Beauty in Silence

The clouds cast their shadows, shaping the greenery into muted colors and grey sentiments. Yet it was not to deter my good friends, who exclaimed that the day was still one for exploration and a walk. In that moment my vision board stuck out in my mind, black and white photos on a poster board and great emphasis of a man jumping over a small desert ravine. So I joined regardless of the weariness of my thoughts, met quickly with the scent of fresh rainfall and light sap as the door shut behind me. The journey would take us a small way, departing from a cabin overlooking the forests to a sea-side island where we could look out upon the ocean. Each step was time enough to absorb the moment, as nothing but an expanse of green met my eyes; a combination of trees and shrubs, flowering berry bushes and twinkling flower petal swaying in a light breeze. It did not take us long to reach the island, yet it took us an eternity to leave. It first came from the exclamation of life, a pointed finger, and tracing the ocean waves until settling upon the rocky shore where a sleek otter perched upon the rocks to groom. They knew we were there, but was content to at least finish their business upon the barnacled rocks before slinking back underneath the waves.

The shouting was what broke the moment, as two people rushed to the edge of the outlook we were upon, pointing cameras to the horizon. As they say, sometimes truth is stranger then fiction, the clouds parting to reveal the scope of the view and the words of the photographers as they exclaimed “The Orcas are right past the trees.” That was when it happened. Six people, fully looking to point and shout, became hushed. The sea splashed lightly against the rocks as winds picked up, and eyes scanned the near and far horizon for the signs. It did not take long as the sun cast it’s golden rays upon the waxing tide for the fins and splashes of the aquatic wonders to manifest. They hunted, cresting the waves with dorsal fins to the heavens and the sleek bodies standing out upon the sea view as they multiplied. Two, three, then five; the great predators of the northern waters moved with grace from our view ever onward to the coves in the distance. Aside from the click as shutters closed and photos were etched, however, no sound came from the people watching. We gazed in silence, many of our phones untouched in our pockets in the moment. Only the lightest of clearing sinus’s or an exhale of elation upon a jumping display broke the sounds of the camera shutters. Then after eternity, the moment passed. I could not be more happy to have fought against my feelings of malaise. The moment would have happened regardless of if I was there, but I was there. A witness to the uncommon, beautiful and powerful. May I write of more wonders to come.

A Foreigner Called Kindness

“That’s a nice thing you are doing there,” they say, my pack open and ready to deposit trail trash within. It strikes me as a cavalcade of tourists pass me how that sounds in my head, like praising a toddler for cleaning up after playing with their toys. The past few years have left me hollow, unable to appreciate the compliment I suppose. For those folks, walking past while I shove a discarded plastic poncho into my pack, it must be akin to a bear sighting. Who picks up after themselves? Another asks if I found any money on the ground, my own thoughts sardonically wanting to say “Is money that important that no one would be kneeling otherwise?” Yet it never leaves the mind, a intrusive thought of gremlin intent. There is more then enough kindness to go around and share, baggy eyes and five o’clock headache non-withstanding. I decline to indulge in a petty retort when pettiness is currently running around on it’s second term, foghorn in hand and spite upon their lips. It’s a part of why I get up laden with trash, rain continuing to fall, but with a pleasant expression. In times like this, you have to show the kind of world you want to live in through your own actions. When I stopped by the river, just gazing, tourists would stop and look as well. Bearing witness gives power, and provokes observation for even a moment. As others pass, I watch birds fly to the river rocks for chirping and exploration, the only witness to the antics of winged wonders. They too need someone to bear witness, know that hearing them is appreciated. Living to the ideals of bringing the tired, poor, the huddled masses to a place where they can find comfort and community. Right now those foreigners are called Kindness, and we need as many as we can get.

Snowscape

One of my favorite memories was alone in the cold. The fluffed park was keeping my heartbeat slow, the cap on my head doing the same for my mind. The circumstances of how this came to pass are hazy, much in the same way dreams plunge yourself into vivid mindscapes; once you awake, the dream quickly slips through your fingers like water. So too is my recollection, akin to an image rather then a chronological set of events. Yet that image is why I love snow.

Perhaps it was depression, perhaps a simple night wandering or the effects of events long forgotten. What is clear, crunching through the snow with the moon and stars, was being surrounded by the world and yet alone in the moment. I recall the chilled breath fogging beautifully into the night air and forcing my glasses into my pocket. I trembled whenever the wind decided to dance alongside me, but only for a fraction of a tango. It was this, and the bench that I remember. I do not recall leaving with my pants utterly soaked, but I do remember as I sat upon it the cold slowly creeping it’s way up and digging into my legs.

