We paint our walls to cover up the ugly colours underneath. We paint them to cover up the dirt and imperfections. We cannot replace them easily, so we paint to hide what we wish to replace. In the same way, I believe we paint the old walls which are ourselves.
The dirt we cover up is the filth built up from living in and using the room in our daily lives. It is only natural that we have that evidence of the life that has gone on there. However, we are told that we must always be perfectly clean. We could clean the walls of course, but that would take much more time than we are willing to spend. So we cover it with a fresh new coat of paint. But the dirt is still there and more dirt will build up on top of the new paint.
Sometimes we wish we could tear down the walls entirely and start with new ones. We believe that change like that will change the entire makeup of the place in which we live. Not many of us have that luxury to rebuild however. Instead, we choose a new colour for the walls and pretend that they are entirely new. Of course, we know that is not the truth, but we tell ourselves to believe. We imagine that the old walls no longer exist.
The holes in the walls are the hardest to fix. We patch them up with something much weaker than than the material it started out with. The patch is made of something different, and will never be quite the same as everything around it. Society tells us that we must hide the fact that we had that hole to fix in the first place. So we paint over it. But the hole is still there. It simply hides beneath another layer of paint.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
For Her
I wasn't there when I should have been. I should seen her morning smiles, her tired yawns, her brave face against the future. I should have held her tight when she was scared and brandished swords with her against invisible enemies. I should be able to remember her face without having to think.
I didn't know her as well as I should have. I should have asked about her favourite songs, her best friends, her biggest dreams. I should have listened to her problems, no matter what they were and given the advice I was able to give. I should have been her friend as well as her cousin.
I didn't help as much as I should have. I should have sent money, sent more prayers, sent letters everyday with my supporting love. I should have finished the thousand papers cranes to wish for a miracle. I should have brought the entire world to her cause.
I couldn't have been there. I couldn't know her as well as that. I couldn't have done everything. But I should have.
I didn't know her as well as I should have. I should have asked about her favourite songs, her best friends, her biggest dreams. I should have listened to her problems, no matter what they were and given the advice I was able to give. I should have been her friend as well as her cousin.
I didn't help as much as I should have. I should have sent money, sent more prayers, sent letters everyday with my supporting love. I should have finished the thousand papers cranes to wish for a miracle. I should have brought the entire world to her cause.
I couldn't have been there. I couldn't know her as well as that. I couldn't have done everything. But I should have.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Counting My Life
Last night I sat on my floor, making marks on myself. For two hours I sat there making tallies with my pen.
Each tally stood for something. Some of it was simple; the number of series of books I own, the family members I have. Others meant something more. They stood for the people who know my secrets, the mistakes I have made to those I love, or others stood for dreams that I know are far beyond my reach. Every line I drew means something a thousand times bigger than the ink it is made of.
For many of the tallies, I have forgotten the significance. Many of them meant something that spanned my entire being, but it has been left behind by my memories. One second drawing a line represents years of my life, then means nothing at all in the next moment. How odd it is to forget something that meant so much to me only hours ago.
By the end of the night, I had marked a thousand times. My arms and legs are black with the ink I used to count the meanings. I wonder how I was able to even have so many things worth marking in my short life.
Why did I start to count at all that night? I'm not sure. Perhaps it was insanity, my very rationality slipping away.
And so I keep adding to the tallies.
Each tally stood for something. Some of it was simple; the number of series of books I own, the family members I have. Others meant something more. They stood for the people who know my secrets, the mistakes I have made to those I love, or others stood for dreams that I know are far beyond my reach. Every line I drew means something a thousand times bigger than the ink it is made of.
For many of the tallies, I have forgotten the significance. Many of them meant something that spanned my entire being, but it has been left behind by my memories. One second drawing a line represents years of my life, then means nothing at all in the next moment. How odd it is to forget something that meant so much to me only hours ago.
By the end of the night, I had marked a thousand times. My arms and legs are black with the ink I used to count the meanings. I wonder how I was able to even have so many things worth marking in my short life.
Why did I start to count at all that night? I'm not sure. Perhaps it was insanity, my very rationality slipping away.
And so I keep adding to the tallies.
