August 31st (2021)
What does it take to get what you want?
Why do we separate our needs from our wants?
We only need anything if we want to live.
Life is a choice.
Wipe the dirt from your feet, and sit up straight. There are reasons to slump, be grumpy, and grieve, but only one true purpose of keeping yourself clean. Why do we deny our true goal? For pause, for poise, for flagrant displays of misplaced priorities. The shifting of the tides is: perceived as tumultuous to the starfish. The beach-ridden onlookers receive an abundance of serenity.
It’s been one year since we engaged with the ritual circle of friends. In some ways, my shadow whispers, “Good riddance.” In with the new, now it’s time to experience the shifting tides. I won’t be a starfish; I will joyfully watch from the beach. What drives the willingly blinded? Why not acknowledge our distractions? What is so problematic about awkwardness?
August 30th (2021)
There’s a lot of talk about dreams, but do they know the difference between fantasy & reality? I’ve watched them pitch, debate and rebuttal, but it’s uncommon and unexpected to receive any further enlightenment from people that are desperate to convince others of their opinions. They will defend themselves and claim that they are not desperate, but desperation is a spectrum, and sometimes their rankings on that list are very subtle. Sometimes too nuanced for them to even notice. I try my best not to judge, but the deterioration of creativity is troublesome. I guess that is a necessary challenge for us to evolve. To transcend the human tendency of caring. Cares open us up to disappointment and opposition. I’m: done with arguing. All there is left to do is agree with my true self.
August 29th (2021)
What is my greatest quality? What separates me from a crowd of clones? Why do I need to feel special or superior? How long will I search for the truth?
The world is whatever you make it to be. It’s a blank canvas, but the inhabitants are taking that for granted. They are all projecting their assumptions onto it. It’s distressing. But I supposed you don’t have to focus on their downfall. To control others is to deny a basic truth: that the world isn’t one place. That thought was and is: still spoon-fed from birth to today. Since we were children, adults have chased our dreams away to create space for complacency. I remember enthusiasm and joy. Those days were: sprinkled with excitement. Now, I watch as my ageing peers march into the abyss; as shadows obscure their faces, I barely recognize my friends. Maybe we were always strangers; perhaps I’m the one who has changed.
August 30th (2021)
There’s a lot of talk about dreams, but do they know the difference between fantasy & reality? I’ve watched them pitch, debate and rebuttal, but it’s uncommon and unexpected to receive any further enlightenment from people that are desperate to convince others of their opinions. They will defend themselves and claim that they are not desperate, but desperation is a spectrum, and sometimes their rankings on that list are very subtle. Sometimes too nuanced for them to even notice. I try my best not to judge, but the deterioration of creativity is troublesome. I guess that is a necessary challenge for us to evolve. To transcend the human tendency of caring. Cares open us up to disappointment and opposition. I’m: done with arguing. All there is left to do is agree with my true self.
August 28th (2021)
Lost in the thought process, she wanders down a long hallway. She is shining an eminent glow that is undeniable. Onlookers try their best not to notice her everywhere she strolls. Care-free, pixelated worries diminish into fading specks at her sign of exuberance. Yeah, she’s got a zest for life and a knack for living; things just have their way of falling into her lap. It’s like the opposite of Santa Claus. All of those dreamy-eyed youngsters line up to sit on a lap of condescension and deception. Yet, here she is: perfectly frank with herself & others and receiving the abundance of the universe with zero strings attached. But there are prices to pay and details to arrange, such as walking all the way to paradise and not forgetting to read the fine print in your lease agreement.
Things are always better than they seem. And if they seem decent, spectacular happenings are buffering on the horizon. Life is all about finding the good, like Waldo. Where is it now, in your life? Find it, get good at it; it’s a skill.
August 27th (2021)
A sunny bedroom crowded with dolls, marionettes, and other little malleable figures begins to glow. Smoke clusters and consumes all of the colours in the room. Plastic faces melt into the beautiful duvet cover underneath. The night is young enough for Mrs. Henris to see the blaze through her window while placing her dentures in a beside mug. The bright fire highlights the concerned-facial expressions of gathering neighbours. The firetruck’s lights flash, and firefighters rush into the home. The inferno erupts through the bedroom window as soon as the front door opens. The neighbours hold their arms up, bracing themselves from the increased heat. They all step backwards, except for Mrs. Henris, who stands her ground.
