. It felt like forever in the ceased passage of time when I heard the vehement, thundering snarl that instantly reminded me of the purpose of my haste. The Beast emitted reverberations throughout the atmosphere; with each stamp of its heavy foot sinking deep into the ground, the impending doom grew nearer. But it was not quite the inescapable death trailing behind that frightened me, from the sound of the beast I created an image of what it looked like in my mind, horrifying, perturbing, and indescribable with mere words, that’s what had made me run, the image. How long has it been chasing me? And what would it do once I’m caught within its strong grasp? All of a sudden, all sounds, all feelings just disappear. Winds halted and ground evaporated, it happened in a mere second but in my mind, it was prolonged for about a moment in a timeless state. There I was, suspended by gravity, knowing of what had happened before I sunk to the bottom. I violently crashed. So it is now, my mind damaged and my soul bare here I lay in deep despair, but deep in my heart, there is patience and perseverance, I can endure. My only thought is to wait. But with each thought, each blink, this pounding in my skull grows fonder. Miraculously, as I watched the deep sky, the clouds diverge, allowing the moon’s glimmer to seep through the tall trees, into the hole where I can finally see. And with these eyes, I see the impenetrable dirt walls in which I’m contained, I am meters below, solus in this solace, safe from The Beast. I know in my will that I can escape, I will just wait for day. For now, I rest.   

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Memoir of The Lost Boy

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When I was a boy, my father vanished without warning, leaving my mother and I alone in the newly spacious home. Even with the free space no longer occupied by his belongings, it still felt empty. I felt empty. My mother felt everything. I remember crying myself to sleep every night for the first months with the hope that my dad would be back by morning, my mother held in his embrace and with a gift for me, his presence alone would have been a present. Within a year, my mother had turned to the vices of alcohol and drugs, she would sleep through the mornings; become absent in the evenings; and every night, from my room, I would listen behind the closed door, to the sounds of my mother stumbling about into the house, battering against the walls and crashing onto the floor. Each wrecking night ended with her in the locked bathroom, knelt over the toilet bowl, praying to God through her profuse tears and between each respite in her vomiting. I kneeled on the other side of the door, silent, unable to cry for I have dried up my ducts from the constant crying, I grew tired of crying at that point but I still felt the sharp pain in my heart and the empty space in my soul. Through her slurred words she would ask him to remove her from this suffering and would question why this misfortune would fall upon her life. Occasionally, she would mention me in her prayers.

I stopped praying because I tired of waiting and I realized that no “God” would interfere in the unimportant matters of man. I turned to myself. No good and wholly God should allow such evil to befall the lives of an undeserving family. As each day passed, the idea of my father would fester in my mind. How can such a man leave behind his family— a coward, a fool, pure scum, a degenerate. I’ve grown to loathe his name, his existence, and him ever bringing me into this life that is rampant with suffering. I told myself that I would kill him if I were to ever lay my eyes on him again. There were several nights where I dreamt of killing him, each execution differed. In one, I would strangle every breath out of him with all the strength I could muster, watching his eyes bulge out of his head and his skin becoming colorless, all his blood halted below the grasps of my hands; another, I shot his face clean off with a sawed off and watched his brain slide out of his head and splat onto the floor, I then proceeded to stomp on it until it was pulp; one where I mercilessly beat him until all his teeth had fallen out then I set him on fire and threw him off of the tallest skyscraper unimaginable. In each dream I felt, at the moment, a powerful reconciliation that absorbed my being, only after a brief moment would it dissipate and I would be left alone with feelings of remorse which would then stay long after I’d awaken to find everything to be the exact same.

In my adolescents, I gave up on school two years prior to my graduation and I began working odd jobs, off the books, as a waiter in an Italian restaurant; walking and grooming dogs for my neighbors; and on a construction site on the edge of town, near the forest bank. I along with nine men dug out a massive hole in the ground, scorching summer days spent removing dirt with nothing other than shovels and masculine virility. We were working towards establishing a pipeline that connected to the sewer system. As careless as I was, one could not deny my honest labor. I barely spoke, only in response would I utter a breath. I was lonesome, distant from reality, although I grew fondness in being left alone. Coworkers would always ask me questions about myself, my life, interests, hobbies and I would answer them vaguely each time because that’s what my life had become, my future mysteriously vague, barren and devoid of all hope and happiness. My memories of the past were steadily disintegrating but the sadness always remained, fathomless. School became laborious. I was unable to focus enough to complete a single sentence; the words of each teacher would never reach my ears, all I ever heard was constructed gibberish; I had no friends, undeserving were they of a friend that is followed and driven only by misery and anger, I would never be able to offer them support or benefit, I was doing them a favor; my counselor tried and tried to encourage the scholar in me that had long died, I couldn’t care about how brilliant they thought I was, or how successful I could have been. I knew in my heart that I could never take anything seriously anymore, nevermore will I be driven by passion.

