If you could watch this until around the five-minute mark, you would never regret it.
Most people don’t.
What would you have done?
If you could watch this until around the five-minute mark, you would never regret it.
Most people don’t.
What would you have done?
…upon closing your eyes, you would open them up and find yourselves looking in the world of Alice? Or of Dumbledore? Maybe you’d rather go to the world of the Hobbits, or of Aslan’s, or maybe, of Ichabod Crane?
The worlds we are able to imagine, the worlds inside our heads give us freedom more than what the world we can see with our eyes gives us. We look at the repetitious lives we lead and wonder if there’s more to it. And instead of looking for answers in the world you could touch, you go back to your own head and explore there all the limitless possibilities. You could be anyone. You could be anything.
But after the journey, you find yourself sucked into the vacuum which is the world that we all inhabit. And some find it well. But some think it’s not fine at all that you go back to your bleak lives and start the routine like how you always used to, start living with almost nothing in a world obsessed to have everything. You go back to being miserable.
You go back to being…you.
And this is unbearable to some, most of all those who have no one to tell them that they matter, that they are important and that they still have a place in this world. These people go back and each step they take into the doors of their minds might be the last time you would ever have them. For when some people enter those inviting doors, they choose to lock the door from the inside. Some even destroy it, hoping to never see the way out again.
We see these people every day. At first glance, you could not tell they weren’t really there. But if you dare to go closer and look into their eyes, you would know what nothing means – eyes that were there but not seeing, eyes that do not look back.
Lost. Or perhaps, hiding.
(This has started to be a cheery reflection. As normal people say, I blame it to the weather. Might blame the apocalypse as well.)
Of Cupid was newly polished. As it was the 14th, he set out to use it at once. First, he shot the man sitting alone on the bench in a park.
“No one’s sitting lonely on my day, I say!”
Then he saw a girl jogging in the path passing the bench. He aimed, and with god-like accuracy released his arrow.
In the exact same moment, the girl tripped. Fortunately, her boyfriend caught up in time to help her up. Then he saw a man on a bench looking at him as they passed.
It was love at first sight.
The winged guard has been defeated.
His flaming sword lay useless by his side, his body crumpled in an awkward angle. What used to be pearl white wings was now flecked with his crimson blood; its glow, diminishing.
The messenger smiled – for this marks the start of the nightly visitations to the person him who fell protects.
“Let the nightmares begin.”
She used to be a cheery one, they say. But now you can’t guess with her wild – eyes, too distracted to be welcoming, too sad to be appealing. And in sleep she looked no differently, her whole expression appears to be someone trying to get away from something; all in futility. This would go on for some time until she wakes up screaming, a full scream that would send one or two other inhabitants of the house banging at her door. She would be aware of this, and like the past nights, would then turn with full dread to the alarm clock at her bedside drawer.
They painted the room all white except the floor; a room that, before the transformation, used to be a nook with blood art on one of its walls.
But now, it looks like the same room in one of her night visions.
3 crucifixes in the room – two on the opposite entrances, one constantly on her wrist. A nightmare has just ended, but now she’s not screaming. And it’s 6:30 a.m.
After a week of non-use of a pen, she now writes this.
“Nothing makes sense. I have seen it all – nothing makes sense.” – Ecclesiastes 12:8
(Or why you are not meant to tap your own back)
Hiya No. 1!
I didn’t think you could do it, never expected you to. Why, you tried it only once before and it sucked and I know why you think you shouldn’t do it again. I do, too. But you decided to just do it; decided to just get on and write that stupid short story – that one about some baby from hell type of flippertwit.
Again, idiocy reigned.
And blast me twice, but you’ve really finished what you set out to do this time. Why, you even made an awful series out of that rubbish!
I know this wouldn’t sound much of a success to anyone but you, now don’t give me that face you know it’s the truth! But well, yes, I believe it was really an achievement for you. And I’m proud of what you’ve done. Oh come on, I mean it! I know how you didn’t have enough guts to do it; all for a number of stupid reasons if you ask me.
They’re not stupid? Pfft! Not having an English degree, not being a native speaker, inability to fluently describe what an adverb is or to distinguish who from whom, too lazy to be any good with deadlines – how are these reasons not stupid enough?! And don’t even tell me you believe those bona fide writers really know what’s different from who to whom except the letter M.
Now you believe me? Well, of course I’m proud of you, moron. I know it’s not easy to let the world know how much of an idiot you are. And it really wasn’t so bad, was it? I mean the whole experience. After all, it made you happy. And it’s great fun to stop pretending to be smart and sensible and just let out the idiocy within sometimes.
So there you have it. I just wanted to say, “Well done!” and “Don’t get used to it because I know what you have to do come the third week of this month!”
*Evil laugh time*
Mm, is this the part where I say, “It’s not you, it’s me”? No? Fine, fine.
