Dreams, FablesFumbling for words:
It's a bit like one of those
Hazy dreams that starts
In medias res,
The scenes jumpy
Nobody really knows
How to read a dream -
But we try, anyways,
Try to make sense of it
Like we look for meaning
In a book's pages
Or in what we say
To each other.
They say, "Stories
Are the stuff of dreams
And the truth is stranger than fiction."
But I'll know
The truth when I see it
And then I'll find
The right words
To wake you up.
blackletter titleblackletter title
hearing half of a conversation,
self portrait in the fog.
Time to read a little story
in others' voices,
just for fun.
A time before sunrise
Will-o'-the-WispWhat brought you here to my window?
Go away. My father is home.
I'll place my lips here, here on the glass
And you can kiss the cold night air over it, just
(Can you hear me? The glass is closed. I cannot speak over the wind. Read my lips, please.)
Yesterday, I was walking through the woods
And in the depths I found a house made of living trees.
It glowed warm through its twisted window eyes
And I thought it was a flame, someone there;
I entered the door. The house was empty,
Loud with life but only in the walls.
The flame was a faerie flame. I reached my hands out
To touch it, but it was not warm enough; my fingers curled,
And I pulled it from the hearth whole.
The house died. The leaves fell like soft black snow.
Beneath my feet, roots wept, and then went still.
I held the faerie flame to my chest in fear,
And into my heart the flame went.
(It beats like a drum, and flutters whenever you are near. What can I do? Let me spit it out.)
What brings you here, like
angel dusttiny bird bones
are his ribs, delicate flower arrangement, hands splayed, or
two beautiful white wings behind a stranger’s grave
-- we can see lines of purple river coiling his fingers,
tap his knuckles, and hear faint guitar picks strum pasty flesh
like an anthem to stupidity -- his bones are hollow.
his ribs are my favorite thing about him, i used to think, said
“your ribs, they are angels meant to fly” -- “you don’t make sense”
he replied, but nothing made sense back then
or makes sense now, everyone is standing face to the mud
and we close our eyes and hold hands and jump when the next person jumps, down
means nothing, neither does ground
or angels, for that matter. he counts his white hairs
stranded in clouds, plucks feathers from doves and makes a nest with them
calls it home -- wondering, all the while, what wind might feel like
singing around his spine if he jumps, and whether i would bury
his bones behind a white grave when he does?
As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes Jack says I’ve always got to carry around this machine, big as a TV, with loopy wires coming out of it and wriggling around in my stomach. Sometimes if I’m tired he carries it, or sets it on some wheeler, but most days I’ve got it settled in the crook of my arm or against my hip. It’s hard to play football with the other kids when I’ve got to hold it, and can’t drop it neither. Jack says I oughta be grateful I can run around at all.
It’s not too heavy, the machine, it’s just a box with some gooey slush in it and a place on top that flashes numbers in red. Jack checks the numbers every sixty minutes, on the dot, even at night when I’m asleep. He’s awful smart. He says the numbers are my blood pressure and glucose and oxygen and stuff, and there’s one number that’s the estimation numeration of months I’m still functional, and I don’t understand any of it. I
Tsunami There was a tsunami on the northern shores of Israel. It was a tsunami made of a million grievances accumulated in the earth for a million years, and with the power of a million sharks it let loose its impersonal fury upon the beach. There was a terrific storm of wind and rain that day, and the earth shook at the force of its enormity.
But this is not the story of a tsunami.
This is the story of a raindrop. A single droplet of clear dew, shimmering in the sky. In the clouds, the air became pregnant with the weight of the water in its belly, and the raindrop escaped from the atmosphere's tight embrace and let itself fall. Down the raindrop went, down through ice, down through sunrays, down through thunder, down through dust, gathering speed until it was as sleek and thin and sharp as the sharpest needle. And then at last it struck its point against the eye of a man, where like a needle of glass it shattered into a million pieces and sent its fin
Gone UnheardI'm now the proud owner of the ultimate compendium of classic stories! I'm no longer the owner of hundreds of dollars, but it was a wise investment. The greatest ideas ever orchestrated by women and men of superb talent, they're all here. What I wouldn't give to join them someday, to acquire the skill displayed by these authorities of the written thought! I trust that, by entering worlds born out of such brilliant minds, some of their genius rubs off on me. May I then contribute something of worth to this world myself!
So I open the first book in the collection, attempting to enjoy and simultaneously learn from its contents. No such luck. No sooner did I begin reading, that an annoying voice, a sadly familiar one, distracts me from my springboard to progress.