My abode had been in the process of self-destruction. The floorboards had molded and would have splinters sticking out of them; the paint on the walls became spoiled like milk; the lights would always have a faint flicker; and my mother had aged through the disfavor of time. Each day that would pass would bring her nearer to the grave, she had become noxiously ill; the skin on her body loosened and would sag a bit, it’s texture had turned to that of powdered clay; her eyelids always hung low, and looking into her eyes, I would only see a deep, unending abyss, she never looked lovingly at me anymore, the last time was when the coward was present; her once blonde locks had now been strings of grey and piss yellow; teeth, the few she had, were covered by greenish mold; her gums were a deep purple that can be mistaken for black from afar; and her tongue, that small carcass, sat lifeless in her mouth stenching of rotting garbage that had been flumping in a dumpster for at least a decade, unfavorably complimented by with the lingering aroma of a burnt out cigarette. No longer could I be able to speak to her face, the horrific odor was too much for my nose while her decayed figure too much for my eyes.

When I was a young man, my mother finally passed by her own hands. I missed her so much, even when she was alive, I missed how elegant and radiant she used to be. I long for the day when we were cruising down the coast of Southampton, the same way an eagle rests its wings at its sides and lets the gusts of wind carry it forth, soaring boldly towards the west. On a blissful summer day in the closing of June the sun shone joyously; all four windows were lowered; the radio turned up with her angelic voice gleefully singing along to the tunes and I remember none of those intricacies comparing to the way, oh the way, she would look at me in the passenger seat, with her beautifully bewitching, bold, brown eyes exposed by the endearing sunlight, it’s as if she spoke to me through her countenances, reassuring to me “No amount of pain could ever change the way that I love you.” However, not long after she was cold in the ground, I turned to the life of crime. Robbing anything I could; doing and selling drugs; beating men and women alike, I was senseless and barbaric. I had literally nothing to lose.

I’ve handled guns of most kinds by that point of my life, sparingly I have fired them at anyone, bullets only used as warning shots to add intensity into my thoughtless threats. I used the weapons on people, as a form of intimidation and for the cowardly purpose of not having them look too fondly into my eyes for they would peer into my soul and see the indignity, misery, humiliation, disgrace, and misfortune of my character which would had then made them pitiful, thus making me the one being robbed of my dignity and only further fueling my vexation. Fortunately, it is the sorrow and dejection that lives in my heart and desolation that exists in my soul. Never have I killed a man, but I have hunted and killed numerous animals for sport. With my pistol, I would sharpen my accuracy by shooting squirrels out of trees and sometimes when I wanted to feel entertained, I would shoot at the fowler ducks that flew in formation over my mobile home along the forest bank. With my rifle, I would venture into the woodland, hunting for doe and deer, not for the purpose of food but for the desire of killing. Once I recall coming across a mountain lion purged atop a boulder by the stream, before I shot it, I watched marvelously at the creature from a bush about ten meters away, deep gratification set upon me by how it stood, prideful and patient. I tugged the trigger and shot it in the stomach, emitting a booming sound that created an invisible force that pushed back the leaves that surrounded me and moved the grass like a slight breeze. The creature leapt off of the stone into the stream and began running with striding stumbles into the pined wilderness. I followed its trails of blood not far in, the body laid between some shrubs of bottlebrush buckeye. And there it was, emitting mild growls within its deep breaths. The leaking marooned blood had seeped into the soil of the dark green grass. I stood above its head, watching eternal rest draw closer with each slow sedation of blinks from the distressed cat. Another day I remember was when I wanted my body mangled by the taloned grips of a great grizzly beast because I believed, that not even I was worthy enough to take my own damned life. The vehement winds of the winter began to calm, the sun sat behind a mass of cool, gray nebulous clouds, and I yearned to be clawed open, mauled, dragged, and eaten. I wanted all of the emotional sufferings that had festered within me from the past fifteen years to be manifested physically, so I went in looking for a grizzly, or any other carnivore but preferably a bear, to provoke in the hopes of it tearing me apart, but unfortunate was I to find any on that tame afternoon.         

