Sunday, November 7, 2010

Failing, Falling, Losing

Three hundred and twenty years have passed since the coven sank in the dark...

Paranoia saves lives.

Reckless paranoia?
Paranoid recklessness.

Old habits die hard.
Old is gold. Old is green. Old is blue.
Old is Crimson..

Where do we go from here?
Change or Die.

May the Force be with you.
But the Force is lost.

Listen to me. But you only say nothing. And I can't understand this silence. You used to be able to. Things Change. Why won't I? Everything changes. You're just not paying enough attention. Blame Game.

It's all for you. Always has been. Why won't you see that? I can't understand this silence. You used to be able to. Things Change. Why won't you?

I need to be in Control.

Everything is an illusion. I'm looking for reality, have you seen it?
Like glass.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Not this time.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Howling at the Moon

Bridges shall burn, tall towers fall
Through dirt and grime and filth, you'll crawl
Red River runs, weeps through this desolate land
There be no saving grace for thee, no brave last stand

Who you are and who you've been
Memory shall be your greatest sin..
Lucid dreams that leave you weeping
Disbelief and torment is all you'll be keeping

Things gone right and things gone wrong
Shall dance along to an evanescent song
The truth lies buried in graves of the undead
Trapped in words you never said.

You wanted some, you had it all
And we are laughing even as we fall
The world will be yours, and yours alone
Every last hollow bleeding stone..

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Customary Holiday Post - 1

It feels weird to be here again, considering how many lifetimes have gone by since I had something to say. Not that I have anything in particular to say tonight, but the silence is killing me. I hate silences, the way one would hate an especially rotten smell. It isn't just a mental sort of loathing, but an overwhelming physical sensation that makes you clench your teeth and steel your insides.

I'm home again.

The real problem with silence is that it can't be drowned out. I'm fairly certain of this, because I've tried everything. And the only thing that ever helps is screaming inside your head. But even that doesn't work if you can't find your voice. And I think I've lost mine.

I haven't been able to write for too long now. I think it's because every time I decide I want to try, the letters rush into each other, melting together like some sort of soup mix gone horribly wrong until I can't tell whether they're saying anything at all. It takes every bit of strength I can muster to just separate them from one another and read them as words. Usually I can manage that.

Sometimes I can't.

When things go wrong, you can draw upon an inner strength that kicks in like some sort of dependable electricity-generator. But when the only problem is one with the voltage, there's nothing to do but try and finish reading your novel in the flickering light, hoping you don't miss out on something important that would have completely transformed your life.

I can't understand time. And it feels like space itself is playing some twisted prank on me, trailing me with shadows and tricking me into believing that I'm never by myself. Clawing through curtains makes my fingernails bleed, and it tortures me that the only physical evidence left behind is smudged kohl and chalk under my nails.

I used to know where I was going, even though I pretended otherwise. Now, I feel out of focus, like a photograph taken from a shaky camera on a star studded night. Frozen in perpetual blurriness. Like a snowflake. Unique if you bother to put it under a microscope, but just a tiny, falling, melting piece of ice otherwise.

I have become my own dream. But there's nothing more to destroy here. And I can barely hide in the areas of this canvas that are still devoid of paint, pen marks and blood. Thank God for stainless tears.

The carousel is making me sick, and I keep telling myself I'll jump off when it completes one more circle. Except I can't tell the beginning from the middle from the end.. And I've almost come to believe that there is no difference. Maybe it never began. Maybe it will never end.

I'm still going to jump though. Regardless of whether or not Prince Charming or the Snow Queen reward me with their promised kiss of life. And if I manage to melt the glass in your eye as I sail through the air, I'll crash magnificently to the ground, shining in all sorts of colors as you cry for perceived sacrifices.

But, time is so much faster than I can be. And it's running out the rabbit hole. I thought Wonderland was beautiful, and I still think so. But the paint is peeling off the walls and I'm beginning to think this was only a cheap imitation. Or maybe it's dying.

And I'm so dizzy...

Pay it forward

Note: This is just another random forwarded e-mail. But, so sad! :(

Two Choices

What would you do? make the choice. Don't look for a punch line, there isn't one. Read it anyway. My question is: Would you have made the same choice?

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:
'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the natural order of things in my son?'

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. 'I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, 'Do you think they'll let me play?' I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game. Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, 'Shay, run to first! Run to first!' Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, 'Run to second, run to second!' Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball . the smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, 'Run to third! Shay, run to third!' As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, 'Shay, run home! Run home!'

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.

'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.

Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mail without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people hesitate.

The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.

If you're thinking about forwarding this message, chances are that you're probably sorting out the people in your address book who aren't the 'appropriate' ones to receive this type of message Well, the person who sent you this believes that we all can make a difference.

We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the 'natural order of things.'

So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice:
Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up those opportunities and leave the world a little bit colder in the process?

A wise man once said every society is judged by how it treats it's least fortunate amongst them.

You now have two choices:
1. Delete
2. Forward

May your day, be a Shay Day.

Friday, January 22, 2010


Who is it that said "Some things don't change"? Everything changes. The sun rises, but on a different day. Nothing stays exactly the same way, because somewhere, something always changes.


But you know... if you took it moment by moment, and looked closer at the abstract concept of that frame... I guess you could say that some things do stay the same.

I guess in the end, the sun is just a much bigger match's much bigger flame.
And moths will be moths.