I have helpers, every shape and design.
Silence, ringing in my ears,
Thrusting my ideas from the midst to the forefront
To drown out the sound, the blare of its dumb trumpet.
This brown demon I pour down my throat.
Ripping at my insides, pounding at my organs.
All for the outcome. The top of the valley.
Everlasting validation. Eternal affection.
No rest will kiss my darkened eyes.
The Night, whispers inspiration
Through foggy skies and hanging limbs of nature.
The lines visible by the light of the moon.
They come to me and offer their support.
They, the committee for the frustrated and struggling.
They advise me often, the quality is relative.
I have helpers, every shape, and they are mine.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
To Please the King
Today was a very special day in the Gergia kingdom. The king had made a decree the day before, inviting anyone who dared, to come and attempt to please him. They could do anything that they liked as long as he found it pleasurable. If they succeeded, the king would present to them the finest of jewelry he had to offer and a position of power in his kingdom. There was a catch however; anyone who ventured to attempt this feat and failed would be executed, beheaded in front of the townspeople the very next day. Why he decided to do this is unknown, although it is believed that having run out of people to war with he was kind of on the bored side.
The king sat on his throne, which was garnished with gold and which was in size much larger than the king himself, and awaited the various individuals that would risk their lives for riches and power. He wore a brilliant gold crown that had glorious, shining diamonds going all around it. He bore a stern facial expression, one that bordered on agitated. He was obviously not going to make it easy on the talent show contestants.
The first to walk in and try his hand at pleasing the king was an ogre type monster. He was dark green in skin color and scales ran down his arms and up his back, all the way to the top of his head.
“What have you brought to please me?” bellowed the king.
Upon this prompt the monster proceeded to pop out his eyes from their sockets which he then held in his hands. Then with a wiggle and a tug he pulled his nose from his face. He then began juggling all three body parts while aiming a hopeful, almost giddy, smile at the king.
Without changing his expression or even flinching at the performance just given to him, the king said, “Jugglers have never been my fancy. Take him away.”
Next a being walked in that resembled an alien. It had pale, almost translucent skin that was green and big black eyes. Its limbs were long and swayed as it moved, and the thing’s fingers and toes were abnormally long.
“What have you brought to please me?” asked the king once again.
The thing then blinked and with no other warning another thing appeared. Now there were two aliens. Another blink made four. Another made eight. Another made sixteen. This continued until there was a crowd of other-worldly beings standing before the king. Out of seemingly thin air instruments appeared and the crowd of alien beings began playing a classical symphony.
No expression of delight or surprise showed on the king’s face. In fact, he gave a long sigh as if this whole show only agitated him.
“Just what we need, one lousy musician multiplying into several lousy musicians. Get them out of here!” said the king with disgust.
Next a man walked in. He showed no special characteristics at first sight. He didn’t look like there could be anything special about him. He just looked like a regular man. The king took one look at him and expected this was definitely going to be a waste of his time.
“What have you brought to please me?” said the king in voice that sounded tired and bored.
“Well, your majesty, I have just laid with your wife – the queen.” The man proclaimed quite confidently. The king however looked very confused and almost angry.
“You see,” he continued “The stories of her not being very satisfied with you as a lover has gotten all over the kingdom. She had never been intimate with another man besides you, but she felt like what you two had was lacking nevertheless.” The man swallowed hard and finally showed some signs of nervousness.
“So, I convinced her to sleep with me. I am not very, um…well endowed, and I am quite clumsy in bed. I am thoroughly convinced that she did not enjoy the experience and from now on she will not be taking for granted the skills you possess in the bedroom.”
The king stared at the man for a moment. Then he burst into uproarious laughter.
“Ha-ha! It’s good to be king! Servants, give this man his jewels!” the king said with a smile and a face already red from laughter.
From then on there were many stories in the kingdom of the man that showed the queen a bad time, and of the king and his talent competition, and of the queen, who was perfectly okay with her love life the way it was.