Now, as a man in the middle of my age, I constantly live in reverie. Pondering as I sit on the river’s edge in the gorge; pondering of the life that I could have lived while I watch the ripples caused about by the rain infinitely expand into another, the infinite lives in which my father had stayed and I never lost hope, and of the infinite others where he leaves sooner or later than he did and I end up the same. I think of all that time I have foolishly wasted, blinded by fury as the river runs down the stream unchanging in momentum and direction. With deep regret, I recall all the times in which I had failed to help my mother. The realization dawned over me like a wake of vultures; for it was I, her dearest boy whom would be met with the darling smile of a watchful mother after a nightmare, that she needed in those harrowing times as misguided widow, and it is because of the selfish loathing that I had doomed her. Whether she may not have known, it was my love that should have filled the desolate piece that had been ripped out of her, and it was but I that had forsook her the same way my father had. And it is now, through the wisdom of the time, that I understand why he could’ve done it and how he might have felt as I marvelously behold the sun setting in the scarlet skies behind the canyon while winds calmly stir the branches on the pines like waves crashing onto the shore.

Good Morning

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Morning swift, atmosphere dulled

In the cradled nests the birds are lulled.

Slowly arises the sun beyond my view,

Second to greet this day anew.

Atmosphere is blue with hints of blonde,

Cloudscapes interminably reach beyond.

The seas they settle instead of crash,

The sands sit full, no imprints of past.

The wind stood still, with essence of weather,

It sits about softly, as quiet a feather.

Mind is unbound, free of fetter.

Thoughts they stream with harmonious flow.

A Good Morning it is now

And will be tomorrow.

Insight

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I notice everyday the people around me becoming sicker: with skin that reeks of nicotine and darkened by grime; teeth whose colors resemble that of the autumn leaves; bones that I watch brittle and age with each movement; and the repulsive, noxious coughs that infect the very air we share. They wander about, misinformed by the day, mindless and blind with something steadily eating away at their brain. Attention spans that would disperse past a single sentence, sometimes less; only reciting lines that they hear on the tell-a-vision hung on the walls or the ones they held in their hand. Their only motive in going outside would be to waste their money on the false hope that a scratch-off or lottery ticket would remove their illness and give them the big break they felt entitled to. Indulging on things that only worsen their health such as tobacco, alcohol, and drugs. It seems that they are aware of the affect on their health, warnings printed in stark view of the packages they come wrapped in, but those are ignored and torn open like an impatient child who has waited all day to finally get home and feast on his Halloween candy. They continue mindlessly unaware of the cycle they have bounded themselves in. Unable of changing themselves and beyond bringing about change to the environment around them. And I know that I must not fall to that same pitying state. I want to break free.

Ambiance

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There are some days where I don’t enjoy music. And today is one of those days. Without the sound, I notice the constant chirping chatter of the birds that sit atop the trees, a subtle noise that becomes toned out naturally by my thoughts. There are only brief pauses in their dialogue. But I remember a thing my girlfriend so wisely said in response to me claiming the birds to be communicating nonstop. “Well, humans are constantly talking as well.” “You’re right,” I said nonchalantly; Meanwhile, my perception is altered drastically. I’ve never pondered deeply at the fact, it only ever existed in my mind briefly, but it is true; Even though I couldn’t hear it, there is never a break of silence in the conversing of humans. The ending of one is always filled by another. And I wonder, of the ancient times of man, where there wasn’t enough to talk about, only sharing moments with each other were times when communication wasn’t a necessity. There is always the sound of a distant siren or of drills whirring, jacks paving the concrete ground, and the humming of the tame engines looming deep within the borough. The sounds that the winds make as it stirs the trees is similar to that of waves crashing onto the shore. When the wind settles, I could hear the ambiance, the sound of the Earth’s steady rotation, the planes sailing across the sky. The sky sounding different between the fall of the evening to the creeping of the night in which the deep silence of space fills my ears. I as a person could never experience true silence. The constant sounds of drawing breath, the beating of my heart, and my thoughts will always be present.

The Shadow Hunter

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He enters the blacksmith’s hut:

“What is yer business here, hunter?” he says through his thick Scottish accent.

“I seek to use your station to refine my blade.”

“I can do that for ye.” Insisted on the smith with his outstretched hand.

“Only I know how.” The hunter imposes as he places the sword in front of the smith without looking once at his face. The smith looks at it in astonishment that he conceals through his thick brow.

“I do not doubt your ability, smith. I can see that you are an honest man with experienced hands, but my blade can only be tended by the hands of my own for it requires a strict ritual. I’ll give you thirty silver. I only require the station to work.”