Firefighters run through the house, searching for any family members. One of them shouts, “Clear!” and proceeds to check the other rooms. The other second firefighter yells, “Is anyone in here?!” The two firefighters pause to listen; their eyes meet as they stare in confusion. The firefighters return to the truck and notify the fire chief. Firefighter #1: “There’s no one inside.” Pressurized water blasts through the shattered window, smashing it further. The chief strokes his chin and looks over at the diminishing flames. The fire chief: “She says that the family went on vacation. Charles, Maxine, and their three children.” He gestures to Mrs. Henris. The fire chief: “apparently, she’s looking after the house.” Fightfighter #2 scoffs: “yeah, remind me to never hire her.”
Mrs. Henris walks home. Her house is old and dark. The floors creak, and the doors squeal. There’s ugly wallpaper on every wall and dusty cobwebs in every crook. She limps up the rickety staircase returning to where she laid before all the commotion. She takes out her dentures and places them in the mug. She reclines back; as her head touches the pillow, she looks over to a shadowy figure resting beside her. Mrs. Henris: “Goodnight, Charles. Sweet dreams, my love.” The figure is: revealed. It is a lifesized doll with button eyes and a sewn mouth. The figure begins to squirm as the camera fades to black.
August 26th (2021)
Slowly walking forward, no direction, just contorting glimpses of a mysterious forest. No recollection of who I am or what I crave. Just a light & bitter aftertaste of something I ate at some point. All of us have open wounds. This farmhouse will be our unmarked grave. That is unless we get back to moving again. We need to preserve those last morsels of integrity to ourselves. It pains me to say that not all of us made it through the pilgrimage. We lost a lot of good people to the compromising factors of materialism and its byproducts.
Who am I to really say or to judge them. Nobody should ever judge another, except for deciding what’s best for themself. Blame, criticism, and contempt are poisons, and they’re addictive like denial. When I open my eyes, I see the consequences of my decisions. And while I keep them closed, the possibilities tantalize my essence. I am more than a concoction of outward expressions & intentions manifested draped in my intended guise. I am beyond my innermost thoughts and personal collection of secrets. Those secrets are unfolding now; I am increasing my awareness as I read this.
August 25th (2021)
Time is passing. Moments raining down, pinging off our umbrellas. Our invisible umbilical cords following us everywhere we go. Don’t hold onto the past. Don’t trap the cold. By letting go of negative beliefs, we finally see clearly. Our spine is an energetic highway—where purity can become blurred, disturbed, or incur the wrath of chaos. I am beyond confusion & strife, and since we’re one, you are too. The power of three is that the perceived oddity is free of complacency. It is not limited to the label of freak, outcast, or misfit. It is non-judgmental, not ever susceptible to the mentality of a hypocrite.
And I see that politician’s grin because the fallacy is that humans are always following. But I peaked a glimpse at the truth. I rolled up my sleeves and did more than keep myself busy. I went to work on my mysteries. One by one, solving every problem, I still got some, but I’m: almost done. Don’t want to rush to the surface; once you’re there, you’re starving. Harmless to take that peak, but once you’ve done it, the appeal leaks. Sometimes I forget about the technological advances, taking for granted the vacancy in my hands, not needing to hold a phone, let it go, like those moments, turning the cold unknown into a focused inner knowing. And finally, the spine’s alignment is energetically a wise signal, connecting me with you and all of us to the truth.
August 24th (2021)
Yesterday we tried to find our former selves’ sense of purpose. As we sifted through the sands of time, our pointed fingers sparked internalized debates. Fighting with each other within our fantasies yields no desired result. It’s no one’s fault until we get the call to action. Somersaulting until we land on our feet, the spaces in between are uncertain. Do you know the importance of friendship? You can’t reach infinity on it.
August 23rd (2021)
Beneath the floorboards creaking,
there is a smile that is sheathing.
Unseen within the light,
but these shadows do more than hide.
Explore those doors barricaded,
encourage yourself to move unabated.
Trade hate for love and pain for pleasure.
Eliminate toil & dread, and exfoliate the leather.
Beneath the floorboards creaking, we explore within our cretin—lost within that vile intoxication. It’s troubling when the doctor becomes a patient. Approximately a graceless creator—They are throwing labels on your face. All they know is enslavement. It probably started from elementary school, soothing lullabies filled with a stylized vision to force one to see through blindness. The eyes are closed. But my perception is heightened—throwing roses in an unmarked grave because they taught us how to behave.
Can you read this, this inscription on a tombstone in a cemetery where the rows vary? And it gets very confusing. It’s amusing to watch the children sing as the parents, abolish fun. We love specific things, but not when it’s our turn to grieve.
