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| A most peculiar dream I had.
Close your eyes, your ears, your mouth
unbind thine soul and search toward south...
The winter snow is keen to melt
new sunlight on the face is felt
in praise of life with joy I knelt
the gurgle of ten thousands streams
far brighter than the diamond gleams
as when from heaven sunlight beams
yay, rhyming words makes me happy. Yes, I'm easily amused. You'd be happier if you were too.
To acclimate to accolades is not an easy act
in theory it is simple, but tis difficult in fact
To go from being a simple man to being a demigod
is quick to make the working man believe he is a fraud
His self worth is gone, his soul is bare, he has no sense of self
he forgets what he should value most: good beer, good friends, good health.
I don't not know if this is true, but the rich and famous seem
a sordid lot who have forgot just what it means to dream.
I hear the distant gurgle of a boistrous stream
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| Descriptions.
He enters the room, and closes the door behind him. He moves gently, and his body language lacks that brash confidence that has made him what he is. She doesn't like the room, doesn't like the house. But she loves him, loves what he is, what he isn't. He removes his coat. folds it in half, and throws it to the dirty, stained floor. The carelessness with which he tosses it is not intentional, just a byproduct of the emotions to which he has fallen prey. She wants to go to him, to demand to know what's going on. Why they stopped here. She stops herself though; it doesn't seem right. She asks if she should go, call a car from the company, leave. He shakes his head, tell hers to stand outside the door, wait. His eyes are closed, and his designer shirt is soaked with sweat. He removes his gold watch, throws it to the right without looking, then turns abruptly as it hits the floor. A loud and invasive noise that breaks the flow of memory and time. He kneels in the room, bows his head.
I remember the first time I met him. I realized he didn't care. He'd been wiped clean. It wasn't the good, free, pure carelessness of children and the young at heart, nor that dark, haunted carelessness of those who choose to leave the realm of reason. He just didn't care. I heard his mother crying about it once. And even then, when he comforted her, he didn't care that she was hurt. When I looked into his eyes, there was no spark, no blazing fire, not even a few glowing embers. They were like a shadowy room. All contoured angles, almost visible shapes, and harmless objects whose outlines inspire terror. He didn't scare me though.
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| Sculpted metal and or a tree | | |
| "You don't seem to realize the point"
he smiles defiantly "I win!"
"no, no you don't win....I do" she answers, and for a moment, her eyes are soft.
He blinks, uncomprehending
"See, I wanted you to win all along, so, in essence, I can never lose"
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| I feel sick. Anxious, sad, nervous, tired. I'm sick of loving. I try to steel myself to reality, protect myself from the harsh realities of that which is tangible, perceived, REAL. I want to cry, or rather, to be hugged. I feel self loathing course through me, reminding me of hot chocolate, chugged after coming in from the cold, except this is some sort of evil ambrosia that shakes me, shudders my body. I am painfully aware of the physical perfection of the world around me. I see myself, exposed before me, and sneer at my naivety. A sad smiles graces my spirit, and a pang of understanding pierces my soul. I want hate, not this. Not this quiet love, this kindness, this judgment.
I'm sick
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