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Chilled energy fixes me incomplete; writhing without sleep, I live an unfinished lie.
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Chilled energy fixes me incomplete; writhing without sleep, I live an unfinished lie. Here my thoughts and holes. Fill them in, please. I can't finish on my own. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| You are putting on a dinner party, and have already invited all the friends and family that you want to attend. Now, you can invite three more people from anywhere in the world, and any time in history... who are they, and why? (no fictional characters!) Three beautiful women and one interesting man. Two to watch, with one left for play. And a wingman to keep up the conversation. |
| Remember how it happens; how stereotypes are born - how behavior once bore becomes the making of a man. |
| We’re all afraid of something. Write a formal complaint to whatever scares you the most. For a while, I feared death. I feared not being, not because of any great unknown, but because I would stop. I feared not making my dreams come true. That's died down to stress, now. Stack a few near death experiences, and the idea of a painless existence isn't all the bad, even if it's not existence at all - there's nothing or something out past my effective horizon, I think, and that's that. No point in diddling with possibilities. I fear for others now. I fear for the race in general. I don't like what I see in the new generation of US citizens. Age isn't doing the trick any more. In a day when we need more critical thinkers than ever before, I am sad to report how few are native born. I think that might have always been the case, as native Americans aren't often the cream of the crop (best are immigrants, always have been, always will be, on average). Collectively, though, we're still the best as far as I'm concerned. A little off track, we might be, but nothing to fret about. The old generation of power is almost dead. Twenty more years and we we'll be onto another sect of shady political dominion, evolved wiser to today (which will be yesterday to them, but that's still a plus from where we are now, I must say). For a while I feared the out of control. Anyone, anything, that didn't participate in civility. Now I find humans incapable or untrained rather disgusting. Radicals, miscreants, deviants, whatever - they're part of our social gamut, the extremes to which we normalize ourselves, the heaven and hell of human existence. For a time, I feared reproduction, because I feared an ill-born child. Not so much anymore, as now I know they're chance of successful reproduction is so much less that the genes will fall off in time and not likely contribute any significant detriment to Western society as a whole, no matter how much love or welfare money gets poured into them - if anything, they're makeshift manikins with which to hone the altruistic practices that make our world more civil -- to teach us in a million, stressed, unique ways how to be better people to all, not just the disadvantaged (why else invest so much in a dead end, I wonder...from an evolutionary perspective of course. I'm not that daft.) For now I come round to me. Most of all, still, I fear myself, in control and angry. Blackout anger will lead to my death and demise. Some might get hurt, but all in all, it'll be over soon. What I fear is me and my kind getting very angry at the slowness of pace. I fear a new dictator in a fragile world trying to prevent the inevitable decline of tomorrow with a heady decline today. I fear dark action and bloody intent. There are dreams. They tell me he is born in us, the one(s) to bring balance. Regression to the mean can be a painful thing. A 30% loss in the stock market is an awful thing, indeed. What would a 30% loss of the greater human population feel like? I fear me. I fear a world that makes me that person in my darkest dreams. They are dreams, though: fairy fields, empty of trashy existence. Light in the purpose driven lives born again to a better world; pressured by passion and a more intelligent social construct. I fear it, because I want it. Peace. |
| Write an essay or blog about on what life for you would have been like had there been no Writing.com. An essay is a bit much. I can sum the affect simply: I wouldn't be writing near as much, near as well. That's that. I don't think humans are especially good on their own. We're a pretty co-dependent species as far as I can tell. We like to do what others do; especially what others would like us to. I want to be accepted. I'll admit to an egocentric fallacy of mine and say most do. I believe the majority of us want to be apart of something. We want support. We, I, mold dreams from delusions of happiness. It's hard to be happy alone. It's hard to be appreciated or scorned, to live really, without others. And so it is with writing. I would write. I would write, because I have to. Once I learned to express myself, it's not like I'd up and stop. It's a part of me. I'd draw. I'd leave stone markings along my path. Writing is my immortality. I am apprentice to this community. I owe it more than I know, I think. I honestly can't imagine my words work without the help I've been given. It'd be like spelling without elementary school. Even the poor reviews, from the one in one hundred that simply don't get it, make me more critical of my usage. I know when I'm not making sense so many or few, and I think I know when to care (which, contrary to my old holdings, isn't always). There's love there. Budding it may be. But, there's love for WDC in me. |
| Plug your city or hometown...it doesn't matter if it's where you're from or where you're at. How to plug my hometown? It must come with a warning. For all greatness there is sorrow, and my city is so extreme. Nature's around; But meth abounds; So, stay in at night city slicks; Or hit the white slopes, ski, and hick; For farms and desert fey litter the way; To Beautiful, Rapturous, Spoiled, New Mexico; And oh, it can be so beautiful; and, oh, it is such a miserable place. |