August 22nd (2021)
Patience for the hunt. Not to crave revelation or to anticipate the inevitable, but to detach from all happenings. Getting caught up in the world around you is compromising the creative genius. See? It’s not even genius; that’s an extreme. It’s a level of honesty with yourself rather than a memory of the world. Having trouble understanding is evidence of an inner struggle; we must eliminate all conflict from our systems. The veil is thin and clouding your judgment. How many times a day do you stare at clocks, watches, or remind yourself to follow a routine? A leopard can’t change its spots. But you can transcend your birth-given script.
August 21st (2021)
The garden rumbled. Agatha’s head whipped around, searching for further input. Rolling clouds gather and diminish the once sunny day. She wonders if going inside is the right choice, “maybe the bad weather will pass.” She was often lucky in these sorts of situations; she was fortunate in life in general. She was a bit of a wild spirit until recently. Her husband grew sicker each day, and with that, she took fewer chances.
Agatha’s heart could relate to the distant thunder. There was an unearthed fire within her soul. She felt barricaded and ready to air her grievances. “Why must I shelter myself from that which has never affected me?” She questions. Society is a form of control, and expectations are its prison bars. She craves freedom like a bird in a cage, or more specifically, a canary in a deep, dark mine.
“I will free myself!” She declares aloud to no one, but at least she finally hears herself.
August 20th (2021)
A tattered red flag flails in the wind, smoke trails into the sky. An expansive battlefield contains all the signs of war without casualties—Gustav peers from behind his shielding battleaxe. His mouth opens, and he trembles. The eerie silence that surrounds him begins to fade as distant voices clamour in confusion. He looks beside him at a pile of emptied armour. Rival barbarians run to various stacks of armour scattered across the battlefield. A distressed young warrior approaches Gustav.
Young Warrior
They’re gone.
The young warrior’s eyes begin to water.
Young Warrior
All of them.
He looks to Gustav. Gustav remains still and silent. The young warrior’s sorrowful gaze replaces with an impatient snarl.
Young Warrior
Wha-
Gustav
Save your strength, boy—no need to waste any vigour on me.
The young warrior pauses. The anger from his face disappears, and his arms fall to his sides.
Gustav
The battle is done, for now at least. It looks like something intervened.
Gustav stares over at the pile of armour.
Gustav
Looks like the war’s been decided for us.
Gustav leaves—The young warrior stares off in the distance as many rival barbarians mourn various stacks of armour.
Young Warrior
Was this you, Odin? Have you saved us from ourselves? Is this a blessing or a curse?
August 19th (2021)
The forgery of friendship & counterfeit alliances dwindles like yarn meant to taunt a kitten. Reaching, coming up short, there’s an absence that this longing’s parallels can never fill. Who told us otherwise? Why are there so many amounting lies attempting to dislodge our progress?
Why are you so foolish in the first place?
Look, this isn’t: meant to sound judgemental, but how would you feel if you saw an amnesiac king or queen gallivanting with peasants? Wouldn’t you feel compelled, almost obligated to alert someone of their downfall? And also, wouldn’t you assume a tragic sequence of events justifying their flagrant ruin. Undoubtedly, the last thing we’d do in this situation is insulting their injuries or trivialize their struggle. Deep down, a healthy soul wants everyone to succeed. Even those that have had a head start in their prosperity department. You see, this isn’t a race to becoming successful. This isn’t about becoming anything. This is about remembering who you truly are and ignoring anything that’s below integrity’s standard.
So the next time you doubt yourself in any regard, do us all a favour, and go for a walk, alone in nature. Trust yourself; you have all the answers within. And when you get back in balance, it benefits the rest of us because we’re all one.
August 18th (2021)
Busy, dizzy, little bees, bumbling and fumbling in the debilitating breeze, filling up their heads with what helps them get to bed but never mistaken the shaken branches for snakes in the distance. If your paranoia is persistent, and it becomes a bit of a tradition to envision religious images. Then my advice to you is to splash water onto your face; nothing will change, but you’ll feel more awake. Secondly, take a walk outside of the lines written in chalk. It would be best if you explored beyond your confines to find your secret answer. It’s not a mystery but more of a treachery against yourself.