This frigid feeling was nevertheless offset by my vision. In front of me was the falling snow. The flakes were illuminated, shining in my field of view and eventually disappearing where even the moon could not fully display its splendor. And it was quiet. Oh, the silence. Beyond exhaling and the moments of fidgeting crackling the snow underfoot, it was a subdued evening. I do not remember how long I stared into this expanse. Could it have been minutes? Or did time slow, the gears of my mind churning ever slower to accommodate the moment.

Nevertheless this intrusive memory always seems to appear when pressure mounts and stress rises. The landscape was not marred by humanity, or it’s aftereffects. Come the next day I am sure that the snow would be piled up onto mounts of dirt and rock, what’s left a wet and muddy remnant of what was once blanketing all that it fell upon. For that night, however, the ever rising volume of crystalline ice shimmered on the ground, not a speck of dirt or debris. Like glitter in a bottle it simply mesmerized by it’s existence and nothing more. Regardless of the initial motivation, I have to give thanks for those circumstances. Simply appreciating it without comment or interruption will forever be an image of power and serenity.

From The Deep

My ankles were cold, though soon they would go numb. My focus however was in the sound I was making. Thrum. Sheeee. Thrum. Sheeee. And finally the release.

The fly at the end of my rod lazily flew ten feet before making a plop onto the surface of the shining lake. The sun blazed above, and across the other side I could hear the loons calling out and the eagles flying to the top of the trees. One such bird simply cruised by across the lake, taking pity on me as I grabbed my line in hand and ever gently and slowly brought it back. I was proud that my fly made it to the water, even if I was not getting a bite. I knew it was a good idea to pluck the twigs that got attached after I extricated it from the nearby shrubbery, and the effort was paying off. Thrum. Shee. Thrum. Sheeeee.

It certainly was a humbling moment to attach a fly, years removed from doing any fishing at all. I desperately tried to keep the barb from piercing my thumb, and was eventually able to make my gorilla fingers work and tie the knot together. As luck would have it, the knot was strong and many trees were uprooted rather then having my fly break off from the line. Of course with my mind wandering the sound of the line being pulled back changed to a whiii and I looked to see the fly desperately holding onto my pole, the line wrapped around once or twice.

Luckily the pole was only twenty-four feet long. Putting it into the water, I simply walked to the place it was caught and unwound it, letting forty feet of fishing line out alongside it. After-all you cannot fly fish without swinging the weighted line wildly forward with the force of a baseball pitcher, and so I needed as much line as possible to achieve that effect. I brought the line back into my hands and tried again. Thrum. Shee. Thrum. Sheeeeeee.

Fly fishing takes quite a lot of effort and concentration, so I can say with certainty that the best way to sharpen your focus and temper your patience is to bring your family along. As your younger sibling tries to instruct you on the intricacies of the artform known as fishing, watching them chomp on chips and throw their own pole into the back of the car in pieces, you too can gain the patience of the Buddha. This will prevent yourself from strangling hapless passerby’s while listening to their enlightening backseat commentary such as “If you throw your line out, make sure to tip the pole forward so it lands on the water” and “Do you know that your line is in the tree again?”

Such simpleminded observations can only come from the uninitiated, and so taking pity I simply smiled after removing my line from the tree nearby and cast my line, plopping the fly perfectly five feet in front of me with the rest of the line spooled around it. After two minutes of reeling it back in it occurred to me that perhaps I could be more efficient, but it quickly passed when the shadow of a fearsome fish attacked my fly before darting back into the dark depths of the lake. Finally, after forty minutes I had seen a fish. You can’t be content with simply seeing such a creature. No, you have to assert your dominance as a member of the human race, demonstrating your intelligence and catching it. With determination, I quickly started my cast again. Thrum. Sheee-

After an hour and a few bites, I had decided to part with the lake in a draw. Only the convenient intervention of my family prevented me from besting the fearsome fish of the lake, and alas I could only do so much to argue for the continued stay. Nevertheless, I looked back one last time as I took apart my pole. The shine of the sunlight hitting the lake, the croaking of frogs. The loon gazing out at us from the middle of the lake. This was worth all the effort and time. I vowed to snag a fish. Someday. Eventually. Probably.