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Flame [Poem]
The Flame
The flame grew brightest when you blew on it,
Moved it, and contorted it,
Pushed it from a sizzle to a flame,
But, you blew too hard,
Now the flame is gone,
The oxygen that brings life killed it, how ironic.
But has the flame truly departed?
It has changed form,
It's smoke floats upward to mix with the clouds.
It is never really gone,
The higher elevation is where the forest fires burn,
Constant and permanent markers of how powerful the potential of an ember can be.
The flame grew brightest when you blew on it,
Moved it, and contorted it,
Pushed it from a sizzle to a flame,
But, you blew too hard,
Now the flame is gone,
The oxygen that brings life killed it, how ironic.
But has the flame truly departed?
It has changed form,
It's smoke floats upward to mix with the clouds.
It is never really gone,
The higher elevation is where the forest fires burn,
Constant and permanent markers of how powerful the potential of an ember can be.
Old Machinery [Poem]
Old Machinery
Gears grinding forward
Or maybe, grinding backward
Altered old machinery
Beyond recalls, beyond refunds
Only heard of short-circuits
Past news, still productive
Means nothing to many
Means everything to one
Can't run quickly
Can't stop running
The rust continues to build
But the machine won't die
Gears grinding forward
Or maybe, grinding backward
Altered old machinery
Beyond recalls, beyond refunds
Only heard of short-circuits
Past news, still productive
Means nothing to many
Means everything to one
Can't run quickly
Can't stop running
The rust continues to build
But the machine won't die
Sunday, March 7, 2010
A Deathly Departure
When I became aware of my surrounds I was upright, standing in fact. I blinked my eyes hard two times and proceeded to look around me. There were vases sitting on top of the fireplace and on the coffee table. The rug, one of which I valued monetarily and sentimentally, was sitting in the middle of the living room I stood in. I saw the old wallpaper my wife picked out, I always hated that wallpaper, but it made her happy so it never left the walls.
As I began to walk, the hardwood floor paneling creaked and moaned underneath me with every step I made. I easily recognized everything around me, it was my house after all, but for some reason an uneasy feeling began to build inside of me. Something wasn’t right here; I just couldn’t put my mental finger on what it was.
I peered out the window and saw that the night was dark and stormy. The tree branches periodically slapped the window sill with the wind’s persuasion, as rain poured down and the faint sound of far-off thunder was audible. Every few seconds a flash illuminated what was outside and seeped into every opening of the house, splashing light here and there within.
I moved on slowly to the kitchen, while my fear grew quite rapidly inside of me. I felt as though at any moment some horrible spirit may make its ghostly presence known to me or perhaps a blood-thirsty hell hound may come snarling at me around the next corner and viciously rip my body apart. Just I was entrenched in this last nightmarish thought, I was shaken from my imagination by a loud growling sound. I gasped, “Oh, Dear God!” I said as, I turned to face what I surely thought would be my death. I then breathed a sigh of relief as it was only my dog Max.
“You nearly scared me to death, Max! Good to see you, boy.” Apparently Max was not as happy to see me, as he let off a never-ending string of angry barks. He showed his teeth and gnashed at me as if I were an intruder. I didn’t understand, he never acted in such a way before. I hurriedly left the kitchen, hoping his loud barks would stop if I was no longer there. To my puzzlement they did soon after I left.
I then decided I should go upstairs, to where my and my wife’s bedroom was. I stepped as gingerly as possible on each step, I was hoping the dog hadn’t awoken her and I didn’t want to disturb her myself. I slowly pushed the door to our bedroom, which was already partially open, far enough so I could get through. My wife was indeed awake and standing at the window, apparently checking to see how the storm had progressed. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a white, flowing night gown that I remembered she wore last valentine’s day. Her hair draped down her back with waves that any sailor would marvel at. I noticed in her face a tinge of melancholy, but I didn’t know why she looked that way.
I am not sure if I made a sound or if she felt my presence, but she suddenly turned to face me. I expected a smile to replace the look of melancholy and a warm suggestion that we both get back to bed, but instead I saw shock and trepidation as her lip began to quiver.
