tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72903571384381544782024-03-04T22:54:18.482-08:00THIS IS WHY WE SING IN ITALIANyou dirty aria, youViahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-86855518527918059882012-09-13T23:51:00.000-07:002012-09-13T23:52:37.508-07:00[short story based on dream]<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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He was looking for everyone to die. Every single person
trapped in the white-walled rooms each awaited a unique method of death
designed especially for each individual; what determined this, however, was
unknown to all but him. Each room contained a screen, which forced each victim
to watch the other deaths until it was their turn. Cameras peered through each
corner and across all hallways as he sauntered down through his vicinity. His
dreaded footsteps made it to room after room—when one heard his approach, their
time was up. He went in order by room number, which he assigned randomly. This,
at least, was known fact. He enjoyed letting Luck decide things for herself.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The first died by gunshot. The victim was an aspiring actor.
The big man knew this and allowed his hostage to perform one final dramatic
grovel before bullets entered the boy’s head. The corpse remained in the
lopsided pose of a beggar kissing his master’s feet. This amused the big man.
He laughed it off as he kicked the body to the side and he ambled his way to
the next cell. The fated one this time was a woman with an intense stomach
illness. She stared into the mastermind’s face with red, watery eyes. Almost
bloodshot. She had her side clutched in agony and she moaned, but the big man
was no longer satisfied with her low wails of pain. Instantly he clasped her
gut with strong fingers. He twisted and twisted until her screams ceased. He
left mangled entrails and blood behind him. The third victim awaited asphyxiation.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suddenly, the third
victim is blurred from view. The focus falls onto an empty room—number seven.
The prisoner has somehow escaped. He wants to help people. In his mind, the
only thing is freeing others, regardless of his fate. Somehow he reaches room
six, and the debater is freed. Number six runs through the great wide stage
before he vanishes from the view of the cameras. Seven scuttles to room eight,
but it is empty. The door is ajar. The hallway ends.</i><br />
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worst. Seven fears that he may be subjected to a lifetime of torture. Dying
through escape attempt outweighed being a slave forever. He knows this and trudges
on.</i><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More important,
though, is eight. He cares much for eight. He worries that the big man may have
taken her away because of his escape. Quickly he cuts into another hallway.
Cameras apathetically watch his descent into the deepest depths. They know what
awaits him. Seven thinks he might know, but he continues on regardless through
blind faith.</i><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eventually, he spots
her through a window—she sits sadly on a cot in the middle of a wide, empty
room. In fact, the only thing in the room is the bed. She does not notice her
friend at first; instead she gazes downward with melancholic eyes. Seven places
one hand on the glass window and in a split second she snaps to attention. Her
startled expression pierces the soundproof glass through to seven’s heart.
Seven puts both hands on the glass and bites his lip. He desires badly to get
her out of the frightening room, and he resolves that he will. He begins to
mouth comforting words to her, though oddly she is not consoled. Tears brim her
eyes and she looks away. Seven steps away from the glass, defeated, but only
for a moment, because he sees an air vent. Initially he is skeptical—it seemed
too easy—but he rushes and immediately gets to work on it.</i><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hope is bright. He
believes he can allow her to flee. He jostles himself into the room with
relative ease. They embrace in a tender moment that does not last long. She has
news to tell him. She does not wait. But she, too, does not know how seven will
die.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Hours passed and five people lie dead in their respective
rooms. The man enjoyed the fifth for the longest time. When he reached room
number six to discover it empty, all he could do was smile; when he found that
seven was the same, he barely contained his exultation. He knew six would
perish from terminal illness. He trailed along through the second hallway
towards the secluded room. His strength was inhuman: with a single fist he
shattered the glass that once separated seven and eight. He found them both
dead at the foot of the bed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Except that seven still had some strength left. The man used
the opportunity to fill in the last piece of the puzzle. His complacent stare
shattered what will seven may still have had.</div>
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Behind him, a piece of paper was nailed to the wall
unevenly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Subject #8 to slow-acting
poison. #7 will watch her fade and die of a broken heart. Experiment #347—prove
people die this way.”</i></div>
Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-82053163630074242042012-07-10T04:43:00.003-07:002012-07-10T04:43:27.436-07:00a post in which I describe the colors I hear/get from people<div class="copy">
I feel like I need to record this down somewhere at some point because it’s just something I really want to write about.<br />
<br />
There’s a lengthy post under the cut—I didn’t want to annoy people with a big block of text or anything.<br />
So, earlier I was talking about how I get colors from peoples’ voices
and that they can give me a lot of… instincts about that person, I
suppose? Well, I decided that I will compile information on what I know
about them so far and what the colors seem to mean, from what I’ve
gathered.<br />
<br />
(By the way, I have gotten colors from fictional characters in
books/writing before without hearing any voices—I don’t know how it
works, but it does happen. I’m only addressing what I get from actual
people for now, haha.)<br />
<br />
First, I will start with the <strong>solid colors.</strong><br />
<br />
A solid color is any one of these six: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. The first three are the <strong>socially warm colors,</strong> while the latter are the <strong>socially cool colors.</strong> These are the main bases of someone’s personality. I will address these in order.<br />
<br />
<strong>Red: </strong>Red is probably the only color I’ve ever gotten
without hearing a person’s voice first. This has happened twice from
what I remember, and it’s interesting, because both of them are mafia
players that I know. I think that red people are actually the best
suited for mafia because they’re incredibly great at including substance
in their words—they may not be the best writers, but they are
incredibly great at debating. I see it as something like this: Blood is
red, much like discussion is the lifeblood of a mafia game/argument. Red
people also tend to have low self-esteem for one reason or another, and
they remind others of this rather often.<br />
<br />
<strong>Orange: </strong>Orange people are, as some might imagine,
very sunny people. They tend to be adept at making friends (albeit not
so much at keeping them). Oranges are keen at giving others advice and
cheering their friends on, and they usually fare the best in social
situations. They don’t seem to show their sad sides very often,
however—in fact, I think that orange people have a bit of trouble
expressing their emotions themselves, despite being great listeners.
They are usually not used to exposing their more vulnerable sides to
others; if they do, they’re considerably shy about it. They might have
problems talking about their personal lives.<br />
<br />
<strong>Yellow:</strong> I actually haven’t known as many yellows,
but from what I know, they are flamboyant and showy. Yellow people are
always on top about gossip and they can get pretty serious if they are
aware that someone is talking about them or their friends. Out of all
colors, yellows are most comfortable in telling people their secrets,
and they tend to be more confident in their feelings and beliefs. One of
my best friends is a pretty vibrant yellow, and he makes my days so
bright when I can be around him. Yellow can tend to have volatile
emotions, however, and in certain situations they can lose their temper
pretty easily. Yellows are also cautious. Obviously.<br />
<br />
<strong>Green:</strong> Green people are unique, I think. It can be
hard to read them (I have trouble with it myself), and they are pretty
critical thinkers. Most greens that I know are in a constant
self-conflict. Green people avoid arguing when it’s possible, and not
because they aren’t skilled arguers, either—they simply feel conflict
unnecessary when they already experience it within themselves on a
regular basis. Green people are almost always writers, from what I’ve
gathered, and have the best natures for it. Greens are prone to
depression, whether it be chronic or not, but ironically can be the best
at handling it out of all of the other colors. Thinking too hard can
make them physically exhausted.<br />
<br />
<strong>Blue:</strong> Blue people usually have the most comforting
voices. I don’t know what it is, but blue people are poetically
beautiful. Blues are the best at relating to other people, even if they
have never experienced the same things as them—they have this innate
ability to somehow place themselves into another’s world and feel their
pain. They’re graceful at many things that they do, and they are huge
dreamers. Blue is a vast and infinite color, and blue people reflect
this trait by being fervently ambitious and optimistic in their ability
to accomplish anything that they desire. Even though blue is a color
often associated with sadness, blue people are capable of being some of
the happiest people. Unfortunately, they also can hide very debilitating
fears.<br />
<br />
<strong>Purple:</strong> Purple is a neutral color. Purple people
tend to be the quietest of all of the colors, though this isn’t always
due to shyness—some simply prefer to learn through observing rather than
through confrontation. Purples often have hair that is hard to manage,
but adorable when managed right (I swear, nearly every one of that I
know has adorable hair and they always hate taking care of it and go
through a complex process in doing so). Purples are artists, and they
honestly don’t mind spending a lot of time on a thing as long as they
can get it finished. They’re great at concentrating and I believe that’s
why they bother making sure their hair is always perfect even if it’s a
hassle for them every day. Purples prefer solitude; because of this,
are oft interpreted as antisocial, though this is usually a misguided
conclusion.<br />
For reference: I tend to get along the best with blues and yellows.