Fearsome Battle
A Very Short Story
"I believe I have underestimated you" the young champion remarked. His opponent did not reply. The man waved his bat high above his head, sending it down with a thundering crash. He missed.
"I have yet to be defeated by those much bigger than you!" he shouted. Still, there was no response. The enemy's big eyes stared up as his feet scrambled backwards. He backed onto something thin and sticky. He climbed.
The fear was evident in the hero's eyes. The audience too, was quivering. They had never seen their hero so threatened before. The young man gathered his courage and swung. Stifled gasps could be heard throughout the crowd.
The opponent lay dead. He was a harmer of no one, but an enemy of all. His body lay crushed beneath the bat, his eight legs splayed and lifeless.
"I believe I have underestimated you" the young champion remarked. His opponent did not reply. The man waved his bat high above his head, sending it down with a thundering crash. He missed.
"I have yet to be defeated by those much bigger than you!" he shouted. Still, there was no response. The enemy's big eyes stared up as his feet scrambled backwards. He backed onto something thin and sticky. He climbed.
The fear was evident in the hero's eyes. The audience too, was quivering. They had never seen their hero so threatened before. The young man gathered his courage and swung. Stifled gasps could be heard throughout the crowd.
The opponent lay dead. He was a harmer of no one, but an enemy of all. His body lay crushed beneath the bat, his eight legs splayed and lifeless.
Monday, October 10, 2011
My Old Friend
There he sat in the corner, gathering dust. He used to be a part of my everyday life, but now he only sits there, watching bits of the life I have now. I wonder what he has seen over the years, be it beautiful moments or tragic events. Perhaps he has grown just as I have after all this time.
The days when I notice him send a wave of regret. His big black eyes beckon me back to his soft embrace. They call me back to simpler days when he was my only friend, my only care in the world. I long for those days, but I cannot go back. That time seems so long ago. His shining eyes seem to ask "Why did you leave here alone?"
The dusk still falls onto his faded fur. In the rays of sun reaching through my windows I can see how it clings to him, coating him in a thin layer of invisible pieces of the world. He is falling ever farther into the past. It is long past time that I am rid of him. Still, I cannot seem to let him go.
The days when I notice him send a wave of regret. His big black eyes beckon me back to his soft embrace. They call me back to simpler days when he was my only friend, my only care in the world. I long for those days, but I cannot go back. That time seems so long ago. His shining eyes seem to ask "Why did you leave here alone?"
The dusk still falls onto his faded fur. In the rays of sun reaching through my windows I can see how it clings to him, coating him in a thin layer of invisible pieces of the world. He is falling ever farther into the past. It is long past time that I am rid of him. Still, I cannot seem to let him go.
Little Girl Alone
"Help me" she cried into the silence. But no one could hear her. No one ever chose to hear.
Her hands waved frantically into the darkness. But no one could see her. No one ever chose to see.
She grabbed on to the people nearest her. But no one could feel her. No one ever chose to feel.
The little girl is all alone. Just as she always has, she lives without another soul to listen to her thoughts or glance at her face or hold her hand. The silence and the darkness and the space less world close in upon her very being, crushing her mind as well as her body. She is all alone.
Her hands waved frantically into the darkness. But no one could see her. No one ever chose to see.
She grabbed on to the people nearest her. But no one could feel her. No one ever chose to feel.
The little girl is all alone. Just as she always has, she lives without another soul to listen to her thoughts or glance at her face or hold her hand. The silence and the darkness and the space less world close in upon her very being, crushing her mind as well as her body. She is all alone.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Paper Life
There are many books sitting on shelves across the world who will never be read. There are many other books who will forever be kept close, read by many people and many times by each person.
How marvelous are the books who are forever being opened and passed on, who sit by bedsides and are the very inspiration for the lives of others. These books may never have a day to rest, but are overjoyed to be so important to the world. Their spines may be broken, dust covers lost, pages torn, and corners dog-eared. They may be covered in dirt from the places they are dragged, scribbled with writing, rebound, and faded. But these books know they are loved.
