As you get older, you start to think, it's not a celebration. No, I don't want to celebrate the age I'm turning, it's not the beginning of something it's not a start. No, what it reminds you of is endings, sad things, things that never come back like youth and time flown by. And no, you don't want to celebrate your birth day. Because all it reminds you of is of time, and therefore, the long hard march towards your death. What I would really like to hold is a funeral for my age that I'm leaving behind on the day before my birthday. That seems more appropriate overall.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
We Die Tomorrow
One day when I am on my deathbed, I will look back on this day and it will seem like yesterday. And this is the truth, the truth that we can already see, about our childhood memories, our memories of youth. All those years in between, they are an illusion, the idea that we can count them, or the hours or minutes in them, all our planning it is all a lie.
The truth is when we are old, on our deathbed, on the day that we die, this will be yesterday, and so, therefore, that day is tomorrow, we will die tomorrow. If we live cautiously or irresponsibly, with fear or with wonder, if we lust for life or are afraid of it, it is, still tomorrow that we die, still yesterday that we lived.
And so, I want it all. I want life, I really do. And anyday that I live must be worthy to be my last day, because it is. Because there is no future to wait for or plan for. There is only today, and the day after yesterday.
The truth is when we are old, on our deathbed, on the day that we die, this will be yesterday, and so, therefore, that day is tomorrow, we will die tomorrow. If we live cautiously or irresponsibly, with fear or with wonder, if we lust for life or are afraid of it, it is, still tomorrow that we die, still yesterday that we lived.
And so, I want it all. I want life, I really do. And anyday that I live must be worthy to be my last day, because it is. Because there is no future to wait for or plan for. There is only today, and the day after yesterday.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Zombie Life
I could assign an exact time and place of death, of this hope and that dream, of this idea that used to matter.
Fortunate, are the ones who do not die in this way, but are extinguished by the end of the natural body.
In the spans of time and space understood by these ideals and loves, it could be said that in this way, they lived forever.
But long after all the things that matter die, the world is filled with corpses.
These walking dead have no purpose, but wander aimlessly, awaiting the passing of their natural body.
Their life was brief and then they suffered a long illness, from their deathbed they watched everything they love die, and be taken away. They had no will or strength to make things any different.
At what point did they pass, from something weak which could still be revived, to something gone forever?
Sometimes, we know the time and place of death. Other times, it is a mystery.
The dead too, brought back sometimes. The weak, the hopeless, the indifferent, find something in them again.
Who did the necromancer bring back to life?
Was it that the maiden never died, but only slept, and does she rub her pretty eyes awakened by a kiss or spell, barely aware of the time?
Or does the returned dead have a different soul. Is its passion different, hungry, predatory, which sucks life from other beings to fill its endless unfillable void of bottomless death, a zombie feasting on life to prolong its undead state?
Fortunate, are the ones who do not die in this way, but are extinguished by the end of the natural body.
In the spans of time and space understood by these ideals and loves, it could be said that in this way, they lived forever.
But long after all the things that matter die, the world is filled with corpses.
These walking dead have no purpose, but wander aimlessly, awaiting the passing of their natural body.
Their life was brief and then they suffered a long illness, from their deathbed they watched everything they love die, and be taken away. They had no will or strength to make things any different.
At what point did they pass, from something weak which could still be revived, to something gone forever?
Sometimes, we know the time and place of death. Other times, it is a mystery.
The dead too, brought back sometimes. The weak, the hopeless, the indifferent, find something in them again.
Who did the necromancer bring back to life?
Was it that the maiden never died, but only slept, and does she rub her pretty eyes awakened by a kiss or spell, barely aware of the time?
Or does the returned dead have a different soul. Is its passion different, hungry, predatory, which sucks life from other beings to fill its endless unfillable void of bottomless death, a zombie feasting on life to prolong its undead state?
Friday, January 21, 2011
Traitor
I could not see myself as just me, with my battles in life. I carried on the wars of others.
And for every ideal I betrayed, I was a traitor.
for living a life I do not believe in, igonoring the true voice. Wallowing in a cesspit of false security, while everything i believe in burns all around me. For obeying the illegitimate authority, for sleeping with the enemy.
Feathered and tarred, and through the city streets I should walk, I should be paraded with the word, written in red, on a t shirt like a sign hung around my neck, for all to see, for shame.
Sticking to my hair, tar will glimmer, feathers will fall behind me. Traitor.
And for every ideal I betrayed, I was a traitor.
for living a life I do not believe in, igonoring the true voice. Wallowing in a cesspit of false security, while everything i believe in burns all around me. For obeying the illegitimate authority, for sleeping with the enemy.
Feathered and tarred, and through the city streets I should walk, I should be paraded with the word, written in red, on a t shirt like a sign hung around my neck, for all to see, for shame.
Sticking to my hair, tar will glimmer, feathers will fall behind me. Traitor.
Vampire Reverse
It was as if we were drained of everything that mattered, passion, honesty, intuition, with every time we threw a cloak over who we really were. To be in the bright sunshine, to be natural and real again, but such a day was long gone and all that remained was a corpse.
Yes, to be real, such a simple dream, so out of reach.
Yes, to be real, such a simple dream, so out of reach.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Whispers
Taken away
Carry me away
The bright light is too much for me
Harsh and unforgiving
I prefer the soft light
Its gentle disguise
Don't be frank or upfront
It seems offensive and rude
Sugar-coat it
Babify me
Softly, softly
Carry me away
The bright light is too much for me
Harsh and unforgiving
I prefer the soft light
Its gentle disguise
Don't be frank or upfront
It seems offensive and rude
Sugar-coat it
Babify me
Softly, softly
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