“What’s the matter, dear?” I asked, as I was concerned for her well being, but she gave no response and just fell to the floor sobbing. Then I happened to look down at myself. My hands were an odd color, one not so bright or as healthy as I last remembered. My clothes looked like they were in some kind of limbo between existence and non-existence. I barely seemed like I was there, I was more of a mist than a man. Then suddenly, like a roaring flood, it all came back to me. The things that happened the night before; how I had been in a hurry. How that bus driver never had time to hit the brakes.
That thing that wasn’t quite right in my house that night was me. I suddenly felt a sadness unlike I have ever felt before. There was no longer a place for me here, in my own house no less. I couldn’t be here anymore; I knew it would be unfair to my wife. She needed to mourn like everyone else and then be able to move on with her life. How could I possibly continue to make my presence felt here if in reality I was no longer here?
My wife by this point had somewhat gained control of her sobbing and wiped the tears from her cheeks as she looked up at me, her deceased husband. “How can this - is it really you?” she asked with pain and confusion. I knew that if I started to converse with her I would never be able to leave. Just like when I was alive, once I had a conversation with her I didn’t ever want to leave.
I told her, “I’m sorry. I love you more than life. Goodbye.” And with that I vanished from our bedroom. I never would return to that house again, my love for her made me stay away. You cannot properly live when you have acquaintances with the dead. The last time I saw her she was on her knees crying, I hope she didn’t spend too much time like that. Not over me.
As I began to walk, the hardwood floor paneling creaked and moaned underneath me with every step I made. I easily recognized everything around me, it was my house after all, but for some reason an uneasy feeling began to build inside of me. Something wasn’t right here; I just couldn’t put my mental finger on what it was.
I peered out the window and saw that the night was dark and stormy. The tree branches periodically slapped the window sill with the wind’s persuasion, as rain poured down and the faint sound of far-off thunder was audible. Every few seconds a flash illuminated what was outside and seeped into every opening of the house, splashing light here and there within.
I moved on slowly to the kitchen, while my fear grew quite rapidly inside of me. I felt as though at any moment some horrible spirit may make its ghostly presence known to me or perhaps a blood-thirsty hell hound may come snarling at me around the next corner and viciously rip my body apart. Just I was entrenched in this last nightmarish thought, I was shaken from my imagination by a loud growling sound. I gasped, “Oh, Dear God!” I said as, I turned to face what I surely thought would be my death. I then breathed a sigh of relief as it was only my dog Max.
“You nearly scared me to death, Max! Good to see you, boy.” Apparently Max was not as happy to see me, as he let off a never-ending string of angry barks. He showed his teeth and gnashed at me as if I were an intruder. I didn’t understand, he never acted in such a way before. I hurriedly left the kitchen, hoping his loud barks would stop if I was no longer there. To my puzzlement they did soon after I left.
I then decided I should go upstairs, to where my and my wife’s bedroom was. I stepped as gingerly as possible on each step, I was hoping the dog hadn’t awoken her and I didn’t want to disturb her myself. I slowly pushed the door to our bedroom, which was already partially open, far enough so I could get through. My wife was indeed awake and standing at the window, apparently checking to see how the storm had progressed. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a white, flowing night gown that I remembered she wore last valentine’s day. Her hair draped down her back with waves that any sailor would marvel at. I noticed in her face a tinge of melancholy, but I didn’t know why she looked that way.
I am not sure if I made a sound or if she felt my presence, but she suddenly turned to face me. I expected a smile to replace the look of melancholy and a warm suggestion that we both get back to bed, but instead I saw shock and trepidation as her lip began to quiver.
“What’s the matter, dear?” I asked, as I was concerned for her well being, but she gave no response and just fell to the floor sobbing. Then I happened to look down at myself. My hands were an odd color, one not so bright or as healthy as I last remembered. My clothes looked like they were in some kind of limbo between existence and non-existence. I barely seemed like I was there, I was more of a mist than a man. Then suddenly, like a roaring flood, it all came back to me. The things that happened the night before; how I had been in a hurry. How that bus driver never had time to hit the brakes.
