Searing, consuming heat. In this place of blinding light there is no thought, no pain, no joy.

Just a scream.

One scream which rebounds and reverberates and sings of rebirth.

Fingers dig mercilessly through the ash, attempting to gather all the remnants of what once was and mould it back together into some semblance of the recognizable. Tears muddy the unnecessary and the dust slips through the fingers into memory.

New and frightening and smudged with death a new being shall arise.

...Happy New Years...

Caligula and I are pen pals. Together we author madness and romance, tragedy and brutality and beauty. His name is liquid and golden and I am envious of the bitter sweet nature of his insanity. Would you call me Little Boots too?
His name is the silver reflection of a narcissus and I am Echo. Or the echo. Because phantoms don't have names; they are not denoted by the capitalization of a letter. My voice is all that is left. An idea. A repetition of "Alas...alas..."
Would that a pomegranate would preserve my sanity, keep me in death's embrace and away from life's all consuming flame.
"Have me", I call...

The joints of my fingers itch with unrelieved creative frustration and, unfortunately, I seem to lack the ability to relieve this restlessness.

I want hobbit feet. They'd be as big as bread loaves with wiry looking - but surprisingly soft - curly blond hair on the top. They would be so tough on the bottom that I wouldn't even feel the ground as I walked due to the cracked, dry, callused skin. There would be no feeling save those elements which slip between the sheltered crevices created between my toes. The toenails would be forever stained yellow and green and brown due to the dirt, grass and other elements they'd be exposed to. I'd never have to wear shoes again. My feet would be free.

I want white hair, although I'm willing to settle for a good steely grey. It would be long and so thin you could almost see my pink, age spotted scalp underneath. That wouldn't matter though because it would be permanently charged with electricity and would float around my head and defy all attempts to smooth it out. It would reach out to others as I walk past them and caress their faces of its own accord. It would grab flowers off the overhanging branches of nearby trees and would amuse itself by weaving strands of spun sugar around petals of varying hues and fragrances. It would smell of lemon and caramel.

I want a neck as long as my arm covered in tan colored age spots and an altogether glowing, pink hue. When my hair behaves it will wrap itself tightly around my neck like a turtleneck woven of sugar. Were my hair to get in a disagreement with my neck they would separate and my neck would be so bare you could count every vertebrae of my spinal cord railroad traveling up into my indignant hairline. I would always wear a cord of pearls at the base and my collar bones and shoulders would look like roots sprouting from the base of a salmon colored sapling.

I want to be albino...I think I could abandon my pink neck and blonde hobbit hair for the opportunity to fulfill that wish.

I don't want eyes because they inhibit my mind from creating reality.

This is the link to a blog I had to write for my philosophy class this past semester.

I walked past a hole the other day. Inside little men in overalls and train conductor hats ran around and swung on the pipes left exposed by whatever had created the small crater. I saw steam rise in great puffs from cracks in the pipelines. Puffs that lifted my hair off my neck and brought sweat to my brow.

My eyes teared.

They had no use for the sky, these little men with the covered heads. The high walls of the hole were covered in mossy green vegetation in which vibrant dots of red and yellow were apparent. One must suppose this provided the little people sustenance.

There was silence in the hole, though activity was rampart. These phantom workers of no purpose had no need for noise.

A stagnant society makes no noise, the antithesis being...

How to express the colors; from the inside they flow - liquid light staining the emotional state and straining at the physical boundaries of human comprehension. For this exercises words are to be used sparingly and the mind even less. It is a job for the fingers for they must trip over the correct keys. It is now their job to make mistakes sound like music and letters fall into terrifying, life shattering order.

Do you hear that whistle?

As the prints falls it leaves impressions in the dust that was once the desert of their minds. It is not water, it does not feed the parched landscape of human thought because there are no seeds to be nourished. It is a bombshell and the impression it leaves will only collect inspirational debris.

Can you smell the heat?

That is the scorched sand turned to glass. It is transparent and fragile and when another letter hits the mind it will shatter leaving scars in it's wake.

And where are the colors? Why are their loss lamentable? Ink is black, parchment is white, but you and I and the tree sitting in the middle of the room are not. I am pink and yellow and blue. The tree is green. You are ? What do we share but a trunk and, perhaps, some limbs? The tree has more limbs than it knows what to do with so it reaches for everything but never touches anything.

