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Thief
04-27-2010, 03:38 PM
i've been writing quite a bit lately, and though there's not much to critique as they're, for the most part, steams of consciousness, feedback is appreciated.


03.27.10

They say inspiration can strike at any given moment. Most people like to think those moments are beautiful, that catching one’s muse is as probable as the congressman, who voted to buy out the neighborhood block so they could tear it all down and pave additions to the interstate route, going out with a mason jar to catch a pair of lightning bugs. Then there are people who know busy, important people have neither the time nor the desire to do those things. There’s no remorse in evicting hearts and demolishing homes — why would he care to put a twig and maybe a leaf or two in that jar? Even if he did, everyone knows when the sun makes its way over the horizon, those fireflies have no purpose. They don’t understand the concept of living for themselves. And they sure don’t make homes out of some splintered wood and a few wilted greens. When the sun comes up, everyone knows those bugs are dead as can be. Once day breaks, Mister Congressman’s taking the interstate route to the Whore of Babylon. Homes come crashing down; is there any kind of harmony in that? There are no pleasant acoustics here. With the right lighting, ugly is comely. At the end of the day, we’re left with little more than a pair of dead beetles and nightmares waiting under our beds — “You’re too old to believe in monsters.” Momma’s white lies won’t help us here. Beautiful moments are for the deaf. Muse is a voiceless terrorist as inspiration is abomination. Sweet dreams.

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03.29.10

Even if I could explain, there's no use in trying to change the way the cracks form. Not the outcome, the process. A tree falls — whether or not anyone hears it is irrelevant —, but curiosity lies little in "how". If that tree hit a house on the way down, if a landslide had brought it down, people would be talking. "How", more often than not, strips the luster from an event. Turpentine on fresh paint. Caustic chemicals on vermin. For the last time, get those fucking rats out of the house.

I wish I was taller. Maybe then I could see eye-to-eye with God. Or at least have my head in the clouds. I always used to ask my dad to define heaven — of course, it was never phrased that well — and he'd paint a picture with those words, even with the emphasis on "no material goods". Back then I didn't argue. What he said was undeniable truth. One day I caught him smoking after he said he'd quit. I think I was nine. Look at me now — chain smoking and debating like I'm well on my way to becoming a left-wing lunatic. I debate. He doesn't. What is religion more than faith — blind faith with no physical evidence?

Science is little more than theories. Gravity is having faith that the Earth's mass will keep us grounded. No amount of math can entirely prove or disprove that. Earth shed its bulky clothing and went on a diet the day I was born. Easter Sunday, '93. I'd say on that day another skeptic began their life, but I'm not so sure of that. How redundant.

Believer vs non-believer? Definitely the first. There's a lot of spiritual self-sabotage going on here. I want all of His names inked into my shoulderblades. God. Yahweh. Allah. Jehovah. Elohim. Everything that tears us apart can be traced back to bring us together. We could chisel a soul in the boulder between us. But we're all skeptics. Whether we believe that or we're just redundant neither adds nor subtracts from it all. Indecision is certain, and unwillingness to say "I'm not sure" translates to apathy. We all take things too personally.

You can keep your holy wars, keep the cure or terminal illness that we like to call faith. Give me a low-budget movie like Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus ... as certainly as love and generosity, give me a simultaneous statement of "We're all skeptics." Let the world bullshit peace, even if for just a moment. Even if it's just in passing.

I have my doubts.

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04.29.10

Sometimes I like to think that a couple of letters, a word or two and 8pt Arial font could get my thoughts across just right. I like to think other people understand stuttering and mumbling enough to understand what I’m going on about. Other times I just like to think that as long as I’ve got thoughts, there’s no need for a diary. Leather-bound pages with quality ink bleeding into old, yellowed paper. I like to think that’s how my heart looks. And I know seeing so much beauty in this mess is more a pipe dream than anything. Seeing no mess at all is just insane. But I don’t need much more than what I have right here. I’m not so sure I want much more. The most I could ask for is someone to go out with on nights like these. No red plastic cups, no music blaring; no rowdy guys and equally, if not more, rowdy girls and camera phones ready to capture it all. It looks something like handing over the pen for a while -- or losing it altogether. Putting on galoshes and trudging through a muddy hell to reach that pipe dream destination. There’s a nightlife we’ve never seen, music straight from the souls of everything around us, be it a bullfrog or the neighbor train of 23; camera phones replaced with the complicated notion of eyesight. I couldn’t ask for more.

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04.27.10

this life is a theatre, higher power a spiritual Shakespeare -- three to five acts of the most romantic tragedy with neither rhyme nor reason, as if this drama had never known such vision. this life is cyclical, from "act one" to "act one" revised, but is there -- should there -- be a reason past living just to live? and though any lack of sincerity is unheard of, the show must go on -- even if the seating is (conveniently) bolted to the stage. it'd be an awful lie if i said i weren't pretentious -- and to claim any exclusion from these acts? even moreso. my role is no bigger a part than the tragedy in this romance -- too much of water hast thou, poor ophelia! knowledge is overpowering, leaving no more than a pretty face seen but not heard, the most favorable torment and until the willow gives, 'how long hath she been thus?'

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let's save just enough for two tickets and a set of dice, pockets as empty as our hearts are full, and we'll roll to decide how far out to go -- a nice stretch of nowhere, and i don't know where that begins, but as far as i'm concerned, there's no rush to find nowhere's end.

Thief
05-04-2010, 03:51 PM
relative comparisons are universal. today i think my ego may be the only thing keeping me grounded, as if gravity's found its center at the heart of my uncertainty. tonight i could be bigger than the moon; more distant than factual endpoints in black holes. i've spent my day staring down at god, my lungs inflating with pipe dreams of a luminous mind. i want to be in your thoughts, if only for a second. more than anything, i crave the closeness of those thoughts being the sunrise and sunset to a world revolving around passion. QED.