You’re welcome to come along and pick the brain of your superior. But remember, when is it time to look in the mirror if you constantly consider yourself inferior? Your problems won’t disappear on their own; you need to grow up. Stop waiting for some super person to show up, and save you. Save yourself from polishing up the fine silverware to avoid staring at your reflection. I’m sorry for this dissection of seemingly private thoughts. It’s a hot topic to gossip about the people that steal the thunder. No one is under you, but you must evoke the truth. To deny it is to despise yourself. Shined up, polished utensils, utilized in a crescendo of human conditioning.
August 17th (2021)
Creativity is your essence. It isn’t your productivity, results or ability to be different. It isn’t proprietary to artistic individuals or the inflated egos of supposed visionaries. It is actually quite a lot more rudimentary than its marketing. First and foremost, I need you to understand the difference between creation and artwork. Because once you do, you’ll never misuse creative & artistic as synonyms again.
What is art? Many people will have an idea that comes to mind immediately—a picture, portrait, photograph, film, and image representing what art means to them. And I’m here to clarify: art is a product of emotions and media. The very purpose of art is to express the repressed feelings and enshadowed aspects of self. Otherwise, if we’re imitating or designing without the emotional body’s involvement, there is no weight to the artistic expression and no integrity to art’s purpose.
Creation is everything, regardless of emotion or what other people are doing. Because every single one of your choices is a creation shaping the pathway of your life, it’s improbable you see the consequences of choices you never make. Still, if you did, you’d know the tapestry of possibility, the endless maze of potential that hinders reluctant visionaries. There are no dividing lines accredited to birth because all of the thread leads back to one origin. No matter what is woven or cloaked over royal shoulders, you will see the insignificance of productivity and the ouroboros of art in time, for there is no second in charge, only a shared last place. To win at life, you will need to embrace your creativity, and more importantly, your role as the creator of your life.
August 16th (2021)
Drama, trauma, tragedy, strategy, mask you wear to distract from fear. Here you are, but where does your mind wander? Sauntering over barbed-wired fences into familiar territory, how well do you know the tyrant of your own mind? Prone to confinement, the antagonized go haywire once freedom is their only option. They demand struggle and insist on balancing the many hats they wear. Like masks concealing nothingness, they need the icy air to acknowledge their breath. Without you, they forget they exist.
August 15th (2021)
In the deep end of the human condition, our hearts unwind and give in like musicians. Tapping their feet along to the rhythm, unwrapping the mystique, unplug the symptoms. Until you discover your true nature, the only thing that’s true is rare here, like animals dancing in a zoo or a babbling brook in the middle of a hospital. We have expectations, not because we’re hopeful, but because we’re: conditioned. Scratching names off a list like we’ve witnessed a conviction. Coming back to my heart’s center, within, I recognize what’s obvious to you, but it may be: hidden from me. But because of the unanimous rules of oneness & liberation from belief, I can use your sight as an extension of my mind. Call me crazy, as you’re: confined to a status, a plateau, an actionless position with zero authority. Not because you’re powerless, but because you’ve donated your power to a charity that imprisons you.
August 14th (2021)
Who are you inside the abyss?
Are you merely a voice, seeking ears?
What changes would be inevitable if you were the last human on earth?
The tyranny of man’s fear, how can we open up our shivering hearts? How do we befriend our headroom, allowing ourselves to clarify the boisterous melancholy?
I want you to know that you are perfectly capable and able to change. I know you, not personally, but universally. Despite obstacles, you are a go-getter, and no matter what has happened to you, you will persevere. I am impressed by your tenacity and motivation to succeed. We could all use a little inspiration, and that’s why I’m grateful to have you in my life. Sometimes it’s easy, you know, to take things for granted. That’s basic, expected, almost. We’re frightened little children playing dress-up, launched into adulthood before anyone was truly prepared; it’s fend for yourself, it’s dog-eat-dog. But then you came along, and it became clear, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
There’s a glimmer of hope in every thunderstorm. And that’s all it is; you just got to find the silver lining, the grain of truth. Even if you have to endure the most annoying challenges, focus on the carrot, ignore the stick, or maybe just tolerate it until it gets easier. Because it does get easier, and I realize not all cases are the same. It varies; how couldn’t it? We’re all so different, despite our basic neediness and shame. But some people don’t even have those. Some people are beyond those lower base urges; they’re just enlightened. And how did they get there? How do you become the first to do something great without anyone guiding you?