How about bye, then?
Your amazing-er self,
“Now, now you heard it,
Tales most far from sweet,
Her music gentle, clear,
Yet each note hides a tear,
From Great West to Far East,
Rough North, Treach’rous South,
Where songs begin, nurtured,
Melody she sings to you now.
You may or may not believe,
She only speaketh what she sees;
No friends, enemies, allies, or foes,
The Wind simply exists -
To collect mem’ries long forgotten,
Tales without her would’bin lost,
An’ when End arrives she’ll bring it,
To Time, waiting on his post.
But End still lies in slumber,
The World sees not his face,
But you, m’dear, have met him,
Now you must leave this place.
So hold my hand now, don’t fear,
For I am only Death,
To other worlds we’ll venture,
A new tale you must set.”
“…It is proposed that happiness be classified as a psychiatric disorder and be included in future editions of the major diagnostic manuals under the new name: major affective disorder, pleasant type…”
“…Then happiness is surely “a discrete cluster of symptoms…associated with a range of cognitive abnormalities.” People laugh and smile foolishly, speak too fast, and exhibit “cognitive abnormalities” by failing to keep in mind death, decay, the plight of the globe, and the essential thoughtlessness, wickedness, and selfishness of people.
Clinching the proposition that happiness is a disease, the author of the paper in theJournal of Medical Ethics then writes that happiness probably “reflects the abnormal functioning of the central nervous system.” This is not an imaginary disease but one that could be demonstrated with anatomical, biochemical, or genetic abnormalities if we were clever enough.
Finally, some shallow readers of this blog might object that happiness is “not negatively valued” (Roth again mocks scientific writers’ love of double negatives like “not uncommon”), but this claim, the original author dismisses, as “scientifically irrelevant.” Scientists are prone to such grand dismissals, and I dare any BMJ reader to say that happiness is not a disease. That it is so is proved.“
And as I previously said, I am a RED ELEPHANT. Now I’m also a very shallow reader. And I deserve to be UN-happy and remain healthy and disease-free. Just as much as you do.
Now really, I think I’d rather be happy and abnormal than UN-happy and normal any day. The whole world is so addicted with convincing themselves mad. Bother.
Will you just kill me now?
very amateur RECORDING, that is!
You see, it’s been a real treat to record these nonsensical flippertwits I made up for my stories.
1.Nika’s Song (TotWK: Music Box)
2.Nika’s Mum’s Song (TotWK: Music Box)
3.Devil’s Child Chant (TotWK: Devil’s Child)***
4.Song of a Gypsy Woman (TotWK: ______)
The third one‘s got to be my favorite!
Heed this warning, loves: one has a COCK crowing in the background, one is a SPOILER, and my favorite is a REAL PAIN in the ears. But it fits, seeing as it’s dedicated to one blogger who happened to call me a witch. You know who you are (clue: initials= T.B. and a charming idiot, but at least a real genius in the field – not of being charming, but idiocy). This idiot also likes all things M – like Moose and Miley cyrus – and Me, as well.
I just wanted to ask you if you know how to pronounce this: “Cthulhu“? You don’t? Me too. Now I really have to agree – Neil Gaiman‘s probably got the world’s largest octopus head.
You take care, you.
‘Til then, J
I know it’s a little late for the latter, but then again…
Let me start by sharing to you the works of my, err,
good friend, Landix.
“The Deal” created for the story Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Devil’s Child
“Le Pedofile“, this time for Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Music Box
Now tell me you think they’re horrifyingly beautiful.
I know, I know.
It’s vital you understand here that Landix is a lunatic. I asked for his permission to place a link here to his website but the doofus declined. Yes. Crazy, just crazy I’m telling you.
But he’s also really good, so it’s not much of a question why I collaborated with him. At least to me.
Really now, Landix is not all that bad. A little crazy, but an artist and more importantly, a friend. You’ll be seeing more of him soon. Well, I hope.
Now second, my niche.
I started this blog without much of a niche – more of decided to make an outlet for my random thoughts, rants, and music I’m too chicken to share to my mainstream outlet – the magnificent FB. I was just putting random brain droppings time and again. But very recently, it just dropped on me one late night staring-at -the-ceiling-with-headphones-at full-blast session.
My niche would be to tell stories.
I know it’s another kind of brain droppings, but at least brain droppings you can categorize. Blame it on my control freak streak. But yeah, I have decided to communicate with the world in a new way. This time I’ll use an old friend, “fiction”.
I’ve always loved stories. I learned to read because I was told those boring-looking things called books hold so much of them. I look forward to my father’s bedtime stories as a kid. As a teen, with great reluctance, I wore glasses because I won’t give up this love for stories. The glasses grew thicker with time. Yes, until now.