My sister told me that I’m most likely a green, and this would make a
ton of sense—green is in the middle of yellow and blue, so it is only
natural that my aura would be most attracted to them. My best friends
are an indigo-ish, a yellow, a salmon (an INCREDIBLY uncommon color for
me to get), and a swampy green. My sister is a purple and I get along
well with her, too. My roommate was a bright orange and I didn’t get
very close to her.<br />
<br />
<strong>Pastels: </strong>Being a pastel color means that a person is more comfortable with being open about themselves, regardless of their base colors.<br />
<br />
<strong>Shades:</strong> Being a darker color indicates that a person holds many secrets within themselves, and can be a bit mysterious.<br />
<br />
Now that I’ve got this covered, I would like to explain how base
colors work, exactly, when mixed. For example, we have indigo and
blue-green people. Sometimes people may have a base color and then
another that blankets over their personality base, which indicates
layers of traits that can be rather difficult to sift through. <strong>Mixed bases</strong>
not only mix potentially contradicting traits with each other—they can
also have entirely different characteristics from the simple bases that I
described above. Indigo people tend to have body issues, for example,
but they eat what they want anyhow even if they sometimes feel guilty
for it, and blue-green people are prone to leaving their friends behind
due to relentless insecurities. Magenta people are fashionistas.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I might explain the more complex colors in the future, because they’re rather interesting to think about.</div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-30117855852158749922012-06-06T16:12:00.003-07:002012-06-06T16:12:31.825-07:00When I first played Fire Emblem<div class="copy">
<div class="copy">
My first game was Path of Radiance. I read about it
in Nintendo Power and I remember being curious about it before (thanks
to Super Smash Bros. Melee), but I didn’t realize it existed until right
before the ninth game in the series came out. I was excited because I
knew I felt something special from this series, even before playing it.
It was almost Christmas and my parents were fighting quite a bit; I was
also dealing with a lot of illnesses at once and something else that I’m
not comfortable with sharing, but I still have nightmares about it.
Needless to say, I needed a new fictional world to escape to.<br />
<br />
When I first started actually playing the game, I had rented it from a
video store a couple of blocks down from my house. I was so excited to
finally play this game that I just could not help but feel giddy about; I
set my Chinese food down next to me, popped the disc into my Gamecube,
and began playing. Needless to say, I was astounded. The art was
amazing; I fell in love with Ike and a lot of the other characters; I
was intrigued by the storyline and the development, and the turn-based
strategy, which was a foreign concept to me at the time, so it was
amazing to get to learn it through this game. The animated cutscenes, as
few as they were, inspired me. I felt bad for Ike when his father
died—at the time my own father was going through an alcoholism problem
and he felt distant from me, so his plight hit me close to home. I had
crushes on fictional men for the first time, and it was fantastic. I
wrote fanfictions and drew art. I did everything that I could, despite
being admittedly young, to display my support for this game and to
spread its beauty to other people as well. I made my sister play it. I
made the neighbor play it. I futilely tried to make some of my other
good friends play it. I eventually bought the other games that I could
get my hands on—8, then 7, then 10, then 11. I could not stop.<br />
<br />
Yes; never before had I played a game of this genre, so being
introduced to actual RPGs through Fire Emblem was a real treat. It was
the first thing that inspired me to write something for hours on end
that actually wasn’t a fanfiction. I took my mind off of my parents’
eventual divorce with this game. I listened to this game’s music for
hours on end. I cried over a game for the first time since Hey You
Pikachu, and it felt great.Fire Emblem is more than a game or some
fantasy series to me; it’s something more wonderful and more beautiful
than that. Seeing the fanbase die down a little hurts significantly
because of this, but no matter what Nintendo/IS decides to do with the
series from here on out, I will never forget the greatest joys that this
game gave to me, my sister, and my neighbor (who is pretty much my
little brother by now).</div>
</div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-76905179864783809392012-06-02T17:36:00.001-07:002012-06-02T17:36:10.641-07:00entry for epicmafia contest<br />
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He does not know how long he has lived here. He knows none of his family, his friends, or his identity; he does not know why he lives here in this desolate place of murder and carnage. He is forlorn albeit hopeful; he desires to help these people, yet is incapable of it—how can one utilize their talents if one cannot recall what they are? He drifts unseen and unknown between warring factions without comrades to call his own. He does not know what he fights for—he has no one to defend, because he cannot remember them.</div>
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In this village, he hides himself amongst the crowd; he surmises that, perhaps, if he can keep himself hidden and under the radar, he may find what he is searching for. Possibly, he might be able to recover lost pieces of his memory, or even find a new slew of memories to finally call his own. He endures endless shouts; he dodges the occasional accusation made against him; he prepares to defend himself from attackers, despite knowing that it is futile—even if he tried, he would not know how. He spies a man being hanged, and cowers in the face of death. He has not seen death before (or he does not remember such), and witnessing it for the first time causes him to recoil. He screams, and suddenly a few of the citizens notice him, and he promptly hides. No use fretting yet, he thinks—just flee once more, keep a distance, and it will be fine. They will not come near. They will not interrogate the unknown spectator if they do not know he is unknown. People fear what they cannot comprehend, this man understands. When one encounters something unseen before, it is ostracized. If this mob is guided by the sheer paranoia that he can sense deep down in his bones, they may suspect he may have been a past convict. Would he recall his crimes? Would he return to the unscrupulous personality he became so accustomed to?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
Alas, he does not know. Instead, this man continues to pursue something that may forever elude him. He watches a somber scene unveil before him: the surviving members of the village group up now to bury their fallen governor that succumbed to gunshot wounds the mere night before. They do not stand too close to one another, however—they realize that there are culprits still lingering within their beloved camaraderie. The fight is not over, not yet. The fight is never over.</div>
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The man then turns his gaze to the willow tree. He solemnly contemplates the plight of the man that hangs from it. He was a malicious man, of course: he was a serial killer that mangled the corpses of the middle-aged men he murdered. Rumors had it that their ghostly wails could still be heard from their half-hearted unmarked graves that lie strewn about the killer’s former residence; he testified that he buried his victims after he mutilated them because, after his cravings were satiated, he wished to acknowledge that he loved them. Yes; through his deplorable behavior, he only wanted to share his benevolence with the rest of the world.</div>
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The amnesiac ponders this. He sets himself under the tree, next to the hanging corpse, and contemplates love. He spies the man’s treasured knife in the ground, takes it up in his arms—carefully—and examines it; it is rusted and worn. The man with no memory of his past life smiles this, loves this, and cherishes this, having never felt these amorous feelings stir in his subconscious before.</div>
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He stands up. The knife is clenched by its handle in the man’s dominant hand.</div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-70552285246115491892012-05-12T15:33:00.002-07:002012-05-12T15:33:19.587-07:00I made a Tumblr!<a href="http://levantamos.tumblr.com/">http://levantamos.tumblr.com/</a>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-59703191459565387952012-05-11T02:00:00.001-07:002012-05-11T02:00:44.007-07:00I like glass.It's true, though, I really do like glass. It's so fragile when solid and can be whatever one wishes it to be. Glass is what abstract dreams are made of.<br />
<br />