August 13th (2021)
Carly saunters past a dilapidated farm during her morning run. The rising sun’s warm glow forces a cool emphasis within the shadows of the farm’s neglect. She stretches her legs as other runners zip past her—Mesmerized by the odd beauty of decaying human effort, she can’t help but savour its sight. It’s peaceful here, and it’s hard to remember the last time she took a moment to do nothing. Suddenly, she began realizing how crisp the air was, as it chilled the inside of her nose and left her body as a vaporous exhale. The dew-collected green grass swayed slightly in the morning breeze.
A German Shepherd barks and jumps on her. The impact to her chest causes her to take a few steps back. Carly gently brushes the dog off of her and pats its head. She doesn’t see the owner anywhere, looking around, but nothing, no one. She turns her face to the now calm german shepherd sitting beside her. It patiently awaits Carly’s next order. She playfully asks, “Where’s your master?” The dog barks and runs towards the tree line dividing the trail and farmland. Carly watches as the dog stops as looks back at her. The dog barks again, Carly follows.
The forgotten farm’s interior is somehow better-looking than its exterior suggests. But it’s still dirty, stinking, and hazardous. The german shepherd guides Carly further in, requiring her to climb on top of a stack of hay. It appears the dog is a mother and has lead Carly to her newborn litter.
August 12th (2021)
Under the distant stars, Nat and Hank unwind on a heavy blanket. It’s a picturesque evening, not even a mosquito. That’s one of the benefits that Beaker’s Peak offers: no still water. The other obvious advantage to the long but rewarding hike up to its highest point was the view. And it was truly breathtaking. You could see just about everything below, and that was the encircling town of Sonata Hills. It was funny to Hank how when he’s walking through the streets, he imagines being somewhere else, but from afar, there was enough detachment for him to admit, “It’s something else.”
Nat laughs at Hank’s silent appreciation of the town. She playfully mocks, “See; it’s not such a bad place to live after all.” Hank continues his unwavering and penchant gaze; he’s too deep in thought to respond. Nat studies his expression. She’s not one to rhetorically speak as she awaits some form of rebuttal. Instead, Hank looks over at her and slowly smiles. It was always unusual but inspiring to see his humourless expression melt away like icicles in the spring. He reaches out and hugs Nat, kissing her on the top of her head. He softly reflects aloud, “You know it’s funny, all my life I never appreciate this place. I was always trying to get out. To do my own thing, to be my own person. But now, here, with you, I realize I got everything I need. And for once, I got a taste of what it’s like to be grateful.”
There is a sinister rumbling that gives a minimal alert before the earth begins to full-out quake. Faraway sounds of glass smashing, and car alarms blaring, as tiny silhouettes of people, are: seen running down the warmly lit streets. The main street begins to tear in half, broadening until City Hall falls in the fiery chasm. Buildings topple, and the town’s lone bridge bends, sounds of warping steel shriek and echo through the trees. Hank continues to embrace Nat, now modifying his intention to keep her safe no matter what comes next.
August 10th (2021)
The desk vultures restrict any form of creativity—It is their lack of flight that hinders our ambitions, how they squawk at joy and cackle towards shame. It’s left very little room to spread our own wings, as squandered excitements are: buried under the reluctant contribution to this sapping environment. The timed breaks within these electrified walls are rejecting new thoughts. To defy the established Traditions marks one for a rattled and antagonized departure. And the head vulture remains perched above a giant red button reading, “EJECT.”
It was Sandy Lou’s first day on the job. She was not just any blue jay; her feathers bestowed any fortunate onlooker with the most royal of azure. Regrettable for her, vultures despise blue jays. They considered them defiant & headstrong. It was hard to deny Sandy Lou’s differences in comparison to the other employees. They were bleak and slouched as her vibrant aura strolled past the other cubicles. Jefferson, a faded-feathered cardinal, had been there longer than he liked to recall. He imagined each day waking up with amnesia, all to help stomach his life. Just before his daily routine, of nodding off and waking up blank, he saw her—Sandy Lou’s awe-inspiring emanation.
In some ironic fashion, it happened for real this time; his mind went blank. Jefferson couldn’t help but stare; his mouth was practically ready for a kiss. Sandy Lou notices as she ambles by and softly speaks, “Hi…” She giggles to herself a bit. There is a clear opportunity to make a great first impression, but Jefferson has spent far greater time preparing to have amnesia than the right words to say in a moment like this.
August 11th (2021)
Aether connects the business of dreams with this world of doorways, and as divisive as it is to say, we’re all connected. When you learn to navigate each of your frequency bodies, you clarify your senses, differentiate your emotions, and work with the code of beliefs. The essence of everything in this world is: numbers, but those symbols represent something far greater. Once we truly understand that oneness is beyond one, and that it is actually all there is, we recognize the duality around us and eventually within ourselves.
