Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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If our goal has already been achieved, then we're just running to catch up to the prize. Yes? Here's another truth: we are all good and bad influences on one another. We do things, and don't do things, based on what we see within our circle. But none of us can change; not in that deep down, fundamental way a Changer expects. People who think they can transform someone are addicted to futile pursuits. Changers play the game with victory in their sights, but they end up leaving the field with a whole lot of L's under the column. Doesn't stop them from trying. Let the Changers expend energy on empty endeavors. Just don't get caught in their snare. That is the way to a slow death for hunter and prey. HEA is open to interpretation. Beginner's luck is all we ever have. The antidote is to believe in what we have yet to dream. There is a long line waiting behind, arcing and tremulous, watching for the next move. -
"Are you snooping through Sophie's diary again? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. No wonder she doesn't say more than two words to you anymore."
"Yeah, well I get now why she doesn't have anything to say to me, or anyone else made of blood and muscle. Listen to this rubbish…"
"I will not. What's in that book are private matters which I don't need to know about. Weren't you ever 14?"
"Never. Now get a load of this…" Mr. Shepherd cleared his throat. It was done for dramatic effect. The sound that came out was his customary mix of sandpaper and phlegm. He looked over the top of his spectacles and began reading from Sophie's diary.
It feels so good to write words down on blank canvasses. Do I understand everything that leaks out the end of my pen? Nope. All I know is that I feel real when I write. As soon as I stop, I'm lost. I lose definition, and nothing else can replicate the calm that keeps the crazy at bay. Restless, restless, start one chapter, jump to a completely different story. Do I accept this ending? Time bending. My will sending shockwaves from one end of the universe and back. This is no drill. This is a full-on attack. Choose a side and cheat death, cheap consolation that it is. If I live forever, nothing has any meaning let alone value. I've fallen down a well of my own design. Will I ever reach the bottom?
"How do we make her stop this nonsense? That girl is full of unwholesome thoughts, and I think you have more than a little hand in all of Sophie's daydreaming." Mr. Shepherd slammed the pages shut before shoving the heart covered journal in Mrs. Shepherd's midsection. She winced at the jab to her belly. Mrs. Shepherd also recoiled at the thought of approaching her daughter with yet another one of their discussions. The talks always ended the same; someone got hurt. Privacy would be the least of Sophie's possessions stripped away with the arrival of day's end.
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There is always a period of rest and reflection required after words have been exchanged. What comes out of one's mouth will follow a certain line of logic, but the ears of the intended may twist nouns and verbs into more recognizable bites. It goes like this for a time. Symmetry can be spotted amongst the reordering of order. In any case, all the angles have been drawn. They must rotate or straighten out before coming back home to hit the mark. -
Marion is a cracked and fractured gem of a girl. Her world is solid vapor. Her vision clear as night. The three stars that follow her feed her prompts and circumstance. Take a chance. A chance encounter. An ice cold world where the measure of intelligence is malevolence. That will take some explaining. Explaining why Marion jumps from time to time is going to fill three gold-inlaid, rich crimson works. Works are what keep Marion's mind busy and hands wrapped around thorns wishing for a rose. Rose always knows what is best for Marion. Two blossoms. One stem. Another drop in the snow. -
The lady of the hothouse has the last word. Yes. She nourishes travelers with assent; affirmation. She catalogues the teeming masses growing outside her door. Haves transition into Have Nots as days accumulate inside a vault. Some years are in the black, some years are in the red. Positive, negative, symmetry, mystery. Vanity is the insurmountable mountain, rising high and covered in ash. There are better ways to climb to the heights of understanding. Start with the first color that comes to mind. Leave a trace of the soil and soul that went into every decision. The trail will lead someone to the sun for the first time, and he will understand where the light has been hiding all his life.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 