That thing that wasn’t quite right in my house that night was me. I suddenly felt a sadness unlike I have ever felt before. There was no longer a place for me here, in my own house no less. I couldn’t be here anymore; I knew it would be unfair to my wife. She needed to mourn like everyone else and then be able to move on with her life. How could I possibly continue to make my presence felt here if in reality I was no longer here?
My wife by this point had somewhat gained control of her sobbing and wiped the tears from her cheeks as she looked up at me, her deceased husband. “How can this - is it really you?” she asked with pain and confusion. I knew that if I started to converse with her I would never be able to leave. Just like when I was alive, once I had a conversation with her I didn’t ever want to leave.
I told her, “I’m sorry. I love you more than life. Goodbye.” And with that I vanished from our bedroom. I never would return to that house again, my love for her made me stay away. You cannot properly live when you have acquaintances with the dead. The last time I saw her she was on her knees crying, I hope she didn’t spend too much time like that. Not over me.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Point of a Gun
[I almost didn't finish this one but ended up kind of liking it. I hope you do as well, any criticism is welcome.]
Harold Langley hung up the phone as he pulled his expensive new SUV into the parking lot of the bank. The phone conversation he just had was not an enjoyable one, but unfortunately one that occurred quite regularly these days. His wife had called to complain about the help again; in turn, to complain very loudly about him. He hadn’t really heard what they did so wrong, or even paid much attention when the focus shifted to his shortcomings. He knew the situation could be handled without him having to endure an ear-full. He was able to calm down his wife’s shouting to a murmur when he offered to bring her a new necklace when he got home that night. Actually, that was his reason for being at the bank; he needed to withdraw some money to pay for that piece of jewelry. Mr. Langley worked hard for his money but he was willing to sacrifice some of it to keep the peace. Although this type of bribe initially began as a ploy for short-term happiness in the wake of his or another’s blunder, now it was beginning to feel entirely different to him. Instead of a bribe for short and temporary happiness, it seemed like a bribe for her company. As if this were taken away, she would have no reason to stay. Although he felt this, he never said anything and instead made himself believe that is just what a marriage was.
He walked inside the crowed bank brooding hatred for every other man, woman, and child in that building. He had more important things to do than be stuck here, didn’t they know that? As he took his place in line he put on a lifeless, emotionless facial expression and he thought of all the work he could be getting done if not for this delay. He wore a black suit, with a white undershirt, and a black tie. That is what he wore everyday at his job, which is what really consumed his thoughts at this time and nearly all the time. He came from a middle class family. Only occasionally did they catch a glimpse of the rich life and that seemed to be enough for the rest of his family, but that glimpse only made him want more. So he strove for greatness in school and made the top grades in his class, not because he cared about his education but because he was planning ahead. He then excelled in his career, not for pride but for wealth. Love for money motivated everything he did. That was his attitude then and now, as he stood in the bank waiting to withdraw a small bit of that wealth to appease his unhappy wife. The line he was in moved twice and this made him feel a little better. Maybe this would be over sooner than he thought and he could get back to what really mattered to him.
As he was envisioning sent business letters and finished reports, something to his left attracted his attention. There was quite a bit of commotion happening at one of the tellers. At first he just thought it to be another angry, impatient businessman like himself, but then he saw the gun. It shone from the sunlight that flooded in the windows of the bank. It was a pistol. He didn’t know what kind exactly as he never was put in much contact with guns. All he knew, and needed to know, was the damage it could unleash on the people in that bank, or worse yet on him. The man was yelling for all the money to be put in bags, so he could carry out his loot more easily. The tellers were rushing to comply, not wanting to disobey a man who held possible death for any one of them. Then the man turned around swiftly and ordered everyone else to lie on the ground. Everyone obeyed this new master for fear of the consequences. All except one man, he saw an opportunity to run when the gunman’s back was turned briefly. If his footsteps hadn’t sounded like land mines, perhaps he would have made it to safety, but instead he nursed a wound to the lower back that gushed blood. “Anyone else want to see how fast they can run?” prodded the gunman to his captured sheep.