How pitiful are the books who are left untouched. They sit waiting to be opened and their souls uncovered. The keeper may not recognize the title, or these stories may not yet even have keepers. They are left unread to gather dust and impress shallow humans, alone for the rest of their existence. Some of the well-known ones or the young ones may have a future in a well-read home, but for the others there is no future except a deadly pulp mill.
The more daring books may venture to sit in a bookstore and try to be bought by an individual human. Those whose are fortunate enough to be bought usually end up content in a small library of a single home; a more glamorous existence. The others are sent to be mulched or pulped, living only a short life of reckless hope.
The more cautious would choose to be part of a library. There, there is plenty of company, but no permanent owner or permanent home. Many temporary keepers are abusive, others are careful and respectful, and the books never know when they will be returned to their home. It is more dependable to be content than a bookstore, but more humble of an existence.
An electronic book in the eyes of a paper one is a robot. There is no tangible soul to an e-book. The words may mean just as much and have souls themselves, but there is nothing to hold them together. It can be copied into a new one that is exactly the same. It's existence is merely a fleeting moment of bliss, then nothing at all.
What kind of book am I?
How marvelous are the books who are forever being opened and passed on, who sit by bedsides and are the very inspiration for the lives of others. These books may never have a day to rest, but are overjoyed to be so important to the world. Their spines may be broken, dust covers lost, pages torn, and corners dog-eared. They may be covered in dirt from the places they are dragged, scribbled with writing, rebound, and faded. But these books know they are loved.
How pitiful are the books who are left untouched. They sit waiting to be opened and their souls uncovered. The keeper may not recognize the title, or these stories may not yet even have keepers. They are left unread to gather dust and impress shallow humans, alone for the rest of their existence. Some of the well-known ones or the young ones may have a future in a well-read home, but for the others there is no future except a deadly pulp mill.
The more daring books may venture to sit in a bookstore and try to be bought by an individual human. Those whose are fortunate enough to be bought usually end up content in a small library of a single home; a more glamorous existence. The others are sent to be mulched or pulped, living only a short life of reckless hope.
The more cautious would choose to be part of a library. There, there is plenty of company, but no permanent owner or permanent home. Many temporary keepers are abusive, others are careful and respectful, and the books never know when they will be returned to their home. It is more dependable to be content than a bookstore, but more humble of an existence.
An electronic book in the eyes of a paper one is a robot. There is no tangible soul to an e-book. The words may mean just as much and have souls themselves, but there is nothing to hold them together. It can be copied into a new one that is exactly the same. It's existence is merely a fleeting moment of bliss, then nothing at all.
What kind of book am I?
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Lost Logic
My logic has left me, it seems. Like the dreams you wish to remember, it has simply disappeared.
I used to see the world in a logical point of view. Yes, I had my private artistic ramblings and rearranged ideas from the reality everyone else had, but I also had my logic. I could depend on that realism when times were tough. It was my form of optimism, in a way. Instead of seeing everything from the negative side, I saw it as it really was.
But now it seems there is only small traces. I have it for the times when I must prove a point, but otherwise it lets me struggle on my own. Though it is gone, there is no optimism to replace it. I find, instead, a more pessimistic view on the angles of the world. It is as if I am looking up from the shadows to the light that I will never reach.
The loss is affecting everything I do and everything I say. I wonder how long it will be before my companions can no longer count on me to be the mother figure I was. How long it will be before the logic will leave me completely? I fear for when that time comes. That day I will no longer be able stand without my cane of thorns beside me.
I used to see the world in a logical point of view. Yes, I had my private artistic ramblings and rearranged ideas from the reality everyone else had, but I also had my logic. I could depend on that realism when times were tough. It was my form of optimism, in a way. Instead of seeing everything from the negative side, I saw it as it really was.
But now it seems there is only small traces. I have it for the times when I must prove a point, but otherwise it lets me struggle on my own. Though it is gone, there is no optimism to replace it. I find, instead, a more pessimistic view on the angles of the world. It is as if I am looking up from the shadows to the light that I will never reach.
The loss is affecting everything I do and everything I say. I wonder how long it will be before my companions can no longer count on me to be the mother figure I was. How long it will be before the logic will leave me completely? I fear for when that time comes. That day I will no longer be able stand without my cane of thorns beside me.