“Fine then.” Says the smith with a respectful trust. “Use whatever you require. I’ll not fetter.”

The hunter gives him a thankful nod and tends to the blade without a word more spoken. For about a half hour, the smith watches with childlike wonder as the hunter works. He removes a bottled oil and a thin leather wipe from his satchel and tilts the bottle onto the lather; he then guides it along the surfaces of the blade in a polished rhythm; he then places his bare hand on the hilt and carefully raises it and walks towards the fireplace where he holds the sword over the scorching flame, never once wincing at the bright blaze.

The smith grabs his large pail and exits out through the back of his hut, to the stream that flows near it on the bank of the forest. He returns with the pail full, carrying it with the strength of his back over to the cauldron, a burly, honest man in his middle age, he pours the fresh water into the cauldron that sits to the right of where the hunter stands and attempts to break the lingering silence in the air:

“Quite taciturn a man ye are, aye.” He says skittishly.

The hunter unbothered and unaware of the dialogue, keeps his dark eyes fixated on the dancing flame.

“Do not mind if I question curiously.”

“I do not.”

“May I ask what thou are called?”

“You may not. My name is of none importance in our acquaintance. I only find use in your resources not in your company, smith.”

The hunter gently pulls the orange glowing blade out of the fire and moves to his right gracefully towards the sharpening tool and begins to sharpen the coarse dents on the edge of the sword. Standing beside the smith, who now feels a bit of uneasiness about the mysterious nature of this man, he goes across and sits on his chair watching only the back of the hunter as he works. He tries engaging once more:

“Well… I can understand that. Me name beith John. Thy sword is one I’ve never laid eyes on. A magnificent weapon, masterfully crafted. May I ask then it’s material?”

“It is cast iron darkened and coated by volcanic stone, an ancient weapon. I found it in the caves of The Great Mountains in the Mediterranean. I know not of its origin or the bearer before me.” He says without ever turning his eyes to the smith, speaking clear enough so that he doesn’t have to.

“Looks a weapon out of pure legend. I trust you to be worthy to wield such a weapon as of the way it is guided with thy nimble hands. I also tell that you are graceful in yer work, hunter. Where do you head?”

“I head west. I hunt for a creature that moves swiftly through the towns, spewing acid that has burned down many villages that I’ve passed through, eating children and leaving families in states of fear and sorrow. It’s said to have leather like hide, impervious to arrows and bullets; deep yellow eyes that reflect the gleam of the moon; a roar greater than any lion; the acid it spits melt through steel and bones; and it moves faster than its own shadow. I was hired to slay the beast and to return its head. Quite surprised was I to see your village unravaged for I tracked it in this direction.”

He stops sharpening and sits the blade inside the cauldron, boiling the water inside it. From the holster on his belt, he grabs his caliber pistol and places it on the workbench. From his satchel he takes out bullets and removes their points, unscrewing them by hand.

“I’ve not caught wind of such creature or of villages being burned. But it doth make sense as to why through here rode a caravan of knights riding east a few mornings ago, gallops as loud as thunder, stopping for no one. I can also remember seeing great black smoke rise into the sky from the same direction, miles away in that same evening. If the beast wrought such destruction, do ye believe yer blade to be enough to combat such a thing?” The smith inquiringly asks.

Poised in his answer, the hunter replies:

“I am indifferent to your doubt in my manner of doing, smith. However, this beast is not one that most have seen. As I’ve said, it moves swiftly; even those that have laid eyes on it are unable to make sense of its form. The village you speak of was ash when I arrived, many families perished in the fire, nothing left besides defeated men, corroded wood, and the dooming essence of the beast that was left lingering. As for the knights; I either found their bodies half eaten or melted, with pools of blood and intestines occupying the ground they stood on. The few that survived now suffer from harrowing mental images from their conflict with the beast. Their stoic pretenses exposed to that of horror and dismay. The oil that I coated my blade with seeps into the porous surface of the stone, cementing itself inside once heated by the flame, virtually turning its material into that as hard as obsidian. For the iron, the heat allows the oil to give it a sharper, cleaner cut with each strike, the acid should slide off its edge without corrosion. But I only need use for the blade if a close confrontation with the beast is inevitably necessary. I aim to shoot the beast from a distance with these bullets that I’m filling with gunpowder, I will load these into my pistol and my rifle, I aim to fire it into its mouth, allowing the acid to ignite the powder, creating an explosion inside the damned abomination.”