During this whole time Mr. Langley was in a state of shock. He was experiencing a walking coma of sorts. He knew everything around him was real but his mind wasn’t willing to accept it yet, so his body just moved by instinct. By now the money had been placed in the bags and the thief was heading to the door to make his escape. Everyone held their breath, hoping this ordeal was nearly finished. Harold didn’t know when or how but the police had been called by someone and were now blocking all the exits from the bank.They had the place surrounded, thus quickly turning this robbery into a hostage situation. The gunman lined everyone up, one behind the other, in a single-file formation. He stated his ultimatum to the police, via the phone- if he didn’t get a getaway car and a way out he was going to shoot one hostage every five minutes. Harold couldn’t believe it, he was on death row. He had committed no crime but he was about to receive the highest punishment a criminal can get. In fact, he was suffering because of another man’s crime; if he had more time to spare he would have considered the injustice of it all. He was placed second in line and assumed he would die in ten minutes. He thought he would miss his wife, not because he had extraordinary love for her. He would miss her because she was a part of his life, and he loved his life.
The time had come for the poor woman in front of him to meet her fate. The thief raised the shining gun to the crying woman’s forehead as she kneeled before him. Harold couldn’t watch and closed his eyes so only his ears were met by death. The shot rang out. He opened his eyes but didn’t look directly at the woman, she deserved at least that he thought. He could see the running blood on the floor though, my God all the blood. He would have lingered on that but there was no time for disgust in what could be his last five minutes on earth. Before he blinked twice, it seemed, his time was up. So many hours in his life he wasted waiting or doing nothing and his last five minutes went by in two blinks? The gun was raised to his head now; so this was it. Once again he closed his eyes to death as if its light was blinding. He lowered his head and waited for the end. Then he heard the gunshot but he felt nothing. Had his death really been that quick and painless? He wondered what he had feared all his life. He raised his head to see, not the Lord, but the body of the thief slumped over with a bullet in his head. A sharp shooting officer ended this affair nearly as quickly as it had started when he finally had a clear shot at the gunman through those windows being flooded with light. The police then rushed the building with guns drawn. They checked on the survivors and sent medics to care for the executed woman and the shot man. Harold heard later that she died, but by then she was just another person to him- another face. They shared only a moment, he didn’t really know her. As for the man who was shot, Harold never heard what happened to him and he never did any investigating on the issue either.
After he was checked by the police and gave his statement, he got back in his SUV. He sat there, not knowing where to go. He had been forced to see what his life really was and he saw what greed resulted in. He slipped his favorite CD in, he hadn’t listened to it in a very long time and he didn’t really know why. For the first time in years he turned his phone off and drove away from that God forsaken bank. Maybe for once in his life he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Harold Langley hung up the phone as he pulled his expensive new SUV into the parking lot of the bank. The phone conversation he just had was not an enjoyable one, but unfortunately one that occurred quite regularly these days. His wife had called to complain about the help again; in turn, to complain very loudly about him. He hadn’t really heard what they did so wrong, or even paid much attention when the focus shifted to his shortcomings. He knew the situation could be handled without him having to endure an ear-full. He was able to calm down his wife’s shouting to a murmur when he offered to bring her a new necklace when he got home that night. Actually, that was his reason for being at the bank; he needed to withdraw some money to pay for that piece of jewelry. Mr. Langley worked hard for his money but he was willing to sacrifice some of it to keep the peace. Although this type of bribe initially began as a ploy for short-term happiness in the wake of his or another’s blunder, now it was beginning to feel entirely different to him. Instead of a bribe for short and temporary happiness, it seemed like a bribe for her company. As if this were taken away, she would have no reason to stay. Although he felt this, he never said anything and instead made himself believe that is just what a marriage was.