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<br />Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-1974475599281846082012-05-11T01:52:00.002-07:002012-05-11T01:52:56.798-07:00I went hunting for relaxing gifs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnwgZZ5y0vWMq9uex89N0t_JVNjw90jpM6ZzvQ7UZfuW67vr22D1mrhUQsRXwHNyKRTYUt48H4rZJp_6BoCmk6-NF3H1CYSqVFkFZjDn7_jZEAUmVmQUrpyX_01xtcQyp92p3vr-yw87r/s1600/1254739692_rain_drops.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnwgZZ5y0vWMq9uex89N0t_JVNjw90jpM6ZzvQ7UZfuW67vr22D1mrhUQsRXwHNyKRTYUt48H4rZJp_6BoCmk6-NF3H1CYSqVFkFZjDn7_jZEAUmVmQUrpyX_01xtcQyp92p3vr-yw87r/s320/1254739692_rain_drops.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-5233727159583939332012-05-11T01:37:00.004-07:002012-05-11T01:37:53.728-07:00stream of consciousness experiment: part twoI feel so sick. I don't know why I feel sick. I feel nice, though. I'm writing things. I miss ERL; I write more slowly since he left. I hope he's happy, wherever he is, whatever he's doing. I corrected a typo. I want to mention my professor because she makes me really happy. I talked with her today and she finally let me listen to one of her band's songs, and it was really amazing. I wish I had actually told her it was amazing, and I did indirectly say it, but indirect is never enough to me. I don't know why. I feel like I've looked at every piece of Fire Emblem fanart and read every fanfiction in the fandom and it's a little depressing feeling because I feel that we're all dying. The fans, the people, the spirits, we're all dying. People don't care the way they used to care. I want to care and I want to feel the way people don't feel anymore. I want to talk to my professor more. She's right, we're ten years apart but I feel we're still equal, too. I like that she said that. It was joyous to hear what I've been thinking all of this time. I mean, what's this about society and people of different generations being required to separate themselves from each other? I just don't find it fair.<br />
<br />
I'm hungry but I'm eating and I still feel sick. I should be working on my inquiry paper and I'm not; it's almost finished, and it's hard to write more. I feel almost that adding more would only disturb the flow. I want to start working on my mafia game, but I cannot because I want to write first. I suppose I'm starting to write these now so that I can remember how my thoughts can rapidly change in a day, and perhaps convert them into little diary entries that might someday become vital pieces of the puzzle of my life so that writing my autobiography will be made just a bit easier.<br />
<br />
I just now recalled us once having a goldfish named Goldo. Apparently he lived for a year. When he died, my mom didn't directly tell me that he died. I must have just assumed it. I wonder what I assumed.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-88694268926543843372012-05-09T04:04:00.002-07:002012-05-09T04:04:30.583-07:00stream of consciousness experiment: part oneand it is said that he said that the world as a whole will not fathom the craze of lubricant, and it is five in the morning and I bear, dear one, that whatever it is on your mind, you should say it. She said, why did you not capitaliza 'and' in that last sentence, and why did you spell capitalize wrong and leave it there? And two figures borne of earth and wind came and said, because fleets are fleets and it is showering outside. Rain and fleets, pickled beets, raving beats, raging meats. Too many people die. People die often. I wonder if beats die. But I don't think beats die because music never dies? I don't think music ever dies. Music is a hard and depressing concept sometimes. It's almost my mortal enemy and best friend at the same time; I cannot truly describe it. I wonder what other people think. I wonder what professional performers think. I wonder who ever actually follows their hearts anymore. It's difficult people people always do things for the fame anymore. I never get fame because I'm unnoticeable. People ignore me a lot. Am I nothing? I don't really think so. People have tried to tell me that before. I don't really think so. I keep staring off to the side because I'm trying to think of words that won't come out of me properly. I'm trying to make them come out of their hiding place. Maybe it's true that someone stole them, that someone stole away with my words. I read that phrase in a Terry Pratchett novel once. It was one I never finished. I Shall Wear Midnight, it was. Silvia once tried to talk to me when she noticed the Terry Pratchett novel I took to class with me and I barely responded back and now I might never see her again except in the bakery back in my hometown, every once in a while. I keep thinking about the meringue cookies that they sell there and how much better they are than the organic kockoffs I bought from the grocery store (it's funny how I typo'd 'knockoff' and I'm leaving it like that).Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-18756077861720193462012-05-06T01:21:00.002-07:002012-05-06T16:30:36.685-07:00Nepeta/Karkat roleplay<br />
[2:41:37 AM] Levity: :33 < *ac wonders how arorable could be so pawsibly purrfect*<br />
[2:41:56 AM] Andrew Cornell: heeheeeheeheehee <3<br />
[2:46:19 AM] Andrew Cornell: what are you up to, Levvies? :3c<br />
[2:47:02 AM] Levity: [2:43:56 AM] Anthony: ...lol<br />
[2:45:01 AM] Levity: :33 < *ac thinks anthony should purrvide longer answers*<br />
[2:47:18 AM] Levity: hahaha, nothing much really besides having a terrible internet connection right now<br />
[2:47:28 AM] Andrew Cornell: ahhhhh, mkay :3<br />
[2:48:04 AM] Andrew Cornell: (Karkat impression) I'LL TRY AND HAVE A SMALL SHRED OF SYMPATHY FOR YOUR HORRIBLE FUCKING PROBELMS<br />
[2:50:59 AM] Levity: :33 < youre not suppawsed to specify that youre purrtending to be karkat, we know that already!<br />
[2:51:40 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH PARDON MY FUCKING ANNOUNCEMENT, I THOUGHT I'D JUST BE NICE AND INFORM YOU THAT I WAS CHANGING MY FUCKING TONE A LITTLE<br />
[2:52:07 AM] Andrew Cornell: MAYBE NEXT TIME I'LL BE ALL "KAWAII-DESU" AND JUST FUCKING LOOP DA LOOP FOR YA<br />
[2:52:26 AM] Andrew Cornell: PERHAPS I SHOULD JUST ADVERTISE MYSELF THAT I'M THE REAL KARKAT<br />
[2:52:54 AM] Levity: :33 < h33h33, youre so cute when youre grumpy!<br />
[2:52:55 AM] Andrew Cornell: JUST WEAR A FUCKING SIGN ALL THE TIME THAT READS "HERE STANDS KARKAT"<br />
[2:53:14 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH GOD, YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING PAIN<br />
[2:53:32 AM] Andrew Cornell: I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CHILDISH ROLEPLAYS<br />
[2:53:46 AM] Andrew Cornell: I'VE GOT BIGGER THINGS TO TAKE CARE OF, LIKE LEADING OUR GROUP THROUGH THE GAME<br />
[2:57:52 AM] Levity: :33 < i know, i know! youre big impurrtant leader karkat! h33h33!<br />
[2:58:32 AM] Andrew Cornell: DAMN STRAIGHT!<br />
[2:58:36 AM] Andrew Cornell: AND DON'T YOU FUCKING FORGET IT!<br />
[2:58:37 AM] Levity: :33 < but a little furrendly roleplay every once in a while never hurts!<br />
[2:59:05 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH RIGHT, LIKE I WANT TO FUCKING PLAY TEA PARTY WITH YOUR SO-CALLED FRIENDS<br />
[2:59:46 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH PLEASE, MADAM FUSSY BRITCHES, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER LUMP OF KRAMER FOR MY FAYGO? I NEED TO ADJUST SOMETHING IN MY KNICKERS<br />
[3:00:14 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH LOOK, IT'S THE SUPPOSED STICK STUCK UP MY ASS CAUSE OF ALL OF WHAT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH<br />
[3:00:44 AM] Andrew Cornell: I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND ME JAMMING IT RIGHT THE FUCK BACK UP THERE AGAIN<br />
[3:01:08 AM] Andrew Cornell: OR MAYBE YOU'D LIKE A MATCHING STICK FOR YOUR OWN ASS<br />
[3:01:48 AM] Levity: :33 < uhh, i think i would like to pawss on that!<br />
[3:02:16 AM] Andrew Cornell: GOD YOUR TYPING JUST....<br />
[3:02:23 AM] Levity: :33 < is the bestest?<br />
[3:02:39 AM] Andrew Cornell: IT FUCKING BURNS MY EYES TO READ THAT<br />
[3:03:10 AM] Levity: :33 < aww, you know you dont mean that! h33h33!<br />
[3:03:27 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH RIGHT, OF COURSE NOT<br />
[3:04:04 AM] Andrew Cornell: THERE'S NO WAY THOSE CAT PUNS DON'T JUST FUCKING BREAK DOWN MY ABILITY TO COMPREHEND WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS YOU SAY<br />
[3:04:13 AM] Andrew Cornell: AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THOSE 3'S<br />
[3:04:45 AM] Andrew Cornell: GOD, IT'S LIKE I'M STARING AT THE FLABBY UNDERBELLY OF SOME KIND OF MORBIDLY OBESE CHILD<br />
[3:04:56 AM] Andrew Cornell: AND WHO KNOWS HOW MANY FUCKING FATTIES THERE'VE BEEN<br />
[3:07:58 AM] Levity: :33 < well, your grumpy mood makes you look sillier than you think you do sometimes!<br />
[3:08:28 AM] Levity: :33 < i think its purrfectly adorable, though.<br />
[3:10:09 AM | Edited 3:10:15 AM] Levity: (I love you <3)<br />
[3:10:32 AM] Andrew Cornell: (I love you too <3)<br />
[3:10:46 AM] Andrew Cornell: OH GOD, GO CRY ME A FUCKING FAYGO RIVER<br />
[3:11:23 AM] Levity: :33 < ill make it a special ameowncement, just furr you!Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-5761376001866142062012-05-06T01:20:00.003-07:002012-05-06T01:27:40.142-07:00Random essays/assignments #4<br />
I breathed in slowly before setting myself down to work. The night it happened was colored indigo, but there was periwinkle included which possibly indicated the loneliness that draped over my shoulders and which would remain persistent for the rest of the evening, though I suppose I nearly welcomed it in this case, for it only served to speed the writing process. No matter what the circumstance, I always trusted depression to bring me the best-quality ideas borne straight on the wings of messenger pigeons—they arrived sporadically, picking up their pace when music complemented the background with their wings beating to poetic rhythm. The rain outside tapped gently against the windowpane to the same poetic meter, though shorter and much more erratic. My roommates were nowhere to be found; I automatically surmised that they would be absent for the entirety of the dusk.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At the last thought I stood; to this day I cannot describe what compelled me to stand. Oftentimes I stood at ideas that especially piqued my interest, and would take to pacing about the room to help them evolve, though I could not even be entirely certain that I had an idea to begin with. Perhaps, I could surmise, I wanted food at the time—I ended up convincing myself of this, yet even pasta did not satisfy the otherworldly craving that I was incapable of suppressing. I sat back down and stared contemplatively into the endless taunting of the blank document. I did not exactly know where I was going with the paper beforehand, and the aimless feel of it made me eat more. It was mindless indulging that I participated in for the hours that followed and the rain outside fed all of the trees in the woods as I fed myself. I remember bolting to the window and watching the process reveal itself to me; I watched flowers slowly bloom and I listened to the worms slither silently in the deepest crevices in the earth far below me and the entire world beneath my feet began to quake. I questioned the amount of sleep I had been getting, and I didn’t think anything else.