Napoleon is a pastry.

I am a thought...I am not even substantial enough to eat. Perhaps if I conquer France I will become a pen. A worthy pursuit if I do say so myself. And I shall produce black ink and smell of metal and dirt and people will stain their fingers with my blood and thoughts.

Apparantly this is Rare

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a
Creative Self-Knowing Believer

Like...it was 0.5% of the 18500 who have taken the quiz had gotten that result. I'm actaully quite happy with that ^^

A Revelation

And with the revelation that words are meaningless one ascends above ambiguity and alights the platform of startling revelation. This narrow precipice is dangerous and it will be easy to allow one's self to return to the misty valley of comfort and subtle confusion.

I can say anything I want to. People will believe words over apparent emotion in any and every case offered them. If emotion was food we would all be anorexic, however, if words were the sustenance upon which we feast - and it seems as if this is so - than we are all naive gluttons who cater to a syntax much more palatable than the honest and blunt truth, than the raw emotions that truly rule our mind and actions.

I can be hateful and intentionally cruel but if I avoid snide comments and am a flattering fool, prostrating myself upon the alter of conventional niceties, then all is well with the world and everyone is loved.

That is foolish. I am foolish. People are foolish.

Words mean nothing. I can say anything. There is no truth where there is no emotion. The apathetic lack true existence, they are not there, look through their words because they mean nothing.

Lying runs rampart in a society that is too afraid of emotion. Social graces are valued more than moral graces. Truth is archaic. Look at our dictionary, it provides a clinical approach to remove all emotional connontations assosciated with words. It is only a matter of time before people come to fear the truth so much that society will provide a manual designed to remove all hints of truth and emotion from human interaction. All speech will be formulated to provide comfort and insipid flattery.

Love and hate and joy and fear shall become obsolete.

Humanity will be lost.

Progress will stop because there shall be no one brave enough to be passionate about change.

Don't tell me what you think. Show me what you think. Show me with your hands. Build me something concrete, something that cannot be erased with a few simple words. Bravo! if you offer offense because now I have material upon which I can reflect and form feelings for! Whether you offend or entertain, critique or provide love you should be well assured that you shall inspire. To create is to evoke emotion. Don't give me your pretty, empty words. I've had enough of your abstract philosophy! If you have any true thoughts in your head, if you truly wish to show me that you are human, then create!

Show me!

I need proof! Proof that you possess enough feeling and heart and soul to provide for our world a better future. Proof that you actually care for that which you wish to create. That there is passion within your physical being. That you are not a robot programmed to repeat pretty words at the appropriate time.

I need humanity. Real, brutal, messy humanity.

We need not agree.

We need not say anything.

We just need to be.

If you are unable to be, then pray your sanity stays intact as you step off of this narrow ledge and return to that apathetic mist.

I Live In The Fourth Dimmension

I am late, for this I apologize. It is a hard journey to make, there are a lot of obstacles to overcome. My mind is filled with wooden blocks, the crude shapes of letters carved into the side. When I turn one way I can make out vague ideas on their sides. To turn another way is to gain a new perspective. Unfortunately, however, they haven't been connecting. How strange for something to be the same yet completely unconnected...

I have been in a sort of rut the past two weeks. And by rut I mean I've been pretty much dead to everything, including my personal desires and the expectations of my parents and friends. It's not that I want to not care, I just can't seem to work up enough energy to care or do anything. And that doesn't make sense because I've gotten plenty of sleep. I think it has to do with starting college. I've always considered high school as my dead period, I couldn't wait for it to end so that I could begin. Now that it's over I think my sub conscious is giving it a once more "Hey, this is the last summer of being dead, enjoy it" kick. Although I'm not enjoying it and I think that that may be important. If I can look back on how wasted and miserable this summer has been, then I'll never want to fall into such a rut again and therefore will work hard against such apathy and sloth.

I am not especially happy. Although, in a weird, ironic turn of behavior, I am in love with everything and everyone. I guess it might not make sense to you. My sedentary lifestyle of the past two weeks has given me the opportunity to observe and think about all that I have to be thankful for. I've always been peripherally aware of how blessed I am but it wasn't until this summer that I have been able to feel how blessed I am and to revel in this feeling. Or any feeling for that matter.

