Archive for the prose Category

In Pursuit

Posted in life, poetry, prose, Uncategorized, writing with tags , on September 17, 2014 by Shadow

In Pursuit

Running and running through the empty streets with the wind blowing in my face, the water molecules collide with my skin and gets in my eyes, and my clothes get soggy and heavy as I go.

No one is following me.

I am chasing something.

A shadow of a person who may or may not exist.

The shadow I chase is the vision of everything I had ever hoped for, everything I dreamed of doing, and the shadow gets further and further away, the more that I chase.

Don’t stop for me, shadow, don’t prove yourself weak in your will; keep from me all that I hope, all that I dream, for I wouldn’t want anyone to think you were frail and incompetent.

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Un-Alone

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, writing with tags , on July 20, 2014 by Shadow

Them

After traumatic events led to a major disorder in my thinking, something bizarre occurred. One day I found myself face-to-face with a doorway into another world; and yet, it was a doorway into my mind. I saw beings there that looked like people, and they saw me in return. I say they looked like people because in some ways, they were more like creatures, mutated forms mocking the shape of a human.

Being seen like this was jarring; startling. Their eyes felt like my eyes, as though I were watching myself. I felt fear, a fear they could grasp. I tried to cope, but a haunting sensation tore through me, the kind that told me I wasn’t important to anyone. The feeling was crippling and I wanted to hide, but wherever I tried to move to, their eyes followed me.

The Box

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, writing on March 28, 2014 by Shadow

box-icon

Living in a box causes the psyche to adapt in unhealthy ways. One feels the thin walls, and knows others can hear every cough. Even worse, the loneliness may cause one to soliloquize, and people listening may wonder, because they have lives. If one is lucky, they can look out the window and enjoy the breeze and the sight of the trees, but to go out spells disaster because the world is expensive, and one may not have money. One may pass the time lying down doing lots of reading, but only part of what’s been read is taken in, for the rest of the time has been occupied by thoughts of a terrible past, or a hopeless future. One may think of longings, or a lost love, and go for a walk to ease the pain of remembering, but will be so torn down by a lack of self-esteem that the ability to interact with others has been removed. One may feel frustrated knowing they could go out, only to have to come back to the box, and may spend time avoiding those of whom they know have no interest in them. The box provides shelter from the rain, but the eternity passes in a shell of gloom, and sometimes a surge of embarrassment will arise at the thought of those who know the situation. Living the life of a peasant can grow on one, and thoughts of suicide might arise, or maybe a repetition of curtain-checking will ensue. If one goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water, they may see a beautiful person through the window, and become enraptured by jealousy as the person hugs another and holds hands with them.

The box may make a person feel incapable of saying the right things because freedom is such a long ways off, even if the door is wide open; because there is nowhere to go. Maybe things are said that are taken with unintended meaning, and possible friends are lost. One could think about the box, and want to at least share a word or two with someone, and try and reach out; only to be crudely rejected for possessing the specter of loneliness. Feelings may escalate from this point, where the person retreats into the box and lives out a fantasy that they’re loved, and that a dream world is not far away. Smiles unfold on a screen and the person may feel better for a few moments, unaware of the two-dimensional nature. Maybe after the screen is turned off, a conversation takes place where a person might feel included, and maybe a voice might provide comfort. One might even hear the voice grow quiet, and learn that the voice is listening intently, with care. The voice is the one that knows of the dream, and provides the greatest possible measure to make the dream come true. When sleep comes, reality comes with, and the answers are fed deep into the subconscious. The alarm goes off, and the world of people are exposed, and no one pays attention, and so the reality of the dream comes along to help. After spending the time alone among hundreds of people, one might return to the box with the most nail-biting, fail-feeling sense of hope.

The box is where depression lies, and the mind is active in the box with every fear and non-dream like realism, where dream worlds are created to alleviate the pressure of the kings and queens of loneliness bearing down on them.

Deep Recesses

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, Uncategorized, writing with tags on September 13, 2013 by Shadow

Loss

The terrorization of living. One person thrives while another suffers. This is alright in the eyes of God? Was there ever a chance for everyone to be happy? Or do the wolf packs chase the herds endlessly, a victim bound to fall?