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Frankly, I knew already that my surroundings were warped at this point. I was frightened—I surmised I was actually delusional, and possibly incredibly ill. My roommates still weren’t home and I attempted to search for the door, but to no avail; I couldn’t see anything. I wanted to be afraid, but it seemed too surreal for me to be afraid, even though I screamed and covered my ears. The urge to protect myself washed over me and I huddled into what I assumed a corner and made myself as small as I possibly could. I resorted to what one would normally resort to: hiding oneself and waiting for the storm to pass, just waiting for the problem to dissolve over time. I glanced upward from my position—somehow—and still saw a ceiling, except that it was purple.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That looks like quite the incredible position to be in, dear.” I heard sprightly laugher around every part of me and inside of me. I took my hands from above my head and stared at them, temporarily immobilized. I suddenly found that I was no longer on the ground, but rather on my feet again, except that I was also falling. I dared to gaze below me to discover that the entire atmosphere was sky—I was falling upward, into the sky. The blue slipped in between my fingertips and my hair, and it stained my clothes blue, and my hair became soaked in the essence of blue. The blue seeped into my eyesight and suddenly the only color I acknowledged was blue—my memory of any other color or even anything else in existence became impaired. I did not know how to speak. My stream of consciousness was the only thing reminding me that I was still falling, and that blue was not the only presence that I could detect.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You act as if this is unfamiliar.” The voice again. The sound of it shattered the thin glass veil of my trance and prompted me awake again.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You mean my poem?” Any other statement I was tempted to say seemed too superfluous at the time. I still wanted to be afraid.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you think?” The voice mirrored mine. I faltered for a moment.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That this is my poem.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You are your poetry, and this is what you see every day.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I paused for a moment. This wasn’t going anywhere, I knew. I wanted to try a different approach, though I could not decide where to begin.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I am allowed to see you?” I asked this because in the poem, the voice had no body. It was a concept, just as most of my written characters were. Just as Levan was.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It depends—do you want to see me?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I feel like I’m not here for nothing, so I think we’re going to have to actually start somewhere.” In actuality, I didn’t want to be falling anymore; the constant sensation was making me anxious.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We may start once you answer my previous question.” The voice changed drastically this time, into something more rugged. I myself was surprised at the fact that it had not repeated my name yet.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I figure I should be able to see you if we’re getting down to business, yes.” I felt myself shouting this, and suddenly I was standing on solid blue. I detected a silhouette at the back of my mind, and a separate figured materialized before my eyes. It was a woman—her flowing hair was of a hazelnut shade, her eyes an unnaturally deep green. She was adorned in vivid, vibrant, colorful robes that wrapped all about her body and billowed gracefully in the infinite blue.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So be it, then,” she said in a defeated manner, “but remember that I am what you wish me to be.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stopped myself here—this was all too familiar to me, and it was driving me to insanity. The words that next spilled out of my mouth were not of my choosing, “but I do not know your name.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nor I yours.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why is this?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Names aren’t important.” She winked at me, and I knew she was taunting me at this point.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why am I here? Did I accidentally kill myself?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you desire?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“To get a straight answer.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She laughed at this, and beckoned for me to follow her. My legs followed her command before my brain did. “I only wished to see you. You write about me so often and never even considered the thought of meeting me, have you?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At first, I did not understand this; I took a moment to ponder it. She halted her casual amble and turned around to pierce into my very soul with a stare.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You do not understand because the thought is abstract. Yes—it is true that you have not written directly about me before, but rather, you write about the pieces that form to make me.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought on this again, and suddenly it dawned on me. “Wait, am I in heaven?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This is what you perceive as the afterlife. I wanted it to accommodate your innermost thoughts so that you would feel the most comfortable seeing me.” The being with no name pointed above us, and there were stars. Even here, they seemed impossible to reach. “I am creation as you interpret it. I am the concept of willpower, justice, and faith. I brought all into existence and made the universe as it lies here before you. ‘God’ is only one of the names that people call me.” I blinked, letting myself register all of this before I could respond to this. She watched me eagerly, as if she actually didn’t expect what it was that I would try next, and grinned in pure elation.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“All right,” I said finally, beginning to shake, “I’m not going to question any of this at all. I still don’t know why I’m here.” All I wanted was to be quick as possible now.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you desire?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You asked me that already.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you desire?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I trembled harder. I was beginning to feel more uncomfortable each time the question was asked.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“As in… on what level?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You have an instinct that is not common for one to possess,” she muttered, as if musing this to herself rather than actually informing me directly, “but as a result this makes you much more fun to play with.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And this comes down to?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“If you created the stars instead of me, how would you have made them?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This sounded much too familiar now. Every single snippet of all of my worked began to accumulate into a pool of abstract design. I reached out for it and tried to pull from it.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You mean, if I could make the world into what I wanted?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes. I’ve been hand picking people, and in part I was curious, really.” She giggled, setting her elbow on something I could not see. “I want to know what you can come up with. Even know, you’re already lost in the endless possibilities and the numerous ways all of them could go awry, and I love it!” She squealed in the strangest manner I had ever heard, and already the blue sky became duller. She must have given me a time limit the entire time, and the hourglass was near its end. I scarcely even had the chance to comprehend this! I clawed for the image that rapidly blurred away, and I uttered:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Make them all understand!” I felt as if I were choking, “Make all of the people understand one another—make it so that all realize that perfect objectivity is a sham! Make conflicts of another nature—not of hostility, but rather of truth! Let all colors be accepted at a base level, and heighten teamwork as a whole!” What I yelled in my haste was convoluted, though I knew she still understood. When I began to once more hear the rain streaming fast down the entire world, I was sitting back down in my chair.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wondered, now, how much different life would be socially, and considered the possibility that I made a mistake. And yet I took it in stride, eventually, because I was tired of being unaccepting of the parts of me that I disliked the most.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For the most abrupt of moments, I began to cry.