I suppose I'm not happy because whenever you realize how lucky you are, the next logical thoughts are turned toward analyzing why you are so lucky and most people, invariably, discover that they truly don't deserve their happiness. I don't anyways. And I'm not saying that no one deserves to be happy. In a biblical turn of introspection, Jesus died so that we could be happy and it would be ungrateful to be otherwise. Yet, I cannot help but feel that my blessing far outweigh my actions and I am constantly reminded that I will never be able to repay those who have made my life so lovely for doing so. Not even if I work the rest of my life toward that end will I ever be able to sufficiently pay them back. And a part of me doesn't want to because being in their debt makes me something. If I wasn't indebted to anyone...where would that put me..?

It would isolate me. It would be like ending those relationships that have been built upon favors and gifts and love and blessings. In a way it would be like saying, "Thanks for all you've done, but I don't need you so take this and go". And so, in a way, paying back all of those gifts feels rude and ungrateful, like you are saying that you're too good to depend upon their kindness, that you have no need for them.

But still. I am in love. With everything and everyone. And it fills me.

Petition To My AP Lit Class

Listen to my words. I do not look up at the night sky and philosophize. Listen to me speak. The works of Chaucer or Shakespeare do not spring to mind nor do they lend me a voice to express the beauty around me on those dazzling nights. Look at me as I tell you that instead of reciting poetry I still my thoughts and allow the night’s splendor to envelope me, to drench me in tranquility and emotional peace. We have learned together so acknowledge my words when I say I could here cite Walden’s transcendental teachings – of emptying one’s self of society’s cluttered philosophies and living with nature in the moment – however be aware that this particular characteristic of mine, though enforced by Thoreau’s teachings, did not originate in them.

There are some who would say that, as a female, I am prone to prefer emotion over logical thought. I am a being of intuition and emotion for they are the children of nature and the parents of wisdom. Contrary to what most people would believe, to what you probably believe, this never made me naïve, but rather, more skeptical because who of you truly trust their heart when it comes to solving life’s mysteries? Exactly, neither do I.

I used to confuse this need to be skeptical with cynicism. The jaded live a life of luxury and indolence. Listen to my words because when I look around I see queens and kings of empty philosophy. You see them too. They never venture past the base emotions of anger, resentment and irony. They are never let down because they never expect to be fulfilled. They don’t hope. They miss the meaning of life entirely by reveling in the feeling of superiority and false control cynicism grants them.

Listen to my words. I am not enlightened, I am vain and spoiled, yet I think that we could all agree that, were we to assign a sex to both good and evil we would find ourselves surrounded in androgyny. How more poignant an example to support that then the power point presentation I gave but a week ago on the indefinite nature of evil? How often have we run into characters of moral ambiguity in the literature we have read in this class? Intent and circumstance dissolve the characteristics of both vice and virtue until they run together and their physical characteristics are no longer distinguishable.

Ambition for example. We have all, at one time or another in this class, labeled ambition a failing of character. Oedipus Rex, Caesar, and Willy Loman were all ambitious people who suffered. However, I think that we have mislabeled their failing graces. Listen to me when I say that it was not ambition, but of arrogance born of ambition that caused their individual collapses. The arrogance to believe that they deserved what they had and, even more so, that they deserved what they had not earned. Understand when I say there is no such thing as entitlement. No one is entitled to anything.

Agree with me when I say that we can change the world. Who here hasn’t heard the maxim “The Pen Is Mightier than the Sword” and who, by now, doesn’t know full well what that means? Think of Hiroshima. Think of the countless satirical articles we have read in this class. Did they not stir emotion within you? Did they not make you consider? Think of A Modest Proposal. Listen to me. I know you understand and I know that you can effect change in the same manner.

Admit with me, you feel superior. We have read the classics. We know William Faulkner and Henrik Ibsen, we’ve studies poetry and prose. Admit you feel accomplished. Good. We should feel accomplished. We should even feel some superiority. We are justified. Don’t let anyone take that away because I certainly will not.

Personal Perspective

So I have finally decided upon the personal perspective story I shall write.