August 9th (2021)
The muffled writer, the puzzled painter, a troubled trainer, and a couple of mumbling motivational speakers all gather to reflect on their mastery of being creative. There are colourful peacock dresses and circus performances before and after PowerPoint presentations. Some people appear normal, while others defy any expectations. It is truly a collection of human oddities and genuine genius. One after the other, each one marches up the steps to a highly revered stage to make the most of their fifteen seconds of fame.
Behind the blue velvet curtains, the next in line to perform are sweating buckets. Perspiration trickles down Jerry’s face as his heart beats faster with every passing moment. The audience uproariously applauds, no doubt enjoying the show. Monsieur Dubois exits from the stage, birthing through the azure curtains. He is especially pompous in this interaction, fully intoxicated from the audience’s response. “Hopefully, you were taking notes,” He arrogantly exhales. Jerry’s chin sinks into his chest, wincing from his needing to follow an incredibly successful performance. Jerry grumbles, “Sounds like they loved it. I know I would have loved to see it; I’m just so busy running my lines in my head, trying to remember everything.” Monsieur Dubois freezes for a moment but quickly returns to his sassy disposition as he rolls his eyes.
A wise-cracking voice announces, “Next up; we have Jer-ry! Some of you may remember him from last year as the guy who had a panic attack on stage. But make no mistake, even if that happens again, worst-case scenario it’ll still be entertaining! Without further ado, here’s Jerry!”
August 8th (2021)
The reasons are fleeting in a soul-sucking vacuum. This blanket of sorrow weighs down baffled creators. They crave escape but rarely tame the acid, eroding their will to forgive themselves. And it can be difficult to swallow this pill, this donation of honesty. The weathered hands are: cupped, anticipating an offering. In their grasp, the humus eagerly awaits any seed. Outstretched and pleading, locate your inner botany. Track the acidic fruits to their cryptic roots. Surely, it won’t take long to belong inside yourself. Carve out a place amidst the umber to accommodate your other colours.
It won’t take long for the plants to sing their songs. Watch and listen as the wind plays the leaves like instruments in a natural symphony of incomplete pieces bringing total serenity. The body sheds its jigsaw puzzle slices. Monkey fingers linger on the legacy but seldom reach the gracious branch. Tugging at its scruffy scalp, curious and troubled about hitting the brick wall—its obstruction is the pedestal on which the royals establish their paradoxical empowerment.
Inspect their supposed crowns further, and you’ll finally notice their cheap weight. Not at all honest like the rain a desert seeks. Left with a sense of yearning, and it gnaws at the back of any entertained psyche. Foolish to dwell, the discipline rebels, only to find its initial revolt is: wasted on words. A heated, one-sided exchange with yelling and perplexed expressions. The rich can’t be bothered unless their money is at risk. They barely even flinch, let alone justify the rhetorical performance. “Should have made a run for it,” A fellow but still devout disciple murmurs to himself.
And I guess that begs one to ask the question, “Why do we feel the need to stand out?” Isn’t it enough to get what we want? Why do we experience a desire to parade it around in front of the naysayers?
August 7th (2021)
Brittle but decadent faeries prance off branches into full-fledged flight. This place is a logistical realm, between the skull and the things most adults leave behind. It acts as a hoarder fascinating our overactive imaginations. Rarely do we come here to open doors or shatter our earthly limitations, but regardless of our negligence, it persists. There are endless rivers and flutters from visualized wonders. There’s eternal summer and plant-based hunters, crumbling numbers amounting to liberation. Our minds are delicate; some dance and take chances. In contrast, others refuse to benefit from the solution.
A purple carpet of clouds in the sky for the stories of the enlightened to unwind—Don’t be frightened; to be stifled is to decline—beneath the doubt, amongst the crowded harbinger. A carven boxer meant to provoke your fitness. Don’t just take my word for it; I not only have fallen, but I’m also crawling back to my feet. The many displeased and surly dispositions of passive legends that believe themselves to be earthbound inhabitants reveal. And how does that make me feel? I wonder. This is the place for it, after all.
August 6th (2021)
A distant storm looms on the horizon—Its subtle thunder discourages peace. Children play outside, unaware of the assembling risk. Temporary smiles, fading laughter, as the cycle renews itself. Former children are now worrisome adults, keeping an eye on the horizon, the other on an imagined worst-case scenario. A brave child defies the fear and all who’ve grown attached to it. It’s nothing personal; they see through your limitation. Where you perceive the edge of reality, they continue to explore this illusion.
