Puppets and Heroes

I could have been a puppet
Following every order
Loyal to the masters who held my strings

I could have been a hero
Who rose up against them
Fighting for the weak ones without a way to speak

Instead I chose a life
Without purpose
Or meaning,
The middle ground that I thought
Would hold the answers
To all questions

In the end I found
That I didn't like the freedom
But neither could I stand
Being held up by strings

I left myself
Unsupported
Not needed
Alone

Wandering
The empty path
Of existence

Words Near the End

Hopeless
Worthless
Endless
Lifeless

Time
Night
Silence
Truth

Tripping
Falling
Screaming
Dying

Float
Wish
Whisper
Drift

Deep in the abyss

Paint

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.

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?

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.

Land of Almosts

Within myself is a world beyond the grasp of reality. The laws of life and the common world have no hold there, in the place without a name.

I try to grab something, anything, but the moment I feel close enough it slips away and transforms again. It is no longer what it was and will never be the same again. It has returned to the state of almost-being.

The nameless world is border-less, constantly changing shape whenever the edge seems to be near. It shifts and morphs, its almost-colours obscuring a secret that will never be uncovered.

Words have no meaning there. The moment they are formed the world steals them away to be bound and combined with the rest of the almost-ideas. There is an immense potential for something in these almosts. A potential to go beyond what has ever been created before. As always in this place of mystery, the almosts never become solid enough to be used.

There is an ethereal air, fragile and powerful, delicate and all-knowing. It covers the space and follows the ever-changing absence of reality. The feeling seems to suggest something lurking in the non-existent corners of the unknown world. That something seems neither good nor evil, but promises a chaos that will upset the rules of this lawless land.

If I spend too long in the place without reality then I will lose my grip on all I have ever known. The chaos will eventually come and I will be there to feel it, but for now I return to the accepted world.

Instruments

Drum beats are the rhythms of my heart.

Harp songs are the stories of my dreams.

Bells and chimes are the laughter in my  life.

Violins play the songs of my sorrowful days.

Vocal melodies are the words swirling in my head.

Trumpet calls are my moments of revelation.

My life is music.

Life's Song

Music is the metaphor for life.

The many harmonies are the different parts of a life that are kept separate but still blend together. Without harmonies, a melody would still sound nice, but it would leave the music feeling empty. Similarly, a life with only one focus will feel unsatisfying.

Dissonance in the music are the points in time when commitments clash, when people fight, and when things are not going the way they are hoped to go. No song is ever completely made of dissonant notes, and eventually those notes are passed.These clashing notes are the parts of the song that make everything else beautiful. When a dissonant pair is passed, anything afterwords sounds like the most awe-inspiring chord ever to have been heard. Just as it is with life, the contrast between bad moments and good moments makes the good moments much more appreciated.

Every part of a musical piece is simply a metaphor for life. Perhaps that is why I am in love with music; I am in love with life.

The Halo Effect

As I was walking up the stairs to my next class today, I was mesmerized for a moment. The light streaming down from the window above me was brighter than I had ever seen. That was not what made me stop walking though. Instead, it was the effect the light made on the other people walking down the stairs. They seemed to be glowing with an unearthly light.

Even though I knew it was simply a trick of the light, I couldn't help but be transfixed. A certain girl stepped into the sunlit spot. She seemed to glow even more than the others. Perhaps the girl was glowing in such a way because she was a sinless and faultless girl. Had a higher power chosen her specially?

The sun ducked behind a cloud and the glow faded. She continued down the stairs, not noticing that she had become an angel for an instant. I began to think again. I had not known the girl, but for an instant I had become sure that she was a perfect being. What were to happen if it had been someone I had known?

If I were to see my friend bathed in that light, the least I would do would be to cherish her a little more. Perhaps I would realize that she is an angel, if only to me. And what if I had seen my most hated enemy seemingly blessed by a higher power? Perhaps I would think a little differently that what I usually saw. Instead of only remembering the reasons why that enemy is so hated, I would think about why she is loved by someone. After all, that light would not shine on someone truly evil.

Perhaps my whole point is that the way light shines on things changes the way they are seen. As with movies, different lighting makes all the difference in what comes to mind. Things I have known my entire life become new again, and things I was once afraid of become the most comforting. Look at the world in a different light.

Snow and Metaphors

While watching the blizzard outside yesterday, I could not help thinking about the many things snow has come to mean. The blinding whiteness of the powdery blanket means something different to every person. Likewise, the emotions it can bring to each person vary with every individual.

When I look outside, I see a force that both unites and separates the people around me. It isolates me within my  house, or metaphorically, within my own mind. I can no longer connect with the people I normally see because the blizzard creates a blurring wall of snow that seems to go on forever. Being surrounded by the houses of my close friends and neighbors creates a sense of security, so being cut off reminds me of how alone I really am. Yet, at the same time, the snow unites us. Everyone affected by the storm looks outside and sees the same white wind whipping around. And when the storm is past, we all must help do the same strenuous labor to create a way out of our homes. The feeling of being united is even more prevalent when we all come together to help someone out that cannot make their way out on their own. This blizzard unites and divides us as it blows though our lives.

Snow also creates a sense of tranquility. When the snow is in a calmer state, simply falling from the sky, I feel something different from my daily life. A feeling of calmness and peace washes over me. The snow seems to be so accepting and calm, landing on everything and everyone with the same gentile touch. It covers everything in a blanket of white, making the world seem fragile and new. It makes it seem like the world is not as horrible as it is made out to be. I feel tranquil and at peace knowing that there is hope for this troubled world after all.