Maybe it’s the little truths stories always have, even though we call them “fiction“. Many men, women, and children could attest to the great power some of these little truths hold. Still, some of them are also just as what they seem, little.
And yet, it doesn’t make them any less.
I guess I will always love stories. It’s really not something you can stop. It’s part of what makes you you. Or me. Yeah, you get it.
So, logically, I created stories simply because. Like water flows because it is meant to. Like the wind dances and, yes sometimes, destroys. Destiny. Fate. Or simply choice. A choice made with ultimate love.
And like how some people treat their dogs, their dolls, or those things I think come from another planet (they say it’s called cars), I treat these stories as my babies.
There’s only one thing I ask of you. Love them or hate them, but treat these stories with respect. At core, they really meant good. For no story is evil by itself. They are what we, people, make of them. Respect them, and they will pay you back for it.
They always do – or else.
Now for the third and most important part.
Readers, Likers, Commenters, Haters, Followers, Spammers, and my dear Friends, human or not…
I thank you.
For what? Many, many things. Perhaps for licking mooses, for fighting for kids, for sharing less noticed beautiful works of art, for adding beauty to the world, for being a shcmuck of a clown, and a gazillion other as important reasons.
But most of all, for acknowledging that THIS exists.Of course, you know what I mean.
This gallery contains 1 photo.
“Take me, lift me, Come, Wind, come, Away from this monster, Into my mum’s arms, This little one, helpless one, A flickering light, Hear me sing of hopeless dreams, A bird’s broken flight…” *** I am not one with parents. Never had, never will. Well as a music box, I can’t expect to have any. …
“In times of dire need, self comes first.”
-Red Elephant, The
It’s 11:30 p.m. They were eating outside and he lent her his jacket since she was literally hugging herself from being cold. Let it be clear that she DID NOT ask for nor did she thought about it. On the way back home, as they were riding his bike, he kept tsk tsk-ing, muttering how she’s so lazy as not to bring her own jacket. After three blocks they stopped, he demanded to have his jacket back, and for the next ten minutes rode in silence with her becoming a human popsicle.
Image sources here.
(WARNING: There are 10 mentions of the word “shit” in this post, including the aforementioned. You have the choice to proceed or not. You are warned.)
First, do not take the title literally if you have any self-respect left at all.
Second, breathe deeply and unlatch the barriers limiting your conscious mind, lean back in that chair, yes, good, just like that, and turn on Stateless – I’m on Fire. This step is vital.
Third, listen to me rant.
(Of course, you DO NOT have to do any of that, heh! But if you want to know what’s running inside the head of an ignorant half-wit how come you act so rude to people who “don’t know” any better than you or have been the one at the receiving end, well…)
I guess everyone has that superhero ingredient inside them – just in varying amounts. You know, the ingredient that makes you stand up against something for those who can’t. That bit of me has been triggered a lot of times by RUDE PEOPLE (Definition: People who are being rude just for the sake of it). Which leads to this.
By that definition, all rude people are poop-eating misanthropes. Unless they are psychopaths, which only makes them misanthropes. Big difference, you’ll see.
Ever heard of the phrase, “I feel like shit today”? Those are lines of people who feel so down and have little to zero confidence in themselves. They have tremendously low self-esteems at the time. But these people are still 7×12 steps higher from the rude people.
There are people who act/say something rude when they are provoked. And we are NOT talking about them. We’re talking about those who told you to get a fucking life because something you said (and mind you, not even to them) clashed with their set of beliefs, if you can call making a fool of yourself a belief. We’re talking about the people who gave you mocking looks and answered you in a tone that says, “You better be joking if you even have a brain” when you sincerely asked them what does LOL mean, or something like that. We’re talking about those people who made you feel like you don’t deserve to even exist as a urinal for their four-legged friends who sport fur. They, and their sorts, are the people we’ll be talking about. Or I. Whichever fits you.
I would bet, if we are to get even a tiny glimpse of these people’s past or current miserable situation, that we would see an adolescent boy who has been made to run naked across the street by a gang of bullies who can only tell jokes worse than they could spell; a girl who has been told more times than she could care to remember how idiotic she is for even thinking like she does; a boy who can’t even hold a minute-long conversation with his father without hearing a variation of how big of a failure he is – or generally speaking, a past where they have been made to feel like they’re all complete shits.
Sadly for you, this feeling/thought stuck on their minds. But even the this person’s mind is more powerful than the latest supercomputer. And their minds automatically activated its defense mechanisms. They have an INFERIORITY COMPLEX to the magnanimous intensities that any act that would make them feel SUPERIOR is like oxygen to the lungs, food for the stomach, sound to the blind, wings to the bird, wheels to a car, me for your heart (bwahaha!), yes, yes, you get it, and they would do just about anything in their power to get a taste of this false superiority.