The Mask
I put on my mask again. The mask of lies and smiles. It covers everything from my toes to my head, although it seems to miss my eyes. It must, I suppose, so that I can see.
It is a mask of white. Of purity and light. Of the way I used to be and how I used to think and speak. Of how I used to sing to the world as if every day was full of music and love. And how I used to dance and draw my way through every thought. Or how I used to think my way through the problems of each moment. It is a mask of me before I needed a mask.
I fear the mask is not thick enough. It is beginning to turn a little gray as the colours underneath become darker and darker. It seems it is breaking as well. The cracks are more visible to my eyes now than they have ever been. I fear they may soon be visible to others too.
Sometimes I don't need the mask. In fact, I am so bright that it frightens me. I become a colour that will end up blinding my eyes if it happens too much. The flash never happens for very long, however. It comes as if it was thrown at me, but doesn't stick because there is nothing holding it on. The contrast left over makes me seem twice as black as before. I am left with an instant of being without my mask and I again fear that others will notice what is underneath.
How I wish to rid myself of this fake white face I hold. It no longer even fits the real one underneath. It was made for the old me when an emergency caused the dark to appear. That old dark would soon fade and the mask was able to stay untarnished for later use. Today's black no longer fades. I wish I could make a mask that fits the me today. But seems the white material has run out, leaving with only the old mask to use.
And so I continue to wear it.
It is a mask of white. Of purity and light. Of the way I used to be and how I used to think and speak. Of how I used to sing to the world as if every day was full of music and love. And how I used to dance and draw my way through every thought. Or how I used to think my way through the problems of each moment. It is a mask of me before I needed a mask.
I fear the mask is not thick enough. It is beginning to turn a little gray as the colours underneath become darker and darker. It seems it is breaking as well. The cracks are more visible to my eyes now than they have ever been. I fear they may soon be visible to others too.
Sometimes I don't need the mask. In fact, I am so bright that it frightens me. I become a colour that will end up blinding my eyes if it happens too much. The flash never happens for very long, however. It comes as if it was thrown at me, but doesn't stick because there is nothing holding it on. The contrast left over makes me seem twice as black as before. I am left with an instant of being without my mask and I again fear that others will notice what is underneath.
How I wish to rid myself of this fake white face I hold. It no longer even fits the real one underneath. It was made for the old me when an emergency caused the dark to appear. That old dark would soon fade and the mask was able to stay untarnished for later use. Today's black no longer fades. I wish I could make a mask that fits the me today. But seems the white material has run out, leaving with only the old mask to use.
And so I continue to wear it.
When?
When will I cross into tomorrow?
When is no longer today?
Where is the border of time to the future?
When will I stop being a child?
When will I be and the adult I was promised?
Who decides if I am old enough to be my own keeper?
When will I find that special someone?
When will I no longer be alone?
What will tell me if we are meant to be like all the stories of love?
When will I find my reason for living?
When will I know why I'm alive?
Why is it that no one has the answers to life?
When is no longer today?
Where is the border of time to the future?
When will I stop being a child?
When will I be and the adult I was promised?
Who decides if I am old enough to be my own keeper?
When will I find that special someone?
When will I no longer be alone?
What will tell me if we are meant to be like all the stories of love?
When will I find my reason for living?
When will I know why I'm alive?
Why is it that no one has the answers to life?
The Question of Time
Shall we stand in the shadows of tomorrow
Or shall we peak into the light of today?
Will we fight for the causes of next generation's strife
Or leave it for the younger ones to figure out themselves?
Should we prepare for other days' prosperity
Or find some of the simple happiness now?
Is it worth it to change what the future may hold
Or to wait for that time and let it happen as it may?
Is the time ahead more important
Or should we live in the moment?
Or shall we peak into the light of today?
Will we fight for the causes of next generation's strife
Or leave it for the younger ones to figure out themselves?
Should we prepare for other days' prosperity
Or find some of the simple happiness now?
Is it worth it to change what the future may hold
Or to wait for that time and let it happen as it may?
Is the time ahead more important
Or should we live in the moment?
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