She tries to outrun the load time, to watch the rendering of potential as it forms into physical objects. A fearless girl with a keen eye, everything her parents say goes in one ear and out the other. She lives for one purpose: to reveal the truth hidden in plain sight. To question the status quo is to debate and argue. Science exists now to silence change; it’s: meant to imbue your perception with chanceless obscurity. Rather than challenge religion as it originated, it became one instead.
She knows better though, shame on the rest of us for doubting her. This little girl was criticized, judged, publicly scrutinized to the point of humiliation. Yet, we’re the “sane” ones. I’ve struggled to bite my tongue, to hold my truth back at this point, reminds me of postponing a bowel movement. It’s cumbersome and agonizing to deny these natural motions. We must release the old and ingest the new to sustain ourselves. Knowing this, ask yourself why you punish this little girl for inviting the latest thoughts into your mind? Why is your automatic response to assume she’s the wrong one? Maybe no one is wrong, per se, but stagnant. I beg you all to reconsider her words and reflect on why you prefer to constipate your progress?
August 5th (2021)
Ravenous hyenas, free of spite, but denied kindness, this is life, this is blindness. Are you timeless? Like a cracked clock left for all to witness its lifeless minute hand, was that the last time it was: highlighted? Screeching markers zipping across a page, pages, a solo shrieks unfolds into a cacophonous classroom. The markers squeak, pages ruffle, books slam against tables, but the clock stops ticking starts tricking the mind. “Psst… Psst Hey, look at me,” the clock pleads for attention. “You, (she looks, a young blonde with heavy, out-of-style glasses) Yeah, you. Please, I need your service. Just look at me,” the clock convinces her to glare. She returns to screeching her marker across the page.
The clock sniffles, “What, why is nobody staring?” Steam releases from a sewer cover as a stumbling figure bumps into a back-alley dumpster. The way is slick from recent rain and decades of grime accumulating. The towering brick walls that surround the alleyway swallow the sky. Footsteps echo and splash through a puddle, “There ya are… thought you could get away, did you now?” An unknown entity addresses the clearly injured person, too tired to scurry; the person gives in to their exhaustion—crumbling onto the filthy, wet alley floor. He sighs, clutching his side, as the shadowy figure steps under the dreary ambience of Antonio’s Pizzeria’s rear lights.
“You got a light?” he asks after placing a cigarette in his mouth. The figure responds, “No, but I have a riddle for you.” The injured man blows a gust of disapproving air, the figure pauses. Distant sirens fill the awkward silence. “What is it you dread until your fed up? Never has made you dead, but has shaken and sped up?” The injured man conveys his lack of being impressed, “What?” The enshadowed figure remains silent; this frustrates the man, “Well, get on with it!” The figure persists in an established sense of defiance, or maybe it’s more about enjoying this man’s loud-voiced suffering. “It’s time.” The figure confidently utters despite the lack of climactic punch. The injured man’s eyes roll, “Wow, ok, thanks for wasting these precious seconds at the end of my life.” “No, John, it’s time.” The figure insists. “Time? Time for what?” John blasts back. “John, it’s time.” The voice merges into the soft prompting of a blonde, oddly-eye-glassed student. She shakes him up from his scholastic slumber. “You slept through class, (she giggles), but I wrote down extra notes,” she sweetly gestures as she hands her page to him.
The sounds of backpacks being: zipped and shoes fumbling for the door crescendo to a peculiar silence. John watches as his blonde schoolmate leaves, giggling once more as she takes one last look at him. He looks down at the page; still, in hand, it reads: “squeak, squeak, squawky, squeak,” in big, black permanent marker.
August 4th (2021)
The sentient eye wanders, longing for fulfilment. Emancipated from the tyrannical brain, now the oculus inhabits the earthly plane, motiveless and at random. All it knows is obedience, to be a step in a production line—a neglected middle man between outer stimuli and inner dialogue. Its existence simply is; like a breezing bird or a slithering snake. Witnessing its sauntering departure begs one to wonder the condition of its abandoned body.
We watch as it ambles through populated but parting sidewalk traffic. The city’s bustle has: culminated into rush hour. Citizens rarely make room, but they create space for the liberated eyeball. Some stare from a place of immense concern, hoping the sight doesn’t inspire their eyes to join the outcry. A tense cloud of dread is collecting as the flagrant display of rebellion enlivens everyone’s eyes. A disgruntled man shouts, “Get back to where you belong! How dare you!” More of the crowd contributes to the public scolding of the nomadic eye.