He walked inside the crowed bank brooding hatred for every other man, woman, and child in that building. He had more important things to do than be stuck here, didn’t they know that? As he took his place in line he put on a lifeless, emotionless facial expression and he thought of all the work he could be getting done if not for this delay. He wore a black suit, with a white undershirt, and a black tie. That is what he wore everyday at his job, which is what really consumed his thoughts at this time and nearly all the time. He came from a middle class family. Only occasionally did they catch a glimpse of the rich life and that seemed to be enough for the rest of his family, but that glimpse only made him want more. So he strove for greatness in school and made the top grades in his class, not because he cared about his education but because he was planning ahead. He then excelled in his career, not for pride but for wealth. Love for money motivated everything he did. That was his attitude then and now, as he stood in the bank waiting to withdraw a small bit of that wealth to appease his unhappy wife. The line he was in moved twice and this made him feel a little better. Maybe this would be over sooner than he thought and he could get back to what really mattered to him.
As he was envisioning sent business letters and finished reports, something to his left attracted his attention. There was quite a bit of commotion happening at one of the tellers. At first he just thought it to be another angry, impatient businessman like himself, but then he saw the gun. It shone from the sunlight that flooded in the windows of the bank. It was a pistol. He didn’t know what kind exactly as he never was put in much contact with guns. All he knew, and needed to know, was the damage it could unleash on the people in that bank, or worse yet on him. The man was yelling for all the money to be put in bags, so he could carry out his loot more easily. The tellers were rushing to comply, not wanting to disobey a man who held possible death for any one of them. Then the man turned around swiftly and ordered everyone else to lie on the ground. Everyone obeyed this new master for fear of the consequences. All except one man, he saw an opportunity to run when the gunman’s back was turned briefly. If his footsteps hadn’t sounded like land mines, perhaps he would have made it to safety, but instead he nursed a wound to the lower back that gushed blood. “Anyone else want to see how fast they can run?” prodded the gunman to his captured sheep.
During this whole time Mr. Langley was in a state of shock. He was experiencing a walking coma of sorts. He knew everything around him was real but his mind wasn’t willing to accept it yet, so his body just moved by instinct. By now the money had been placed in the bags and the thief was heading to the door to make his escape. Everyone held their breath, hoping this ordeal was nearly finished. Harold didn’t know when or how but the police had been called by someone and were now blocking all the exits from the bank.They had the place surrounded, thus quickly turning this robbery into a hostage situation. The gunman lined everyone up, one behind the other, in a single-file formation. He stated his ultimatum to the police, via the phone- if he didn’t get a getaway car and a way out he was going to shoot one hostage every five minutes. Harold couldn’t believe it, he was on death row. He had committed no crime but he was about to receive the highest punishment a criminal can get. In fact, he was suffering because of another man’s crime; if he had more time to spare he would have considered the injustice of it all. He was placed second in line and assumed he would die in ten minutes. He thought he would miss his wife, not because he had extraordinary love for her. He would miss her because she was a part of his life, and he loved his life.
The time had come for the poor woman in front of him to meet her fate. The thief raised the shining gun to the crying woman’s forehead as she kneeled before him. Harold couldn’t watch and closed his eyes so only his ears were met by death. The shot rang out. He opened his eyes but didn’t look directly at the woman, she deserved at least that he thought. He could see the running blood on the floor though, my God all the blood. He would have lingered on that but there was no time for disgust in what could be his last five minutes on earth. Before he blinked twice, it seemed, his time was up. So many hours in his life he wasted waiting or doing nothing and his last five minutes went by in two blinks? The gun was raised to his head now; so this was it. Once again he closed his eyes to death as if its light was blinding. He lowered his head and waited for the end. Then he heard the gunshot but he felt nothing. Had his death really been that quick and painless? He wondered what he had feared all his life. He raised his head to see, not the Lord, but the body of the thief slumped over with a bullet in his head. A sharp shooting officer ended this affair nearly as quickly as it had started when he finally had a clear shot at the gunman through those windows being flooded with light. The police then rushed the building with guns drawn. They checked on the survivors and sent medics to care for the executed woman and the shot man. Harold heard later that she died, but by then she was just another person to him- another face. They shared only a moment, he didn’t really know her. As for the man who was shot, Harold never heard what happened to him and he never did any investigating on the issue either.