Each moment is a moment of terror, blows of inanity that induce fight-or-flight reactions, propagating the natural order. To put matters bluntly, God does not exist. The terror of life is easier to cope with under these conditions, the survival of the fittest paving the way for the future. For a soul caught by the wayside, caught in the jet stream of progress, floundering in the dilemma of ignorance, his spirit is torn to shreds for his attempt at trying.

The feeling is like a moment in the reality of an alternate world, when one notices a gruesome element of the environment. Maybe water is dripping along the insides of a stone building, and with the turn of a head, one sees the people gathered as they stare; they are mutants, outcasts of the social order, and they can see a person’s every move. Or maybe a vast desert has become all the more inhospitable for a pulverizing wind that won’t stop, where one’s thoughts are continually drawn to the thought of water and comfort.

When the fog of a dream lifts, the sound of traffic comes roaring in. Each four-wheeled domain a rolling entity of agenda, each willing to mow another over in the name of itinerant duty. The clouds keep the sun out and the faces, they meld with the pervasive absence of satisfaction, a ceaseless game that breaks only when the dinner bell rings out its paltry chimes.

A woman walks along the littered gutters of the street, fortune her long lost lover, and the cats in the cans dig for their evening meal. Love had been wrought by the great and mighty voice in the sky, but its smooth silky petals grew worn by streams of corruptive radiation, that force which comes from a vile thought, a cutting, hateful remark. Hurt, she spent some change for a can of food to give to the cats so she could cling to the smallest grain of goodness in her soul. And the people in the windows, five stories up, they watched as their pizzas grew cold in preparation for the mildew that would form.

Then came the rain. It began as a light drizzle that moistened the oily streets enough to create a sheen that brought back memories. That time when we tried to train our dog. The day your bottles were found in the back yard. The moment when I specifically told you, not to jump. The rain doesn’t care about friends or families, or schedules. It just shows up like a diesel truck from out of the distance, its clatter turning pockets of silence into pockets of disruption. Would the fates endow a measure of peace if I offered to feel bad, for as long I could, the rain soaking my head as I sat there in the park, trying to figure it all out?

No, the rain could have stayed away, and everything would have been fine, but because it was there, creating puddles of dirty water, it was therapeutic. Dreams and desires vanished in the sound of cars whizzing through the wetness, a spark of hope crushed like road kill pushed aside, waiting for animal control do its job. Rain was better than love because you knew, you could feel it, the emotions and the glory, you knew it would all go away so that something more dreadful would puncture its way into your world, something that would utterly ruin you; and the people, they would all notice and watch as you made a complete mess of yourself. I told you, I pleaded with you, and yet you wouldn’t listen.

Some say that the afterlife is waiting for us when we die. No one knows what this place looks like. I see trees and sidewalks, mountains and skyscrapers, but I don’t see the afterlife, presumably because I’m not dead. Should I take a leap into imagining what the afterlife is like? How could I? I know the afterlife doesn’t exist. So when I think of death, I think of a vast ocean where all my suffering becomes diluted in the rolling waves. All the things I hoped for are exchanged for oblivion, that state of nothingness where what might have been known, can never be known. I hope that the sooner people forget me, the better. I hated this life. Being alone is a punishment; being rejected makes it worse. Instead of being vindictive, I can only spell out the reality on the page.

“Who are you?” she asked. But my question in return would be, “What does it take to ask a question like that?” The guts, the gall, the inspiration, the confidence. The question she asked seemed like curiosity, but was merely an effect of repetition. With each person we encounter, the need to know drives us, even if the answers are sometimes disappointing.

The blinds block my view of the stars high in the night sky. Beneath me the spiders crawl while out on the street, people passing by in their vehicles travel to their places of importance. Every unit of activity has a measure of importance. I thought about the needs and desires of people, what makes a thing important to them. I was unable to complete the thought. I let it flow through me without trying grasp it, much like the woman whose cloak keeps her sheltered from the prying eyes, a disguise that keeps her sanctity intact. And when the falling acid burns the rooftops, I play songs that make me think, that make me believe, that somehow I have significance, which is such a travesty.