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Afterword:</b><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The actual name of the creator of the stars is Rufina, and she writes the fortunes of every single living being in the sky. I chose this image of the ultimate creator for a few reasons, though mainly because I don’t necessarily believe in the standard God that I initially thought that I did anymore. When I think of God, I like to think of something more flexible and beyond a greatest dream; I like to think of solving the grand image by piecing it together with one’s consciousness, one by one, until it is complete and the soul is truly one with itself and free. I also honestly would unable to decide what it is that I would change about the world, despite often wishing for it in perfectly ordinary scenarios. I think that, once it actually comes down to it, the weight is much too heavy for a final decision to be so quick, and that foolish (instinctive?) impulsiveness is the only thing that drives me sometimes—I may think of others first, or I may think of myself first. The fleeting time was to indicate the aforementioned impulsiveness, and the confusion embodies how often people question their own beliefs in their everyday lives. The choice was mutual understanding of the globe because, even though there would still be the disagreements and the conflicts that I personally believe that the world needs, at the same time all people would finally be willing to at least acknowledge that every opinion is, in fact, subjective, and that every different perception of the world is also, in fact, subjective (for the record, I also believe in reincarnation, but that is a separate story to be told another day, perhaps). It’s a strange thought and probably not as groundbreaking as it seems, but society truly would be heavily affected as a whole, I think. Also, ‘colors’ does not refer to races, but rather types of people in general.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I think that if I were actually presented with this option, I would think of my sister and go for making Pokémon real.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-83444521700359738102012-04-30T01:31:00.001-07:002012-04-30T01:31:55.764-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
you ruined it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
you always ruin it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t explain and I know I sound shameful but you always
ruin everything<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate it when my order is destroyed because of you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
first you ruin our relationship and now you ruin fictional
ones<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all ruined<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
finished<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
crumbled to dust<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
because of <i>you<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
why do people like killing everything I try to keep alive?<o:p></o:p></div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-88326388158676772332012-04-20T14:18:00.002-07:002012-04-20T14:18:47.035-07:00Analyzing literature<br />
makes me want to climb trees.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-17990694884621256512012-04-20T14:12:00.000-07:002012-04-20T14:12:04.106-07:00A snippet.<span style="font-size: large;">(*Snippet from a dead Fire Emblem-themed project from a forum community that I have frequented for around four years. This was written nearly two and a half years ago, and may or may not be the revised version. Posting here for keepsake.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
Levity took a slow, deep breath as she fumbled about her satchel; her hands still shook despite the arduous mental effort she put into staying calm. The night air was crisp and accompanied by small breezes brushing gently against the thief’s hazelnut-colored hair. The grass shimmered with the dew of the dusk, as well as with the blood of opposing factions. In the aftermath, the whole world stood still.<br />
<br />
The girl finally pulled a small glass bottle from somewhere in the pocket of her long jacket. She brandished it in the air in a momentary triumph and emitted a relieved sigh—it was there all along. Panic was causing her to lose time. Quickly she turned to the man that lie on the ground next to her; his brown, shoulder-length hair hid his eyes from the world, and his cerulean-colored trench coat was stained dark red. Cautiously Levity pulled the cork off of the bottle with her teeth. A pale blue liquid rested inside; there was still enough for exactly one dose.<br />
<br />
“DL, are you still with me?” Levity asked the man, though got no answer. She looked over him carefully, though discovered he merely slipped into unconsciousness; she relaxed somewhat. “Hang on, okay? It doesn’t matter who you are, or what you did… but you better help me out and just keep going, all right?” She shook the bottle until the substance inside began to fizz, and continued to speak. “I’m sorry this happened to you… I wish I knew what happened…” She paused as she lifted his head gently with one arm and took up the strange concoction with the other. She bit her lip.<br />
<br />
“Here we go…” The trembling girl began to pour the liquid down DL’s throat; reflex caused him to swallow it, choking lightly on some. His coughing subsided after a few seconds, and Levity sank back down to her knees, throwing the bottle and watching it roll down the grass. She hadn’t the strength nor the heart to break it. “Now we just have to keep living a little longer until the rest of them find us. Can you do that for me? You hate cooperating with people, but this is important… so just don’t die…” The lack of response wasn’t something Levity was adjusted to, which pressured her into talking simply to be comforted by her own voice.<br />
<br />
“I… I know you’re pretty hurt, and this looks really grim, but you’re a bastard, DL. You’re the biggest bastard I’ve ever seen, maybe even bigger than Tiko…” She ran a hand through her hair and looked up to the sky into the vast myriad of stars; menacing clouds were beginning to roll in, and the wind’s touch became more frigid. “And, from what I’ve seen, the bastard always lives. Always… without fail…”<br />
<br />
Finally the woman fell next to the injured man both in exhaustion and to keep close to him. For a tedious amount of time she listened intently to his erratic breathing, to ascertain that it would improve. Feebly and reluctantly, Levity wrapped her right arm around his torso and lie there with him, waiting for signals. She wasn’t entirely sure what signals they would be, but she surmised she would know what they were when it was time for them.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
The vast field was dark and dreary. Corpses were strewn about in an almost patterned fashion, with some here and some there. The divided sides of the war alternated: Tiko’s men, the CARA liberation, more of Tiko’s men, rinse and repeat. It was a cruel, twisted puzzle of death in which the pieces were eerily arranged to reveal a picture or perhaps a story of the infamous battle that took place mere hours ago. Rescue units would soon begin their conscientious search for the living and the not-yet dead. The effort would likely take days.<br />
<br />
A single snowflake brushed gently against Levity’s face. She couldn’t remember how long she stared at the ash-colored sky or even if she’d been awake the entire time. She whimpered and pressed her body closer to DL’s; had to keep him warm, that was the only thing now. He seemed more stable than he was before, which brought relief to Levity’s wavering senses. The bleeding had stopped now, at least for the most part; all she could do now was wait, hope, and pray. His destiny was still up to fate to decide.<br />
<br />
This was the man that saved her. This was the man that betrayed her. Levity was terrified to see him so vulnerable, and she didn’t know why.<br />
<br />
She never wanted to see him like this ever again.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
“Hey, Levity.”<br />
<br />
Another hour, maybe two. Levity blinked her eyes open and twitched in sudden motion; she had dozed off this time.<br />
<br />
“Oh… good. Thought you were dead,” a voice muttered breathily, “thought maybe the cold got to you or something. That poison made you pretty susceptible to everything for a while—it looked like you turned pale… every time it rained…” DL’s body jerked against Levity’s as he coughed a few more times. Suddenly, Levity sat bolt upright in realization.<br />
<br />
“Did—oh, you woke up!” Levity squeaked; her voice was cracked and dry and generally underused, and as a result she sounded almost rasped. Her expression was slightly flustered as she quickly examined over DL again. “It worked?” she asked urgently, “I mean—you’re alive, right?”<br />
<br />
“Well I’d sure hope so… unless we’re both dead.” His voice was so barely audible that Levity had to lean in closer to listen.<br />
<br />
“I’m sure I’m still alive, at least,” Levity responded. “What did you do, anyway?”<br />
<br />
“Had some fun with Tiko…” DL grinned. “Had a lot of fun…”<br />
<br />
“But why?”<br />
<br />
“I’m done now. Figured it would be… the last time… I had a chance…”<br />
<br />
“Well, it won’t be.”<br />
<br />
“You’re really insistent on keeping me alive… aren’t you?” The man attempted to shift his position, but to no avail; an excruciating bolt of pain paralyzed him.<br />
<br />
“Don’t try to move…”<br />
<br />
“I almost killed you, you know. I’m your enemy—I killed quite a few… of your comrades. I’m the… ‘blade of illusions’, remember? The magician that never tells his secrets, even to his… victims…”<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
“I was the one who killed Bitto, you know—“<br />
<br />
“Be quiet,” Levity interrupted, “just shut up. Sometimes I want to hate you so much, DL. I was tempted to leave you dying here in the cold, all alone.”<br />
<br />
“But you didn’t.”<br />
<br />
“Because you really are all alone now…”<br />
<br />