“Oh, hunter I hadn’t meant to doubt thy ability. I surely haven’t a doubt in yer nature of doing either. I only ask the question in wonderment. I know thy is more than capable in killing such a foul creature for seeing how you tend to your weapon and listening to such a detailed regiment as to how you plan to slay it makes me actually believe confidently in yer ability. Ye will save many men, women, and children. But it is a great shame what happened to all those people, a horrific tragedy. May God welcome them into his kingdom with open arms and in his embrace, in his glory, they will forget all that they have suffered upon this accursed land.”

“I am no savior.” He affirmed John as he loaded the powder filled bullets into the chambers of his pistol. “I care not of the lives it hath taken or the ones it shall take presently. I seek to kill this beast for sport and reward, not for the sake of saving any man, woman, or child. My intentions aren’t honorable for my greed is that of pride and material.”

“But surely ye could understand the many lives saved at the hands of yer own. Even if ye cannot see the good nature of yer doing, hunter. I see plainly from yer guise that ye have hunted a great many beasts whose nature was that of destruction and disorder.” States John with attesting assent.

“I suppose” Replied the hunter with conviction in his tone.

He finishes loading his rifle and holster it on his back; on his right hip, his pistol holstered, its stock mounted over his left shoulder vertically. He then removes the sword from the cauldron and sheathes it on his back, perpendicular to the rifle, it’s hilt peaking over his right shoulder. Without mention, he goes in his satchel and takes out three silver coins and lays them leisurely on the workbench.

“I bid you farewell, smith.” He says with relaxed gratitude as he shakes his hand, a gesture that the smith felt with deep reverence.

“Aye. Farewell hunter; good luck and may God give you the strength to continue.“ A declaration that he instantly dismissed as he walks ambled towards the front exit of the shop, now he proceeds with his hunt.

Red Fire

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My sadness became boredom,

My boredom, a built up rage

That flows through my veins

As boiling motor oil being pumped

By the furious engine that is my heart.

My bones sheathed in steel,

The fibers in my muscle contracting,

And my mind, my reason,

Clouded by the smoke of the red fire,

Driving the vehicle that is my body,

Preparing to exert all the madness in a single crash.

Dead Inside

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Oh, What must I do to exile this demon?

Cast it from my soul

Back down to its abode below.

Left with the grief that I hide inside,

The same expressed through my uncaring eyes.

I have lost my mind. Now I am mindless.

With this veil over my head as I rise out of bed,

The one I remove to behold the life I dread.

I cannot bear to see. I wish to be sightless.

And still, I try and try

To fill the void inside.

With each new day, I rise

In the face of clear lie.

Oh, am I the fool that still tries

To feed the darkness in which dreams die.

Day Dreamer

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Bryan lay in his bunk at the start of dawn, faced up, looking at the ceiling but observing not the plain white paint beginning to chip in it’s second decade of decay, he was in his mind, his eyes fixed at the last place he was looking before purposely losing himself in thought. As though the conductor has stationed the train and gone to rest. He would imagine whole songs from his past, so well that he could faintly hear them in reality. He was deep in thought, imagining another world, another life as a writer, a storyteller, a passion that he wished he would have grasped instead of waiting long enough to end up incarcerated; with all his dreams and ideas seized by the iniquitous powers that have evolved past subtle implications and now passively commanded the way in which one consumes food, culture and also all information, through any and every form of media.

Each form containing a subliminal agenda clear enough for the mind to realize, but will not because their senses discern through the means of what is programmed in their brain, paving the way to the enslavement of a whole generation of mindless thinkers, unable to make their own decisions, needing to rely on the counsel of the electronic screens, having their eyes and mind sedated within seconds. These dictators of rational thought scrutinizing each pattern of each individual, ultimately deciding their fate before they even wake up. The world has changed, and he chose to stay the same. Not by choice but through instinct. Knowing that the new world was an unfair one, one in which he didn’t belong, one in which he no longer can affect. After a few hours, he came back into this reality, thinking about where he was now, a prison. But that thought crossed his mind unbothered, in the way that the late lion would allow flees to inhabit its mane; feeling no type of emotion towards it— no anger, frustration, or regret for he knew that it was pointless to stress about his current situation. For the walls won’t sympathize with his feelings nor would anyone else, again accepting the actuality of his condemnation, the acceptance that by the start and end of each day, to lay confined within the unmoved, cemented, and aging barriers.