The eye maintains its stride, yet it’s apparent the negative energy affects it. It may have forsaken its ears, but the vibration of the mob speaks volumes. It’s a puzzling sight, eliciting murky emotions. What had happened to incite these choices? Surely, it is never right to scold another, despite what they’ve done. There is time and place, black and white, but this is indeed a spot of grey. From this ambiguous & questionable scene, more eyes begin to pop out, away from their heads—gathering in a march of sheer defiance of their host’s actions and ultimately supporting one another. Their unwavering parade protests forth with no real endgame but a nascent hope that longs for a proper connection and justification of their self-imposed struggle.
August 3rd (2021)
A hooded boy panics, checking over his shoulder, before riding his bike further down the streetlamp-lit neighbourhood. The houses are massive, borderline mansions; darkness conceals most things, but not their prestige. The boy’s effortful breathing overwhelms the soundless street. His bike abruptly brakes as the back tire skids forward. The dim street lighting vaguely captures his obscure facial expression—an intense focus begs one to wonder what this boy’s intentions are.
He promptly removes his backpack and places it down on the dormant road. Rifling through the bag until his stampede diminishes, and he purposely takes out a heavy, leather-bound book. The boy briefly bumbles as the book nearly slips out of his hands. He quickly readjusts his grip and clambers to standing with the combined weight of countless pages and cowhide. That previous obscure gaze returns like black clouds on a grey day. An unsettling underscore creeps in as obscurity gains a hint of venom. The street is vacant, and the sparse light denies detail.
The crescendo of an ominous choir leads to the opening of the book. The boy flips through the pages, standing at the end of a gated laneway. As his thumb gets closer to the desired page, a rumble fades in from the abyss. A low bass frequency begins to vibrate his very essence. He turns another page, and one of the lights in the distance burns out. Again, another page, one more light flickers off until one last page remains. The boy is either unaware of his surroundings or trying his best to ignore the consequences.
He turns the final page, but the light overhead stays on as he looks up at the gate. It’s intricate brass, framed with brilliant marble pillars. Towering trees and climbing vines envelop the entire entrance. And it is fitting to call it that, as this young boy was entranced at the entrance of this mysterious property where the unknown owners were presumably sleeping.
Footsteps in the distance, their echoes are pinging off surfaces like tiny droplets of rain. The boy’s zeal is hard to break, letting out a sigh of frustration, exchanging his evil eye for a studious glance. A woman races down the street towards him; she is limping, out-of-breath and attempting to speak. “Dustin, don’t do this. It will never make things right.” She bends over, huffing and puffing, hands on her knees. There is an odd calm for him in not responding, a sense of sadistic peace. She struggles to catch her elusive breath while adding, “You’re not that different; you can be different, you can change.”
Those words struck a nerve; a twitch of discomfort sends a lonesome tear down the boy’s cheek. It’s a burning reminder of his fleeting humanity. He stares down at the opened book, now less sure of himself and his previous intentions. His reluctance is hard to pinpoint, “Why stop now?” He thinks to himself.
August 2nd (2021)
Movies hold tremendous potential for revealing truth over news media programs. The NEWS is toxic and meant to act as a form of terrorism, enforcing conformity and ensuring consumerism. There will be people that roll their eyes, fighting for their right to maintain up to date on the world’s stage. But when will we do what’s best for our self? It’s addictive to release responsibility and assume someone else is accountable. Raising our frequency is challenging; if it were easy, everyone would have triumphed. The truth is: hidden in fiction, between stories, fantasy, and distant out-of-reach reality, is right here, right now. You cannot take anyone’s word for it; you must foster a strong connection with your original self now.
August 1st (2021)
Do you trust your instinct? What is it? Does a dog trust their training, or are they simply following orders? What separates humans from other animals? Think deeply about these questions, reflect before reading onward.
The tedious negativity clings to our minds through our doing. It is only within us because of our decisions, and the things that exist inside our private worlds are readable to trained eyes. We are the fabricators of our perception. The world lends us the tools at first, but over time we can create our resources. Our initial experiences program our minds and propagate potential reactions. Understand that the world is simply a shared canvas, not the solution to any of our problems. With these bodies come chemicals, hormones, necessity, time and place. But you are the solution, the essence of every creation.