"Hey! It's me, Inspiration! I just thought of a plot with potential to spare! Let's go to your nearest notebook this instant, we'll begin a killer story!"
"Quiet, you liar! I'm not even two pages into the book, and you're t
The moral of the storyDoomb: ‘If the boy is destroyed he will die.’
Not-so-doomb: ‘Ah, but he won’t die. He will live long and prosper. After all, all good things come to those who wait.’
The Littlest Knelf Traveling across the flat world that wanderers proceed to meander aimlessly, determinedly wanting to seek satisfaction to quench an unending thirst, nothing will be filled. A lone creature strode amid the green grasslands. The boundless emerald savannah stretching across a barren, cold world, almost like covering the burns from an unfortunate event, it was the most beautiful moorland that one could witness.
This individual was a knelf: a soul born of flesh and fashioned by unbridled mirth. This jollity coming from the atmospheres of societies from far-off municipalities, something long since gone; the fading laughter echoing in the ears of the knelves, seemingly like a distant memory.
The pursuit of meaning was pointless. Still, this brave knelf had journeyed through the Four Valleys of Despondency, and had taken a gamble w
SolitudineLas estrellas. Astros que iluminan un cielo. Astros que siempre permanecen, viven incontables generaciones humanas. Las vemos. Parecen cercanas. ¿Pero hay mayor soledad que la de una estrella?
Desde la distancia su cercanía es casi patente; se tocan, rozan y bailan sobre un manto negro pintado de blanco y azul. Se les dedican canciones de amor, promesas imposibles de fidelidad eterna, intentos fracasados de recogerlas. Ojalá se pudieran enfrascar como si fueran pequeños faroles que mientras brillaran iluminaran el camino a recorrer…
La realidad es cruel. La distancia entre ellas es infinita y sólo en la muerte son reconocidas. Una muerte que no es muerte, una muerte que puede arrasar sistemas, una muerte de la que surge una nueva existencia. Ni si quiera ella cesa su martirio. Ni si quiera el fin acaba con el mal que las recome.
Bellas. Lejanas. ¿Hay mayor soledad que la de una estrella?
read this in silenceIt was a moment of still; a moment of self-awareness and clarity he knew he would never forget. She stood before him, but the distance between them didn’t seem real. Naked souls shivered in realization of each other’s proximity and began to synchronize their intricate harmonies.
He saw her. Truly, piercingly, saw her.
“This,” she said simply, “is my everything.”
The Wanderer - Day 13The man wandered, not knowing where to go.
He walked for miles on end, through rain and shine, deserts and sprawling fields of rolling green bliss, looking for a home. He didn't know where he had to go, or even where he belonged, he just knew that he had to keep going.
He stumbled upon a vibrant forest of flowers that stretched into the sky. It was every colour of the rainbow and more. All sorts of fuzzy and beautiful creatures grazed in its plentiful meadows where to enormous petals parted. Light shone down gently, brushing against his skin as he strolled through. It was amazing. Everything felt so alive. He would have stayed, but he realized that he would have to craft everything he owned himself. His feeble, shaky hands simply wouldn't be up to scratch. So he moved on.
He wandered on, and climbed up a vast wall of stone. He struggled, but luckily he reached the top safe and sound. He stood on a plateau, amongst a series of crumbling towers. The wind cut them at exact angles, and whe
UntitledTimofey turned the sealed envelope over in his hands, staring down at it. His grandparents hadn’t wanted much or anything to do with his mother after she’d followed her fiancée to Russia. Now they’d sent a note to him asking to meet him. Worse, they’d already included a plane ticket- two of them.
“What’s that?” Arina was looking at him curiously and then down at the tickets.
“Plane tickets, but I don’t know why mom’s parents decided now was a good time to meet their only grandson.” He gave a strained smile, dropping his gaze down to the envelope again. “Someone clearly forgot to mention that I’m a vampire. I can’t do daylight.”
The arm his girlfriend slipped around his shoulders was only a little bit reassuring. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
Timofey grimaced, twisting around in the kitchen chair to look at her. “Neither one of us know much about America for one thing
Writing Exercise 2An impending sense of doom. A dreadful anxiety. The inevitable panic attack.
These are my current feelings about school. The work keeps piling up and I feel like I shouldn't be here. Impostor Syndrome. I look at everyone else and they all look so confident with their friends in what they're doing. How did I even get here? I don't belong here. Other people show intelligence while I'm just here. I just am. There's nothing great, nothing special. No amazing hidden talent to prove my worth. This is suppose to be the best time of my life and here I am squandering it, wasting my life. I'll never amount to anything. My dreams of med school are fast fading because I can't seem to chase them.
I can't seem to do anything.