His thoughts of nothing finally reach its inevitable end, mere seconds later, as though on cue, he was met by the sound of the automated digital bell that rang assertively on the ears of all incarcerated within the compound. It’s rings would travel miles throughout the vast, remote woodland reverberating throughout the trunk of each sycamore tree, the crest of the four valleys, and between the crack of each stone. Being more than enough too far for anyone to hear. The ringing drilling on the surface of his eardrums, the palpable sound of reality that reminds him that it is time for labor.

The Malfunctioning Man

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“Why don’t you have emotion?” Asked the man inquisitively. Bryan confused by the question, for it is not one he has ever had asked to him. He felt no offense from the question, rude one might find it, but it created a thought he has not ever pondered, the thought of how the rest of the world sees him. He never thought of himself outside of his own mind. What do others see? He thought. He didn’t even know how to answer. After a brief pause, he comes up with the response thought, to him, most normal to a question like that and for a man like him. Bryan says in his solemn tone, “It’s just how I am.” The man now bewildered, with the visage as if it were he asked an existential question. Bryan watched as the man expresses his face, especially his eyes and his brow in a way that no other human had ever made until that moment, not knowing what form to express. While Bryan watches through his impassive eyes, the unnatural expressions of this malfunctioning man, he enters his mind, thinking to himself once again, how odd people are and how estranged from this world he truly is.

A Tired Soul

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He hated sleep because of the dreams that tormented him every night; his bizarre dream world in which he could never escape. But it was the night that he adored; for the solus feeling caused by the overwhelming expansiveness of the space beyond the sky, the deep darkness lit by the far away stars that conceal him. He dreaded waking up in the morning, not because he isn’t a “morning person”; he fondly enjoyed the early chirp of the birds, the sun ascending with it’s natural elegance, the light cerulean blue of the atmosphere blended with the daffodil yellow of the sun’s shine, and he deeply appreciated how quiet the earth seems, only for a brief period of time, it would seem as if the air had begun to slowly awake as well.

Excerpt from novel

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For no reason at all, he remembered of a night years before, not being sure on the exact year, he recalls having spent, what he believed to be the most relaxing and beautiful evening he had ever experienced. Truly feeling at peace within his heart and his mind. With no worry of what he has and what he doesn’t; no thoughts of the usual failure he would perceive himself to be; and no feeling of being alone while laying under the infinite existence that is space. The stars illuminating throughout the greatest plane of darkness over the girl with whom his heart he had shared, his one ever-true love. But perplexed was he to feel that it was not enough. For deep inside, he still felt that not even the stars, shining ever so bright and warmly after the long grey haze and biting cold gloom that was the winter, nor the unending love he shared from the most perfect lover he would ever have, he came to realize that not even those would ever be great enough to fill the vast emptiness he felt inside.

The unimportant essence that he adds to his already redundant existence. It was never a feeling he could explain to anyone, one that not even he could understand. A curse, he believed, for it was the only thing to have made sense as to why he stills feels so strange with himself, with the world, and with the reality of living. He thought to question whomever was writing the story of his life, or controlling it through a simulation. He would ask why to choose to put him through the misery of his life, the misery that he can’t even escape while dreaming, the one he awakes to, lives in, and sleeps with. A never-ending gloom he was, or at least he thought he was, but in fact, it would be the gloom that engulfed him. All his life surrounded by mystifying people placed in a peculiar time, a truth he himself knew. Why was everyone and everything so strange? He expected exactly how people would behave, but can’t understand how they aren’t aware of the oddness within themselves and the bizarre reality around them. He knew that, inescapably, everything and everyone will underwhelm him in some form or another, and the thing that frustrated him was that soon enough, he would do the same.

The Midnight Stallion

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On this night the meadows bare,

The essence of the shadowed mare.

I am one with the forbearing beast,

Prideful gallops as I ride east.

And on this night the stars they gleam,

Atop the fields, across the stream.

Never I dare to wake this dream,

This one too real for it may seem.

And as I view the mountains range,

And as I feel the seasons change,

Bounded by dreams I must reclaim,

The time still passes just the same,

As I ride on the back,

Of the midnight stallion.

Spring Sonnet

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I feel the cold breeze of winter

Being forced away by spring winds.

The sky does change it’s tone,

As also do I.

Oh though I feel I can finally see.

Through these hollow eyes,

Past this cloud, I finally see.

Above the ground, beyond the trees

Gleaming through the darkness,

There lies the moon, scowling at me.

Reminding me by end of day,

To realize with my sorrowful eyes

And through this unchanging gaze,

Today was just the same as yesterday.