Pit Pat

A soaked skull weighs down intrusive thoughts

While pattering drops cuts through white noise.

In evenings with rainfall, footsteps lose rhythm

Giving way to a heartbeat or whisper.

Rain brings reflection, on the path and in the mind.

What pool visions do you see?

Does the face peering back look younger

Ready to stomp on the shimmering moment?

Or perhaps a visage inhuman, of future, of present,

Of choices, small as they were at the time.

Here is the visage that stares back at me;

I see a face of relief

Where the speed of reality has formed mist,

Slow, passionate, calm.

Yet

Rain is moments.

Eventually, we become idioms

Making hurried steps towards what was always the destination;

Shaking off uncomfortable truths, making way for comfortable listlessness.

Burst of Bellowing

An acknowledgement of weakness is perhaps one of the greatest obstacles we are confronted with in our lives. Instilled within most is the sense of pushing forward to the detriment of reflection, and in doing so a person can reach their goal realizing that they sacrificed their time for mere pennies of satisfaction. What’s more pathetic are those that are at the beginning; as they look to the path ahead they absorb the different obstacles and come to a conclusion that they must prepare, they must understand, they must think. This preparation is as deadly as ignorance to some, transforming into paralysis.

“I can’t do this yet, I have to make sure the map for my journey accounts for everything I could encounter.”

“I have to be better, so I need to be sure that each moment is something I can handle. I need to take my time.”

“I can’t see myself making the journey without knowledge; I have to use all my energy to tackle these obstacles.”

“I can’t write yet; I am not ready yet”

So we come to weakness. My weakness. My frustration.

Drafts dated months prior, a last post close to a year old. A constant battle where each sentence is made with the intent to make emotion, force emotion. How great my jealousy (for it is a jealousy) that the people I consider fondly through their own struggles have grasped onto the strength that even now is my weakness. My genuine joy at their success is marred by the ever present voice that claws out, the angry little bastard that stares at a white background.

Empty.

Remaining Empty.

Never finished.


“You could do this too, if you were better.”

So I stopped thinking. Even this moment is a flight of fancy, almost a distraction within my own life. I love when I feel in writing, and I love when I see the fruits of others labor, however harsh the voice afterward. My weakness as it stands now is as insidious as it is simple.

Write. Write, and accept the slurring of your thoughts. Write, and take what is simple and let it be simple and clean. Write, and love that you can breathe and write at the same time. Write, and recognize that no person on the earth creates perfection. Write, and love the imperfect but emotionally crushing stories which filled with their holes are more intact then any crafted paragraph.

Write. And apologies that it took so long to get here again.

I will write again, even if the letters are stained with imperfect effort.

Artistry

The written word is powerful but it has a weakness. Crafting sentences together is rewarding, yet if one finds themselves bashing upon the rocks of hesitation, there is no bottom to save you from sinking forever. That is why recently, when the inability to process thoughts and feelings flares up, I have turned to artistry. In my specific case, drawing.

I’ll at least clarify that of course Writing is artwork. The flavor of that artwork, however, has been a steady and consistent level of average that sadly continues to vex me. However, drawing has taken a new life of expression that I never thought possible, yet perhaps that is an indicator of ability rather then capability. To elaborate, one tends to recognize certain talents to foster over others. While writing shares a joy unrivaled, it also is a fleeting joy; with no true reference point to determine improvement, one can only type away and watch the words coalesce into what one can describe as “good writing.” Artwork is not in that same category.

Artwork is clear and concise when it comes to ones deficiencies. People are biologically vision oriented, and as such discerning deficient details such as body proportion, color and size are easy to notice. This means when one draws a hand that looks as if the subject went through a tragic accident at a young age, you notice immediately. With writing, one must already be versed in sentence structure, vocabulary, accuracy in description and writing flow to simply create a passable story. As is often the case, many writers of great success are also writers of great artistic stagnation when one begins to reach the bottom in the wells of creative diversity. One that creates visual artwork, however, can find it easier to separate art that is complete from art that is not. In this way, art has given new life to my own perspectives and ability to strike new creative avenues of expression. For that I am grateful, for it has also allowed a spark to light my literary soul aflame, however brief it stays alight.

Age of Horror

“Hey, loner, got something to talk to you about.” The entire classroom fell into silence as Goro Muramasa stood over the desk of the loner in question. Bleached blonde hair long enough to hide his earrings and with a scowling disposition, Goro was obviously a delinquent, and untouchable at Hayasaka High. Everyone knew that wherever Goro showed up, there was going to be trouble. Yet the loner in question looked up from his novel at Goro, clearly annoyed.