More silence. The snow soon began to ravage the barren land, and would eventually engulf it with its icy embrace. Blusterous gales penetrated the bones of the two that remained there with immobilizing cold. Trees swayed to one side. The world would now begin to attempt its cover-up of the carnage, of the destruction, of the true sins of war, and leave nothing but vacant hills of white.<br />
<br />
“Alone?” DL’s curiosity began to spark, though he could feel his consciousness slipping away again ever so slightly. No, dammit, stay awake.<br />
<br />
“You betrayed us,” Levity explained, “you betrayed your own side. No one can really trust you now, can they? So you have no one now… but me.”<br />
<br />
“I betrayed you, too.”<br />
<br />
“But it’s different with me…”<br />
<br />
“Why would you… want me? Don’t you already have Wizzy?” Levity’s eyes suddenly widened, and she blushed vigorously.<br />
<br />
“Th-that’s none of your business!” she shouted louder than she had intended; her voice echoed across the empty clearing. “You just… it’s not that kind of different, okay? I just… you could have left me to die when Tiko experimented on me. I thought you were having fun watching me break… and suddenly you came again, when I gave up.”<br />
<br />
“Yep. You had the flame of potential burning in you,” DL said. “That kind of thing… doesn’t go to waste.”<br />
<br />
“I still don’t know what you mean by that, DL…”<br />
<br />
“You beat me, didn’t you?”<br />
<br />
“That doesn’t mean anything. I almost feel like you let me win.”<br />
<br />
Had DL the strength, he would have been chuckling heartily to himself by this point. Instead, he could only wheeze slightly. He closed his eyes. “See, but you could tell the difference… I did hold back a little. When I saw it was you… facing me… by yourself… I remembered…”<br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
His voice trailed off into the bleak darkness; he was asleep again, and Levity sighed. A single tear began to escape from her eye for a reason she could scarcely fathom. Slowly and hesitantly she got down next to DL again, getting as close to him as possible and never letting go. She could hear the incredibly faint sound of footsteps and the hooves of horses, and smiled—the timing was perfect. Chao’s Mercenaries were fast approaching now.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-9210784788009680002012-04-20T02:08:00.001-07:002012-04-20T02:08:21.379-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">The blue is gentle and profound;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It lazily spreads endlessly across the<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">H o r i z o n<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As something new, something untried,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or something already tried and desolate.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It blankets over time and reality<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Until nothing but blue can be seen<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And the blue sees me<o:p></o:p></div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-4542037024365287492012-04-16T03:45:00.002-07:002012-04-16T03:45:19.831-07:00My second ex-boyfriendis the best writer ever.<br />
<br />
And I will not have you contest this, my dear.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-71176191039621930532012-04-16T03:19:00.002-07:002012-04-16T03:19:48.657-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">Dear Jeremiah:--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re a silly little thing, you;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">your petals match the flaming color of your soul.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve gotten to know the sturdiness of your stem.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A lilting, leafy texture, that<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">bows willingly to my giving light,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">and the light, I willingly give.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tonight, the moon weeps.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The moon scorns the hatred of the sun,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the tree’s favor to the sun,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the king’s loyalty to the day.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Your sepal drooped in sorrow, and your leaves<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">suffered as they scorched in agony.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I, with gentle luminescence,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">brought you from dormancy. And with loyal conscience, I saw<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">a blossom never once harvested by the monotony of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-76106091659235036072012-03-21T01:49:00.002-07:002012-03-21T01:49:41.971-07:00Beatles references wheee(inspired by this music culture essay I'm writing)<br />
<br />
I’m sitting forward, singing;<br />
My friends all coax me and<br />
Pester me<br />
To sing in the mic, but I cower—<br />
The idea, to me, is frightening.<br />
Among friends, even! they tease me<br />
And I laugh sheepishly only to sing along<br />
In the background, while my friend begins singing<br />
In his cracked voice: You say goodbye, and I say hello<br />
And his voice is the dissonance that is my uncle’s voice<br />
While my mother is clapping, laughing, as he sings<br />
Along with my aunt’s garbled warble.<br />
She sips from her margarita and says,<br />
Lucy is in the sky only with diamonds<br />
Because a diamond is the only way to describe<br />
The song. The only way to describe all of them.<br />
And my mother is dancing with herself (she lacks a date)<br />
As the background rings,<br />
They are dancing in a yellow submarine;<br />
And on the way across the border on the train,<br />
My dad’s brother assures him, little darlin’, it’s all right—<br />
Here comes the sun.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-87411602141434373892012-03-13T22:49:00.000-07:002012-03-13T22:49:25.794-07:00I love my Blue and my Blue loves me.<br />
He offers me a sense of security that I feared to have lost forever into the past I no longer speak of.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-17659751608059642742012-03-03T11:48:00.002-08:002012-03-03T11:48:55.276-08:00DL'S BIRTHDAY POEM FROM A YEAR AGO<span id="internal-source-marker_0.39632171677541017" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">They say there’s a man known by deeds</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">Some don’t comprehend, and attempt</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">To match. There’s no rule he heeds,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">No code--only his are exempt.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">Enigmatic yet true, he rides</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">O’er untamed and rugged ground;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">On mountains and deserts he strides,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">And towns where songs of him resound.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">‘He’s a shadow!,’ they sing. ‘A ghost;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">‘A phantom; a spirit; a myth.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">Others claim they knew him, and boast</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">fabricated tales forthwith.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">In truth, his name doth lie unknown</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">to all man, woman, and child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">He lurks in land he claims to own</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">Solo, silent, great and wild:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">He is Keiran! Keiran, he is,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">forever, undisturbed, and free!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">Unbeaten in all; all is his</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline;">in all the existence that be.</span>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-53962596605289055242012-03-02T13:53:00.000-08:002012-03-02T13:53:45.474-08:00We Lift<i>(I had this idea for a very long time (around three years at least), and it was difficult condensing it into a short story. I did so for a contest this year. Perhaps I might work with something like this again in the future.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>This is how I came up with the whole 'levity' thing, actually. When I first learned the word, it became more than just my favorite word. It became a </i>concept.<i> This is what resulted from that.)</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
----<br />
<br />
I will start here.<br />
<br />
On the rainiest nights of the year, Kern would suddenly recall an obscure moment of his childhood and he would relay the stories to me, word by word, without a conceivable end in sight. He would hand me a damp notepad that collected dirt from the road and ask me to pen down notes, since he could never be bothered to write anything himself (though I gave him the benefit of the doubt; I suspected him to be mostly illiterate). The pens would almost always give out somewhere around fifteen bullet points in and he would become irate with me and abruptly cease his storytelling to sulk in the corner of his cart in disgust. He was such a burly man that I thanked the stars he never resorted to physically striking me; I knew he was capable of killing me. I knew Chief would never allow it—our numbers were too small and I proved too precious to them on multiple occasions—but I was wary. I guess I was always wary.<br />
<br />