After he was checked by the police and gave his statement, he got back in his SUV. He sat there, not knowing where to go. He had been forced to see what his life really was and he saw what greed resulted in. He slipped his favorite CD in, he hadn’t listened to it in a very long time and he didn’t really know why. For the first time in years he turned his phone off and drove away from that God forsaken bank. Maybe for once in his life he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
First Writer's Block
[This is something I wrote about two weeks ago and posted it on writing.com. It got all favorable reviews there, and I would like to now post it here as my first entry in this blog.]
This blank page stares back at me. I know, thanks to many years in the American education system, that a blank paper on a smudgy computer screen can not taunt me. Still it seems to do just that. It’s laughing in my face. This is what I want to do with my life, but this inanimate pixelation has defeated me. It stands in the way of my entire plan. I can see where I need to go, what I need to do. If only there wasn’t this thing, this monster stopping me from accomplishing all my goals.
It has no feelings, no discernible figure, no voice, no anything. It doesn’t have life. It might as well be a pebble or any number of other inanimate objects in this universe. However it continues to block my path. It’s a mouse and I am the frightened elephant, unable to see a path past this foreign creature without changing paths entirely. It looks up and smiles at me, knowing what I am.
Who is this thing to intrude upon my life and plans? Does it really think it can just walk in and sabotage everything? The idea of this all seemed so simple in theory. How simpler can it be than to write? I have read books, poetry, plays, articles, essays, and the list goes on. What I saw did not look so difficult to create. No one ever warned me about this lion. My arrogance and naivety are shameful.
But is this creature foreign or something else? Could this monster actually be…me? This page doesn’t have life, a voice, or anything for that matter. The only one throwing obstacles in my path is me. I am the one who is a perfectionist. I am the one who wants to write the next masterpiece. I am the one who is not willing to dive in and perhaps make a fool out of myself for the sake of learning my craft. My fingers are the fingers that don’t move. My brain is the one that second guesses and self-destructs itself at every possible opportunity.
No one could warn me about this demon because it resides inside of me. This culprit, now that it has been identified, will be brought to justice. Through hard work, dedication, and probably a lot of coffee, this giant will be conquered. Without slaying the dragon you do not get the princess. I suppose this peasant has a long journey ahead.
This blank page stares back at me. I know, thanks to many years in the American education system, that a blank paper on a smudgy computer screen can not taunt me. Still it seems to do just that. It’s laughing in my face. This is what I want to do with my life, but this inanimate pixelation has defeated me. It stands in the way of my entire plan. I can see where I need to go, what I need to do. If only there wasn’t this thing, this monster stopping me from accomplishing all my goals.
It has no feelings, no discernible figure, no voice, no anything. It doesn’t have life. It might as well be a pebble or any number of other inanimate objects in this universe. However it continues to block my path. It’s a mouse and I am the frightened elephant, unable to see a path past this foreign creature without changing paths entirely. It looks up and smiles at me, knowing what I am.
Who is this thing to intrude upon my life and plans? Does it really think it can just walk in and sabotage everything? The idea of this all seemed so simple in theory. How simpler can it be than to write? I have read books, poetry, plays, articles, essays, and the list goes on. What I saw did not look so difficult to create. No one ever warned me about this lion. My arrogance and naivety are shameful.
But is this creature foreign or something else? Could this monster actually be…me? This page doesn’t have life, a voice, or anything for that matter. The only one throwing obstacles in my path is me. I am the one who is a perfectionist. I am the one who wants to write the next masterpiece. I am the one who is not willing to dive in and perhaps make a fool out of myself for the sake of learning my craft. My fingers are the fingers that don’t move. My brain is the one that second guesses and self-destructs itself at every possible opportunity.
No one could warn me about this demon because it resides inside of me. This culprit, now that it has been identified, will be brought to justice. Through hard work, dedication, and probably a lot of coffee, this giant will be conquered. Without slaying the dragon you do not get the princess. I suppose this peasant has a long journey ahead.
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