The nightmare speaks of the deepest fear, the reality that marks truth. And truth can be the most frightful thing of all. It bores into the deepest recesses of the human heart and puts it in a stranglehold, until some resolution can purge the terror of that truth. Facts are undeniable, and some facts are subjected to the sincerest attempts of neglect. When the animal, the predator looks one directly in the eye, facts become like the festering rot of truth, where everything is as serious as the death of someone you loved, like no other person in the entire world. And your stomach becomes tight with the pain.

The Frayed Edges of Existence

Posted in love, personal, poetry, prose with tags , on July 12, 2013 by Shadow

Alone

Only one person can touch the heart, that person some call a soul mate. She’s the one you can tell, nothing else is as important, because the nights are hard to get through alone, or like, sometimes, it’s hard to make sense of my thoughts when she crosses my mind.

When fate enacted its charms, I was forced to go away, the complications so difficult to explain that an entire dissertation couldn’t cover the extent of what happened. Paradoxically, the simplest thing underscoring the whole of the matter, was how much I loved her.

An obstacle established, a circumstance pushing matters in a torrential way, a chain of events and the passing of time, and suddenly, my soul mate was gone. I had to imagine life without her, the possibility of kissing a complete stranger, someone I would never come to love, like I loved her.

The wind blows upon my path as I travel, until my bones turn to dust and I have to wonder. Why couldn’t the fates have had pity on me? Do the angels, at least, marvel at the strength it takes, to walk alone, without her? Is it a choice, that I choose to follow my path into the ice, where I finally come face-to-face with my demise, never knowing the reason why I was singled out?

Is that what I am then, a monster, forced to find someone else, when no one else will do? Having the strings that extended between you and I torn, was painful. Unresolved, I keep myself barred from the cold wind that freezes my face, bound to the isolation of the glacial path. Because where it leads me is irrelevant, for if you are not there, then where or who am I, but a weary traveler.

Meat Grinder

Posted in prose, writing on December 23, 2010 by Shadow

– courtesy of The Wall

“A woman died today because the electric company shut off the power that ran her automatic breather.”

Why doesn’t each segment of society have a meat grinder for the people that they can’t stand? They know they can’t stand them, yet hide behind the lies of religion and philanthropy. Life would be so much easier for those who are living comfortably if they didn’t have to deal with those who have trouble living. People that bother others because they are having problems should be shot by the government and placed into large meat grinders to be made into fertilizer. People who are suffering should be eliminated, just like in nature, when the herd leaves behind the sick and disabled to be eaten by wolves. Then the people who have life figured out would not have to bother themselves with helping those who distract them from living out their lives. Meat grinders are hopefully already being situated in this world where masses of people are being shut out and left to starve. How much easier it is to be rid of those cankerous types of whom, if they never knew the feeling of happiness, why should they ever know it exists? A well sharpened industrialized meat grinder could solve much of society’s problems if society would just give it a chance. The countries sicken with over population and the only solution any governmental operation can think of is to round them up for slaughter so they won’t be such a problem anymore.

The Day

Posted in poetry, prose on September 22, 2010 by Shadow

I was up and ready for another day.

Another day where the faces passed me by, and the pervasion of looks would drive the pressures in my heart to the extremes of the ends of the earth.

Another day where the time I spent focusing on what was important, was known to no one else in the world, for no one existed in my life.

I was up and ready to engage the challenges knowing, knowing all to well what they would think, what they would do.

I would teeter on the edge of insanity while I thought of the possibilities, while I would teeter on the edge of insanity, knowing dreams could never come true.

My time had come and gone, my chances had been thrown before me, and I was defeated with shame and my hopes had been dashed; time had passed me by and I was doomed to live out the regret of knowing I lost her, that the mental disfigurement, the physical deformities, the monster I became would haunt the fabric of my time worn soul forever.

Who could ever love me now…?

I was up and ready for another day.