There's the goal line, only a few feet away. I can see my grandfather taunting me on the other side. Hurry up boy! he calls. I'm coming I want to say but no sound escapes my throat. The air is thick and the colors vivid. I move slowly, my goal slowly receding. I have an opponent. He bursts forth from the earth beneath my feet. I go rolling, skidding across what was, seconds ago, green grass but is now sand. I am underwater, yet able to breathe. I am Spongebob? I commandeer a boat and drive toward someplace familiar and warm; distracted I flip through radio stations. The boat is slow. It seems I will never arrive at my destination. It seems I have sat in this car forever. An eternity. Somewhere my neck hurts.

I am lost so I forget. Where I am holds no bearing in my mind. There is music in the background. I watch a horse gallop next to our car, his muscles in his neck pulsing, legs pulling in beat with that music. There is a bench. He jumps it and transforms mid-flight into a swallow, wings flapping to that same beat. I sigh, turn my face from the window and those phantom animals dissipate into shadow and thought. Voices intrude. My parents? I vaguely wish the voices away. I glance at my slumbering brother and suffer a shadow of worry that they and the music will wake him but dismiss it. He will sleep on. I leave the car again. Lost once more. A forest. Demons. Epic battles. Love, perhaps...

Why is this screen so small? My fingers run over the key pad, a desperate attempt to remain connected to friends. To sanity. Little brothers offer little comfort. Older sisters are strange. Parents argue, grandparents dote. My friends are my salvation. What's that one face again? >.< ...no... >.@ Yes. That's the one. It effectively represents my feelings. Annoyed. Traveling is no fun. My legs are asleep and my head hurts from concentrating on this small screen. What?! :O What did she mean by that? Well if she's going to be like that then I just wont reply. "Eli, guess what Julia just txted me!" He'll be sympathetic. I miss him. Bobby snores. Momma and Daddy are playing some ridiculous game. I didn't want to leave this weekend. Why hasn't he responded?! The music isn't even all that great.

Perspective Blurbs

What fun! My beloved Cutt-throat has assigned perspective essays since we have so recently finished a book so rank with confusing, selfish perspectives that she fears we might have lost our own. The book is, of course, Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.

This first one is to be from me during any random event...I've yet to choose an event...I shall move on and come back.

This next one is to be from three peoples', different perspective. Same event mind you, just a different perspective.

"This is my city, this is my own." Words pump through my head, angry and possessive. Songs have declared and fortified my right to live and be here. Such pathetic weakness. Such ridiculous fear. The fear in their faces inspires such intense hatred within my soul. It reminds me of shadowy corners and tears shed in the dark. A light and pain a little too intense. Not my own though. Not mine. This is mine. This. All of this. I have a right to be here. I have been suppressed. Too long have I turned my head. Pop knew. So did Darren, before he was locked up. The cool steel in my hand is a manifestation of my power. Why do they cower? It's stupid. These stupid people. They brought this upon themselves. I am here to claim what is mine and they will give it to me. Or else.

"Let's go." Fear and overwhelming determination. Let's get this over with. It's just one more hit, regrettable but nothing more. I am a product of my environment. But then, so is my family. They shouldn't have to suffer because they're father is a coward so I will suck it up: spit in the face of this fear and growing morality. The fear in the faces surrounding me and my crew brings shame. If my good mother only new what her son did to bring electricity to her humble apartment. Too humble. And this money will finance my sister's doctor's appointments. Remember, family first. It is regrettable though. Especially if someone tries to be a hero. There's no victory in killing these people. Determination. Forget about the people, remember the family.

I am cold. This isn't right. This doesn't happen. Not so randomly. Not on such a pretty day. The sky is so blue today. A perfect day. Except for this. This shouldn't have happened. Not to me. Not on such a pretty day. So blue. I was just standing in line. We all were. Just standing, waiting to conduct our mundane business while outside the sun shone and the sky was blue, or white. Was the sky white? That doesn't make sense. Red? No. Blue..and yellow and white and red...
They say greed is the devil's tool. Was that the devil in the eyes of those three men? Maybe? The scrawny, dark one definitely. He was the one yelling. He was the one who brought pain. Was I greedy? Did I deserve this? I only wanted my money. So did they. Is greed blue? I am red and white and blue and yellow. The blue stain is my greed, the red is leaving me quickly.