And what better way to do this than to make the people around them feel like the E.coli-infested shit that they are, right?
Don’t let them fool you.
Yes, they may have been able to make you feel worthless. But you are only shit. These people are far worse. They feel even lower than you are, chronically making people feel bad, doing this for such a long time only to have that false sense of superiority that doesn’t last. And at that very moment they made you feel like shit, they did because they are still feeling and are so miserably insecure and inferior as they always have been.
You are shit. But they eat your shit.
And you don’t have to stay a shit for a long time either. They may have succeeded in making you feel like shit, but you hold the choice to move on. You are only feeding their delusions of superiority when you answer their taunts, when you play their game. Ignore them. If you can’t, then ignore their effect on you. Fake it if you must – act and decide not to be miserable and you will eventually believe it. After all, the mind controls the feelings. And you must control your mind.
And to you, rude people a.k.a poop-eaters, get over it. All of us had our share of misfortunes, abuses, losses, hurts, humiliation – but we don’t dwell on it too much. We have a choice not to. We are not given time and free oxygen to waste it on thinking and weeping over, and over, and over our miserable pasts. It’s done. Don’t fool yourselves thinking it still matters because it doesn’t. Unless some miserable genius has invented a time machine then you can obsess over your past and device ways to change it, but until then – for cheese’s sake, STOP EATING POOP!
Unless you’re a fungus, that is.
(NOTE: I am not a degree holder in Psychology, Psychiatry, Sociology, Anthropology nor Dating 101. I merely used to be a poop-eater, one who moved on (phew!). So you have every imaginable reason not to believe me. And you better not. Because I am a liar. And if you choose not to believe me then you believed a liar. Which makes you what? Right, a FOOL. So now you really don’t have a choice but to believe me. Alright, now I need a drink.)
By the way, you would keep this as our little secret, won’t you?
Image Courtesy of Google Images
That I am not an intellectual. An intellectual is someone who loves to learn, tries to learn, and actually learns a lot. I got 2 out of 3. I just never seem to learn a LOT – if not any less than I do 15 years ago.
15 years ago I learned…
*To do unto others only what I want others do unto me.
(Now I do, did, probably will still do unto others what I’d offer my savings account, mini library, and promise to make a twitter account for them not to ever do the same to me. And vice versa.)
*To listen when a person speaks in front.
(So when a blabbering buffoon is on your side and trying to get as close without resorting to sticking a pole inside any orifice, um, you are excused, right?)
*To eat only nutritious foods. And only when you’re hungry.
(A lesson I have happily un-learned! Unless you don’t count eating a large chunk of chocolate when you’ve just had dinner against it.)
*To respect the elderly.
(With all due honesty, I have tried to uphold this for as long as I can remember. But there are tempting times Satan prepared himself by hiding in the guise of a septuagenarian lady, making me want to grab her cane and use it to whack Satan out of that innocent body.)
*To say sorry when you hurt someone.
(But after a decade and a half, I have de-evolved from a human into a chicken for I find myself too much of a coward to utter even this two-syllabic word without the aid of dagger looks and a terribly messy situation.)
*To not speak nor go with strangers.
(I blame the one who said “strangers are merely friends you have yet to meet”. I wonder if that person ever had the reward of meeting and having a little chat with Mr. H. Lecter.)
*To mean what you say and say what you mean.
(This time I blame the books written in the style of beautiful, subtle sarcasm. And politics, of course.)
*To never tell lies.
(Ha! Now who would I blame? You? You? Or you?)
Fifteen years is quite enough time to have forgotten all these lessons. I am certain I learned a whole lot more back then. But due to lack of practice/application of these lessons poor memory, I only have these eight to share.
Let me make it clear that I am not saying the older you get, the dumber you’ll become. Fact is that there’s a turning point somewhere in the age line (they say it’s different for everyone…I do wonder who “they” is/are) when Fate itself drives you toward the long lost fountain of wisdom.
But until you reach that point, you have no right to say you are wiser than a 5 year old.
Any lessons to share?
Images courtesy of Google Images
The day the sun rose again, the flowers bloomed, I sang, I didn’t wake up screaming, I danced, I kissed, I pooped without straining, I wasn’t hit by a truck, mom didn’t scream even once, he told me I’m beautiful, the TV wasn’t turned on, a 2-year old grinning nephew woke me up, my ear log book didn’t have politics signed up, I turned 20, I laughed, I didn’t find him naked in bed with a naked girl (or guy), I bear hugged him, my phone was on silent mode, bought 4 ooh la la books, had enough time to lie supine for hours and do nothing (in daytime), had a 2-second passing thought that all men must have some goodness inside or once had, I breathed, I existed.
Boy, was that a beautiful day!
And oh yes, that was the day I was born here in the blogosphere, too.
Great day. Great day.