“Salmaj,” Kern began with his characteristically charming voice, his protruding belly shaking as he spoke, “was wherr it ‘appened. I mean, yah, I was liftin’ ‘eavy rice crates, you know th’ deal—just liftin’ them an’ I was probably maybe aroun’ a teenager at th’ time. I mean, I didn’ really know what was goin’ on, you know, I was jus’ followin’ all o’ th’ other men, an’ a marvelous thing ‘appened…” He spread his bulky arms out in front of himself, his expression vivid and genuine. “I saw ‘t! I saw a rainbow in th’ sky! An’ it was movin’, I tell ya! ‘T was movin’ across th’ clouds an’ it vanished, an’ e’eryone saw it, too! It‘s exactly what we’re strivin’ towards, I think. We want t’ be e’eryone’s rainbow ‘n th’ sky…” My mind drifted off somewhere around there and Gharen had the pen and paper this time, so I was home free. Tonight was particularly vicious; the storm battered our worn carts relentlessly, and the winds whistled mournfully into the dusk, almost as if it were eerily attempting to soothe us. My personal corner became especially damp, and I reminisced on a few months back—back when the government spies began their raids, and when Fen would cry and cower in terror every time it rained, he hated water so much. He was such a skinny little blonde thing, and he was always afraid of drowning. We worried for him often, and with plausible reason, too; but in the end, he proved expendable: La Cadena attempted to flood us out, and he fled straight into their capture. A wonderful, priceless distraction.<br />
<br />
“None o’ th’ other men believed me, an’ I knew they wouldn’,” Kern continued, he story reduced to mere background noise at this point. I could not quite shut out his charisma, however. He made punching motions with his fists clenched as tightly as he could clench them, his knuckles nearly white, and this caused Gharen to recoil in caution until the larger man was finished with his display. Kern yawned and continued a detached piece of what I barely listened to the entire time: “I didn’ really punch them, o’ course, since that would ‘ave been a stupid thing t’ do, don’ you think? Oh boy, I wanted t’, though. They all made fun o’ me, an’ a few o’ them e’en stopped talking t me.” He frowned. “I mean, what’s so bad about a rainbow? Why ‘ave just one color when you can ‘ave them all, yeah?” I got a glimpse at Gharen’s face right then; he wanted badly to tell Kern that he was missing the point, but none of us ever had the heart to tell him that. Or the guts, really.<br />
<br />
I dove further into the sanctity of my corner, despite its wetness. I hated feeling this way; the malignant nostalgia disguised itself as precious reminiscence. Tonight, I knew it would haunt me. I listened a little further to Kern’s booming voice before I slipped into a stupor, and I felt my willpower trying to coerce me to not fall asleep—we were almost to Ritandra, and I sighed, propping myself up against the mildewy wood. It smelled like grass. I habitually turned my head to the left as if I had expected someone to be there. I breathed in the misty air and reached out for the empty space next to me, and Kern’s melodramatic recounting suddenly became my own memories setting themselves next to each other like broken strips of film. My hands closed around something I could not see.<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell the story about her when I knew that this would happen. I was saving it for the night it would catch up to me, and when I would finally be able to tell it. Until now it seemed almost as if she had never existed, that she was a dream that I never truly touched, that the months that passed were merely figments of my imagination, or spawned by drug-induced delirium. No one talked about her because she was never mentioned. No one, not even the Chief, even acknowledged that she once resided with the company. Perhaps deep in my heart and my fearful gut I had hoped for some sign that she truly had been here. I hoped for so much, and I lifted my arms now in the motion she used to do it, my eyes brimming with tears. I raised them so high in the air, my body trembling, the will in me fighting desperately to spark itself aflame until it was blazing, and I could hear her voice again. I did not know if this alone would suffice for that voice; I set myself down again and looked at my hands. She needed to be honored, and I had not an inkling where to begin.<br />
--<br />
U’areh Ka’ereh. My full name was often mispronounced by anyone that did not live in my native rice-thriving village of W’arkkha—‘Little Grain’ in my mother tongue. I never recalled what my real name meant because I loathed it. I loathed its very sound, feel, and taste in my mouth like something putrid and rotten, and I could feel my stomach lurch each time my mother called me by name. My father was not a worry in that department; it was an odd tradition in our culture that only mothers refer to their daughters by true name, whilst only the fathers referred to their sons as such. Respect, they called it (‘i-ahken’ in the grain language), and questioning where exactly it originated got travelers blank stares and silent disapproval. No one knew what respect really was—it could not be taught or learned. One simply understood it.<br />
<br />
W’arkkha located itself a mere few miles from Salmaj, where the company first originated and also where both Kern and Chief were born. Together they loved all of the younger children of the small grain village as cherished siblings, including myself. I grew up listening to Kern’s displaced ramblings, as well as admiring Chief’s stoicism. I do not remember exactly when Chief formed his company, nor do I remember first leaving home; the fact that Chief became one of the first to take a stand against the Government became the most important thing. “My people will build up slowly,” he once said to me as he stroked my hair lovingly, “and soon there will be no more room for these restrictions, because everyone in the region will know what they do.” He crushed the butt of his makeshift cigarette in the palm of his left hand while squeezing my arm with his right, and whispered, “They ground us, and we need to fly.” I never forgot the way he slurred those eight words. “Levity of the spirit,” he told me the morning before we departed from Salmaj, “is one of the most vital things we will provide for these people.” According to him, the exact look in my eyes when he declared this was what earned me that very nickname—levity. From that point on, I never used my real name again.<br />
<br />
The true rise of the company officially began nearly seven months ago. We lived in the intimidating industrial city of Hedlock, and we hid in dangerous places. La Cadena just began announcing Chief’s band as malicious and unpredictable; I never saw the headlines or what exactly they fabricated to frame us, but Chief was furious, and he stomped out of the door often to disappear for entire nights without any prior warning. We never learned what he did on those particular nights, of course, but I did learn something on one certain night: the world is full of curious people who don’t follow the rules.<br />
-<br />
“Hey, Lev, I’m going to hit the sack here in a minute.” Fen Alcurda’s soft and lilting voice upon my ears became its own special lullaby, and I chuckled as I set my book down. This seemed to annoy him. “You always laugh at me,” he huffed, yanking the pillow from under my elbow. “I was going to ask if I could borrow this since Kern stole mine again, but I’ll just take it.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t mind.” My brain was still torn between reality and the novel I abruptly stopped reading, and my response was halfhearted and breathy as a result. “Just remember not to let Kern hang onto yours for too long. He’ll tear it up in his sleep.”<br />
<br />
“That’s not even fair,” murmured Fen, his expression dropping, “He’s always taking everything.” He pressed my pillow close to his face before he drifted off over to his side of the musty room that we shared. "Blow your candle out. It bothers me.”<br />
<br />
I smirked, letting the cheap wax smother itself on its own. The nights Chief left would leave Fen worried and on-edge; he was still fairly new at the time. I plopped myself down on the questionable mattress and forced myself to sleep. In my mind I thought about being safe and sound in Salmaj, drifting off to the soothing smell of warm rice pudding. Kern’s snoring made it difficult to dream properly but after more time passed it, too, became a rhythmic dance, and I reveled in this strange sense of security. The irony of this safe feeling soon painted itself across the lawn and the bricks and the doors, and one of the only things I could recall before the irate flames began to engulf the back entrance was Gharen’s angry voice shouting from the hall. I could scarcely hear him.<br />
<br />
“—One of—your candles?”<br />
<br />
“No!” I called back. In mere minutes we were the only two in the building and I scrambled to find the fire stairs when I spied the shadow towards the shattered window by Fen’s space. There were others behind it, immotile as this single figure swooped in directly through a burst of flame. Gharen did not hear my screams; little did I know he was already gone, and so was I. Something embraced me fully and dragged me helplessly towards the wall. I hit and kicked the apparition as hard as I could as my lungs began to draw in more and more smoke. I looked up, but there was nothing. The gray and the murkiness and the appalling fire mercilessly surrounded us. I had no voice or sense of self.<br />
-<br />
They arrested me that night. The whole of my arrest was a dream to me. To this day I am unaware of what they drugged me with, or what all I told them. I remember their incessant laughter as they whipped me across the back in the frivolous moonlight, and I came in and out of various shady rooms (I might have been hallucinating). I do remember, however, the shadow. He stood over me and did not interrogate me; he did not hit me or scold me, and he lay me back gently as he whisked me into another hazy spool of thought. I had never been this servile to anything before in my life. I know that he attempted to speak to me, and that was when I first saw her. She was unconscious and she could not see me nor hear me, and the shadow’s footsteps approached closer to my ear. She opened one eye and gazed into the confines of my soul, and she smiled. When the company eventually came to my rescue, they found me with her, and the shadow was already gone.<br />