| Today's prompt is about craziness. Write whatever you want about it! Crazy memories, crazy videos, crazy people you've met, crazy ideas - anything at all! Just go wild! :) ----------- He was handsome. Sober, he held a unique charisma in his eyes and constant smile. Toward the end, he got angry at everything except himself, lamps, and shades. I woke once, before the sun in an ungodly hour, and he was in my doorway. He sat on my bed and told me of the Shinobi. "The yellow Shinobi are honor. They come through the window, man, and they judge you. Bam! They'll kill you if you aren't right. Honor, man. You're like the best roommate ever. You're good, man. Yellow Shinobi, man. They come through the window. Crash! Honor, man." There was a beginning to his decline and so there would have been an end. I saw it. We watched it happen, day after day. During the climax, our coffee table became the burrito operation station; only there were no nurses to hand him tools, or to take the fallen parts. Peppers couldn't be near eggs, not the green ones, anyway. They'd litter our brown carpet like oily grass in the morning, wet under foot. My anger hid itself. More laundry, more cleaning, more covering-up, made me busy. My own life and this little extra effort doused my hatred. But, the embers couldn't be stamped out, not while the heart of the problem lived in my house. As disrespect mounted, so did the ash in my heart, so did the ember grow, and wait, and begin to burn, to scar my voice. My anger hid itself, still. My words turned bold. I found myself naturally away from home, whenever I could. I would lose myself before I found it, the fire erupting. He threatened her. My friend, a precious girl, was threatened. So, I moved him away. He came back, and I had to become escort to a madman. He attacked trash cans. He broke mailboxes. He threw his shoes and walked two miles in dead of night, harassing sleeping lawns. It took a touch. His single finger on my shoulder was drier to me than desert grass. Great gales air ran through my back and my fire grasped his arm. It burned his bones and mashed in his head. Blood spilled from his brow, burnt in my light - my fists raged in judgment, my feet denied him humanity and pushed him to the earth like dirt. I wanted nothing but ashes where there was a broken man. I wanted to world clean of him. He lived. He found the police, too. Too bad for him, I can speak. Too bad for him, I was sober. Too bad, he was on the books crazy. My fire died, it licked my lips as the bastard turned to ash; even the mess of him was wiped away with court dates I knew he would flee and my eyes which told him I didn't have to be done. It was days later when I cried. He was gone. Everything was as I intended, and my life was free of him. I couldn't stop crying. I feared myself so much, I couldn't see my friends, or the world I wanted to protect. I found myself home a lot. I found myself alone a lot. I still am afraid and alone today. He didn't go to court. He has a warrant out for his arrest. He's gone from our white world. Aren't you happy? |
| Vincent Van Gogh said, "If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint', then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced." What is your 'you cannot ____' voice always ragging on you about? Work with your can do Journal and go for it! Having doubts? Write it out! Oh, I make a point of shutting him up. Only alcohol lets him come back. I perch myself between 'what I have time to do' and 'what will hurt'. This is a penultimate state of existence I wouldn't suggest for the meek. It's an existence where the only excuse is pain, and pain has to be weighed against getting something done. Funny, I'm often that voice to so many. I say this most often: "you cannot get anything done by doing nothing." I am often proved wrong, though what's done is likely less than what had been imagined. Still, no saying always holds true, even God's words whatever they be, gain exceptions in human hands. "I can't go..." I hear that a lot. I'm a bit of a homebody with a secret knack for getting out -any reason to make a fool of myself away from peers. Still, "I can't go to the party" happens. Worse, "I can't go to the gym" worms its way into all manner of morning; it's either too beautiful, too cold, or myself too sick, too bloated, or too tired to later perform, to be bothered to wake up and get my ass in shape. That's the worst. My memory is short, prone to forget victories and dwell on defeat. Often, those little wins for my chest and trophy blocks of abs fall to boredom, solitude, and laziness: "I can't go, I don't feel like it." Awful and unhealthy. I often think I need a zap collar - a gorgeous personal trainer could stride in and jump me like a dog until I was properly trained to battle my own wits with shear instinct. No woman, though. Just me. And, so, I lose - most often on weekends, and especially when I've eaten too much. Who wants to be seen bloated. "I can't go out. I look like s***." |
| Give us your definition of blogging. This, and this is all you get. I've nothing to think about, and so little to say, devoid in resolution; catharsis has been given, and this deserves nothing more, less than it was given. Kidding. It's a reason to keep punching. It's our voice unheard, this written language. It's a little thought and a whole lotta action. It's accidents. It's brilliance and mistakes. It's raw and a tad hard to read. But it is something to love. That's for sure. |
| Music speaks to our souls. What songs have made an impact on your life and why? When I was young, television was something else. TV was moral and fun. Shows had classic tastes. Though maybe all were a little sexist, they were beautiful and innocent in their relative newness. Mickey mouse was from a prior generation, and as much as I rooted for him on adventures, and as much as I sought him out in theme parks, it was The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, and Beauty and the Beast that really took my heart. The animation was second to song. The musical numbers swept characters into yuletide gay, no matter the time. Just listening to those movies, drifting to sleep on my den's warm rug, lent me dreams under such a sound cocoon. It was the operatic narrative and orchestral moments that transformed my expectations of music in general. I was broken for modern rap and hip hop. Country would be something but never enough. Forever, my soul would rest with Stoltzman. Wagner would hold my pride and Tchaikovsky my children. I knew music had breath, full gales that could sweep across emotion, built on composer's currents. My heart would skip along with these songs; take my passion and imagination through Motown, to New York's Broadway, and into a deep-seated soft spot for The Matrix and Lord of the Rings, for any movie with a proper soundtrack. Beauty and the Beast on Broadway ruined amateur music for me. I will never accept unsound crescendos, or skipped beats. I demand symphony. Luckily, there are a lot of talented performers resetting classics. Great for me, there exists a new age of string quartets and youth productions bringing experimental method to classic composing. Good music is being made. It's just so often behind the scenes. Mr. David Foster, take a bow. |
| What are your favorite places within the Writing.com community and why? (Use links in your blog if you like.) 30 Day Blogging Challenge, because it makes me write. The Hub, because it inspires me. Writers Cramp for when I need something to do. The Elvin Tea Party for when my stories need interesting 'who'. Hard Science Fiction, because it's where I go to think. And WDC Power Reviewers for when I blink, and miss all the wonderful work of this great little world of ours. This place is special. I know it. |
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