“Are you serious” he spoke bluntly.

This young man was Yusuke Yagami. To everyone else, however, he was the Black Ram. Dark hair and eyes of coal, he was a tall and unapproachable figure. Some have tried to talk to him, yet it always ended the same way; a cold gaze and a muttered “What.” It’s been three months yet not once has anyone seen the Black Ram smile or laugh. Like his namesake, his classmates were terrified that at any moment he would be angered and charge at someone. Therefore the atmosphere was palatably precarious. One false word and it felt as if the entire classroom would blow. Yet Goro broke the atmosphere with a snicker, and as he spoke he tried doing so without breaking out in laugher.

“Holy shit! They weren’t kidding, you’re definitely the guy I was looking for. The monster of class 1-C.” Attempting to compose himself, the levity left Goro’s words. “This ain’t my style but yeah, I’m serious. Don’t blame me man, I just want to bring you along to chat.”

Yusuke looked up at Goro with a blank stare. After a brief pause, he glanced back downwards to his novel. “I’ll pass.”

Goro smiled “Alright, that’s perfect! Well we bett-” Goro cut himself off, his eyes bugging out “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU PASS!?”

Yusuke turned another page and continued reading. “I’m good, you’ll have to chat with me in some dark alley or something later. I got better things to do.”

The rest of the class began to murmur.

“Is he serious?”

“I know he’s supposed to be scary, but he just brushed off Goro like he was a fly!”

“What the hell is this guys deal?”

Goro looked at him flabbergasted before speaking in a harsh tone. “Alright listen man, I don’t think you get who you’re talking too. But you can’t just say no, I got a reputation you know?”

“Is your reputation interrupting people? If so, congratulations.”

If one could imagine the look of a man turned to stone, it would be Goro. The entire class likewise was deathly silent, shocked by the sheer cold emanating from the Black Ram. Finally the stone figure of Goro broke apart as he looked incredulously at Yusuke. A range of emotions flooded his face from shock, to anger, to hysteria. Finally Goro threw up his hands and started walking out of the classroom.

“You know what dude, fine, I get it! But don’t say I didn’t try to ask nicely, the Student Council–.”

Goro froze at the doorway as the words left his lips.

“Oh yeah I wasn’t supposed to mention that.”

“EHHHHHHHHHH!?”

The entire classroom erupted in a frenzy, as voices talked over each-other in surprise.

“Oh my god the Ram is a dead man!”

“The Student Council wants to see him?! Did he murder someone?”

“No way, is Goro a part of the Student Council?

That’s right. Hayasaka High was home to a Student Council, as every school before them and every school will have after them. Yet the reputation of the Student Council was the single bit of information not one person could feign ignorance of. Hayasaka High was filled with some of the best and brightest students in Japan, a school whose stellar reputation was matched only by the success of their school clubs. Prominent illustrators, successfully athletes, all have called Hayasaka High their home. Yet those that stood far above the rest would have to be the Student Council. It was home to a group of students that held complete control over every school club and every student in the building, and their power in these areas were absolute. They were pinnacle of the student body, and also the subject of a number of disturbing rumors. The Student Council seized control of the old school building during last spring semester, and since that time many students claim they can hear screaming coming from the building on dark nights. One rumor even says that blood was found near the entrance to the building.

Yet the greatest reaction in the room was Yusuke, who stood up from his desk, closing the novel in his hand.

“That’s all? Perfect, take me to them.”

By this point all anyone could do was slump back into their chairs, exhausted by the roller coaster of events that just transpired. Goro likewise was dumbfounded. It seemed he would speak up, but eventually decided to turn away and beckon with a thumb in the air.

“Alright man follow me.”

The story told that day would eventually be considered an everyday occurrence, but for today it was to be the story of legend. Students bowed their heads away or immediately turned to their friends and discussed the sight they were witnessing. Walking side by side, the Black Ram and the infamous delinquent Goro Muramasa were seen as an imposing duo striding towards their destination.

It took some time until Goro finally spoke up, breaking the extended silence.

“Alright man, spill. You couldn’t care less about what I had to say until I mentioned the Student Council. What’s your deal?”

By this point they had walked away from the commons, and headed outside the main building. Only at that point did Yusuke decide to answer.