--<br />
“Lev-an-ta-mos.” The woman made an unusual gesture in which she made a group within the company stand in a circle, and she would compel everyone to take each other’s hands and lift them up high in unison. We met the fortune teller in Hedlock that offered his services to us; he could speak Spanish, and he told me specifically that ‘levantamos’ meant ‘we lift.’ This woman repeated the word often, and Fen was the first one who deigned it her alias; he got along the most with her. I do not know if she actually had a name, and I knew not how to ask her; it quickly became evident that Spanish was her only tongue. Communication issues alienated her from a lot of the company and I surmised that perhaps this was why it was hard to mention her amongst one another; often we quoted who we talked about before springing into full story (Kern being the exception)—I considered everything!—but this strange characteristic did not impede her, not even slightly. I felt powerless to her might, and every time she and Fen sang together at the bonfires I felt my attention slowly sinking away from her direction. My intrigue did not end, and yet I let my usual caution wane. I became used to having her around. I took it for granted. The shadow’s words suddenly became clearer.<br />
<br />
“I am your willpower.”<br />
-<br />
“Today.” Chief threw the worn newspaper on the desk irately. I did not have to ask what it was; my stomach dropped and my hair was still wet. Levan had not yet awoken from her troubled nap, and I stood up from my chair and faced the inescapable reality that was to come. “Fen’s public execution is today. Does Levan know?” he did not wait for me to answer his question, “I can’t believe they cheated like this. They’re only afraid because we’ve almost won!” He smashed his fist against the wall and I cowered in fear. “And there’s nothing we can do. What do they think they accomplish? The people do nothing! They lie and say they’re hanging a terrorist today. We’re not terrorists, are we? We don’t kill for popular entertainment!” I reeled back as he toppled a chair over in his uncharacteristic rage before he stormed from the edge of the room. I yet heard his resolve loud and clear: “We’re raiding them tonight, and then we’re leaving this trash pit, mark my words.” I found myself unable to speak when my willpower slipped into the den unannounced, staring straight into my eyes.<br />
<br />
“¿Qué?” She rubbed her eyes drowsily and set one hand anxiously on the dusty table where the newspaper lay. Though it was in English, she understood each and every word and I could not pull it away from her in time. “Necesito un momento,” she muttered before dashing back through the rear exit—I sprinted out for her and reached out desperately, albeit before I even knew what I had, she was nowhere to be found. I need a moment. Little did I know that these would be her final words; if I had known, they most certainly would not have been. Fen’s execution drove her to recklessness I did not imagine.<br />
--<br />
Chief’s decision finally marked the beginning of a revolution. Levan’s disappearance pushed his anger to limits I had never seen. It both fascinated and horrified me the most that this woman whom he barely interacted with prompted his gunfire with such passion and determination. It was true—through the short time she stayed with us, she lifted us all. We lifted together. With this single victory we raised the people to triumph and lifted them to limitless vigor and success, and our company evolved in such a way we never saw before. It all ran through my mind as we worked our way through each room in our endless distress, exacting revenge on the tyrants that destroyed our freedom: sometimes one person out of numerous people and countless friends, out of all of the people one can know, simply cannot be described. She could not be described. Ironically, the most precious of treasures can be the ones so easily lost.<br />
<br />
Kern and Gharen kept repeating terms that Fen would have recited with us as I silently cursed myself for knowing only English; just in that moment, we located the jarred door. Instantly Chief leapt in first. <i>They interrogate people in these rooms, </i>I thought to myself, and a sickening stench permeated the atmosphere around us. Tark and Oren left to vomit, and Chief’s arm gestured me into the room. Only me. I hid behind my veil of black hair and my eyes trailed reluctantly to the heap on the floor. I approached the two and the dying girl choked hopefully; she had been gut-shot a few times and left to bleed out there, alone and forlorn. The rugged man spoke as if it were to himself only. “The man in here took off. Said that he separated the sheer willpower and the risk-taking that you trapped inside of you because you did not use it. Lev, you are both caution and recklessness. Ignoring that potential… leads to this. He did this because he knew it would teach you a lesson; apparently, you are not his only subject. The head executive committed suicide and I don’t know if he’ll be next, Lev, but this is a favor that he did for all of us.” He did not need to say more; I kneeled carefully down to myself and I lied next to her there for as long as the company had patience for. Levan carried no more strength with her, however I felt her last shallow breaths sync with mine before finally she shuddered and she was no more.<br />
-<br />
The last act I could do for her was lift her body up to the stars as the fortune teller managed to merge us again, and the intensive dream I experienced before returned to me once more. I saw everything: the bonfires, the protests, the marching, the merging of all of the people along with myself. I suddenly knew myself. And even then, even now, I knew I was going to miss her. She would forever be a part of me now, and I did not even know her name. Truly? Perhaps names were not even important, not in the grand scheme. I know mine was not.<br />
--<br />
I smiled.<br />
<br />
Kern’s monotonous blathering still did not cease, and I stood as upright as I could in the cramped space of our traveling carts. I sauntered towards him swiftly, and I offered my hand. He gazed at me skeptically.<br />
<br />
“Eh?” His volatile glare at me quickly softened when he spied my convivial expression. “What ‘s ‘t?”<br />
<br />
“… Lift it with me.”<br />
<br />
And Kern comprehended my intentions instantly. After so many years, I realized just why he wanted his spontaneous memories written down. He knew before anyone else how to face his past with dignity.<br />
<br />
And with this, I end.Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-7332020841204103922012-03-01T16:34:00.001-08:002012-03-01T16:34:02.209-08:00I am a plant<div class="MsoNormal">I am a plant. I shed my leaves<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Discreetly, new ones unfurling.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I lie dormant in darkened eves—<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But to the sun, my leaves curling,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I bow my head. He is my life,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Though unwillingly; he shaped me<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Straight to the stem. I cry in strife<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When my loose roots cannot grow free.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I provide shade, shelter, and fruit;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This I bear and I do not ask.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I give and nurture. Insects loot<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">What I produce. It is my task<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To consume what I am given,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And only such. Those who return<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My kindness, those who are driven<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And inspired—people who learn<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To love, they are my light. I fold<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To the light and bathe hungry stalks<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">In its radiance and untold<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Care. I am a plant; one that talks.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I see the world turn in my place;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My permanent home. I tell tales.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">No matter what tries to shake me from my place:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I stand firm, tall, and secure down lifelong trails.<o:p></o:p></div>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-61909862854384346802012-02-27T17:40:00.002-08:002012-03-03T11:56:48.458-08:00-<i>"What... was different about him?"</i><br />
<i>Everything, everything.</i>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-64352755036261710212012-02-26T15:57:00.000-08:002012-03-03T11:53:00.918-08:00Dreams in a Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/dujxuA71tWw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><i>"The story is over</i><br />
<i>But sometimes it's under</i><br />
<i>Which makes me just smile and wonder."</i>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7290357138438154478.post-78160633043706069602012-02-26T15:51:00.001-08:002012-03-03T11:56:48.459-08:00~<i>There will never be another like him.</i><br />
<i>None like the descendant of El Cid.</i>Viahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08676555818290618132noreply@blogger.com0