Ammunition

I cannot take back the terrible things that I've done. I can only regret them, resent them, and rescind them. Re, re, re. As if it's something I've done before. As if it's something I'll continue to do. Is it not enough to simply gret, sent, or scind? No. Because I've been here before. We all have. We'll keep redoing it because, similarly, we'll keep re-enacting our most horrible deeds. They do not rest. They do not die.

I do not mean to suggest that they are immortal, but it is only at our own deathbeds wherein our worst acts die with us. The effects left behind linger on, but from the end there is but one thing to do. The final rejection. From where there can be no returning to our ways. Death is the eternal change that lasts for less than a split second. Death is not a state of being - it is a portal. And through it, we cease to do harm to those around us, to the world around us.

Thus I can only be content to reprimand my own character in the hope that, in the future, I may not be so bold.

I am speaking of something greater than sin as it is conventionally understood. I am speaking of the anti-perfection. And it is a plague upon this world.

We must be content to reprimand our characters - to repress our poisoned natures and put in their place the weapons of our time.

Love. Life. Happiness. Compassion. Charity.

There is no shortage of ammunition. But of soldiers? Maybe. Are you one of them? Am I?

A Somewhat Depressing Thought

At the end of the rainbow there is no rainbow.

Do Not Analyze This Poem

Tuesday Was Writing Day

Tuesday was writing day. It had been for years, all through High School. Mike, Jen, and Tom had met on those days, laptop bags in tow, and sat during the lunch hour, just writing. To an outsider it must have looked strange - a group of three friends sitting together, not talking, just typing, click-click-clicking away. It hadn't taken long for them to develop a reputation, and a slew of nicknames to go with it. Mike thought it was uncomfortable, Jen reveled in it. Tom didn't even think about it, because Tuesday was writing day.

Sometimes the entire hour would pass with little more than a salutation and goodbye passing between them. Other times one or the other would get blocked in by their own words, and the others would put theirs aside to help. It was usually Mike who got stuck. Not that he was a poor writer - in fact, it was quite the opposite. His vision usually grew so strongly within him that it was difficult for him to reach the level he demanded of himself. No number of forget-about-its or your-reader-won't-even-notice could stop Mike from striving for perfection. Jen thought he was wasting his time. Tom didn't even think about it. But they always helped him touch things up. Character. Plot. Dialogue. There was never a time when a plea for help went unanswered. Because Tuesday was writing day.

Jen had problems with her home-life, and it showed through her subject matter. Her father had left at a young age and her mother had turned to alcohol, leaving Jen to raise her younger sisters. Not surprisingly, her plots often dealt with wrongings and revenge, and Tom and Mike often told her how strange and psychotic her characters were. Yet her eyes would only gleam with pride, ignoring the criticism of her confidants. That was okay with them. They understood genre, and theme, and had insight enough to leave her to her organized chaos. Mike only sometimes told her that her images were too graphic, but Tom didn't even think about it. Because Tuesday was writing day.

On monday, Tom wasn't at school. Mike and Jen stared at his empty seat in History and passed glances back and forth. Tom hadn't missed school for years, so his absence symbolized something far greater and more terrifying than the absence of any other peer. At lunch they called his cell phone, only to find that it had been turned off. They called his house phone, but nobody answered. Worried, they went their separate ways and tried throughout the night. They had no luck.

Tom left the hospital that night at 10:30 PM. Their car was one person lighter than it had been on the way there. It was missing Tom's grandma. Tom usually didn't cry, but it was hard not to when the rest of his family was. Tom didn't want to cry, so when he got home he went straight to his room and shut the door. Sometime later his mom came in and stood in the doorway. She stood there for a while, not knowing what to say, and finally settled on "I'll write you a note for school tomorrow." As she turned to go, Tom called out.

"Mom?"

"Yes?" She answered softly.

"Tuesday is writing day."

Butterflies

When you think of the fragility of the human body, it's nothing less than terrifying. It only takes one pound of pressure for a sword (or any sharp edge) to cut through skin. It only takes one of a few select organs to malfunction to kill us on the spot. It only takes a single airborne disease to wipe out 90% of the population. It could happen. I don't think it will but it could.

When you look at things from that point of view, recklessness becomes stupidity, impulsiveness becomes pain, and adventure becomes death.

We really shouldn't jump on the bed, or buy collectors weapons, or skateboard, or light off fireworks. I'm not saying that we'll ever be safe, but if you look at it outside of probability, it's quite astounding the things we get away with.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that these things are probable. I'm just illustrating a point.

Yet for all the fragility of a human, we can never graze the wings of a butterfly. That's tragedy at its highest level, that something so simple can suffer and die in such a manner, at the hands (no pun intended) of an action without malevolence, an action without butterfly consent.

But I guess I'll trust to luck and drive my car to the bus station tomorrow. What else can I do?

I've Had It

I've had it with the empty spaces. The gaping maw of white that taunts me. I've had it with the voices of dissuasion. I've had it with being condemned to age old patterns and repetition.

I've had it all,
and regrettably now
I've nothing at all.

I Don't Know What To Do

I haven't made a post in well over two weeks. I don't know why. I can think of a couple explanations I guess.
Maybe my English classes have sucked all my creativity out.
Maybe they've shown me the immaturity of my works.
Maybe I've run out of things to say.

But I haven't run out of things to say. I have lists of things that I want to say. For some reason I just feel like I can't get it out. I have these grand visions with these epic conclusions but I'm not getting them done. I guess I'm holding a bar too high, tossing aside everything aside from perfection.

Is it right for me to put so much weight on my writing? Is it fair?

Maybe instead of wondering why I "can't" write, I should focus on why I won't. And why is that?

There's something of despair in me. Something of futility. I can't pinpoint it, but it's slowly extinguishing my fire. That fire I used to have when I spoke of Dominism, when I had a goal.
Or a mission. Or both. Maybe I should give that kind of idea another try. Starting from scratch, and being careful not to get ahead of myself this time.

But I'm tired. I'm weary. Much like the feeling I got after attempting to write a novel twice, I feel as if I no longer have it within me to create an ideology.

And I apologize that I'm writing yet another "I don't know what to do" post. But I don't know what else to do.

I don't know.