“Normally I couldn’t care less about a guy like you. But you have a reputation, and saying no to you seemed perfect. You get upset, I get beat up, then people leave me alone. No one wants to associate with anyone targeted by some thug.”

Goro gave a pained smile “You some kind of masochist? Why would you want to get your ass kicked?”

“Doesn’t matter now,” Yusuke retorted. “But this is honestly so much better.”

Goro looked at Yusuke. “What does that mean?” he said curiously.

“Only problem with saying no is if the aftermath didn’t go the right way. That instead I’d gain some kind of sympathy and have everyone in the classroom wanting to know me.”

As Yusuke spoke, Goro was taken aback as the words formed into a smile on Yusuke’s face

“Yet if the rumors are true, the Student Council will make sure no one is willing to come near the Black Ram ever again. Can’t wait to meet them.”

There was a distinct pause, the only sound coming from their footsteps. Finally Goro spoke deadpan to Yusuke.

“Yo, anyone tell you your kind of terrifying?”

Yusuke looked to Goro, a look of genuine surprise on his face.

“No, not at all.”

Goro blinked a few times before chuckling.

“You know, I think I get it now.”

“What?”

“Forget about it. Besides, were here.”

And it was true. In front of them was their destination. The old school building had closed due to a lack of funding. Yet once the school finally had the means to reopen, it was decided that it would be better to simply build a new school instead, while the old building could serve as storage or fulfill other purposes. Goro turned to Yusuke.

“Alright, can’t keep them waiting, follow me man.”

“I’m not your man.”

“Alright well I didn’t know shit about you, just that you were a tall dude who looked like a sad otaku in 1-C. Oh and your nickname. Is it your actual name though? Won’t laugh I swear”

“It’s Yusuke.”

Goro smiled before heading inside. “Alright Yusuke. Student Council is waiting.”

As Yusuke went to head inside, Goro stepped in the way to briefly stop him.

“Just make sure you know that the Student Council members are all kind of crazy. Just…just letting you know.”

With that, Yusuke and Goro both walked down the dark hallways of the old school building. The creaking of wood punctuated the foreboding atmosphere, but Yusuke was strangely calm. Eventually it seemed that the dark gave way to a dim light, which oozed out of a slightly cracked door. As they both approached, the door slowly creaked open as a foreboding voice echoed into the hall .

Enter

Yusuke was puzzled, further still as Goro placed his hand to his forehead as if in exasperation. Yet Yusuke, drawn towards the door, stepped forward and entered the room. In the dim light, Yusuke saw that the table was covered in black cloth, while sitting towards the end of the table were multiple figures waiting. The light came from candles placed around the room. At the center of the table was a pentagram inked in a red substance, but before Yusuke could speak, the central figure beckoned to a chair furthest away from the group.

Go ahead and take a seat.

Yusuke sat down, yet barely had time to adjust to the dim light before the figure moved closer to the light. Yusuke had seen his face during morning assembly, so he knew for certain it was the Student Council President, Akira Honma. Popular, attractive and apparently wealthy enough for his family to hold ownership of part of the school; Yusuke obviously couldn’t care less about someone like that. President Honma drew out a folder and began to read from it in a serious and menacing tone.

Yusuke Yagami. First year at Hayataka High, formerly of Shujin Middle School. An academic prodigy and artist, then fell off the face of the earth after the Sculpting Incident. You see, Yusuke, this is very concerning to us. At Hayasaka High, we strive to have the very best, and yet for all your accomplishments it seems that you have shown a remarkable regression. After-all, you are now the Black Ram are you not? Sadly I can’t tolerate such a waste of potential.

In this brief moment of silence, Yusuke stared at the figure coldly. He had no clue why the room was dark or why there was a pentagram on the table but he didn’t care. Of course the Student Council just wants to find a problem student and take care of the problem. Of course they had to pry into his life, and dig up old wounds. All that did was make life hell, he thought. In his mind, the best thing to do now was to get the whole thing over with now and save them the trouble.

“Who cares?” Yusuke spat out “I get it and your right, I’m the Black Ram. If you want to make me leave the school, go ahead. I was barely accepted off a scholarship that I didn’t agree too, all from past achievements and from someone that I’m not anymore.” He paused, and for a moment the anger was replaced with melancholy “Yeah, my parents will be upset. I only agreed in the end because they couldn’t be happier that perhaps I…” Yusuke left the words dangling before looking back at President Honma “How about you just stick to your own problems and let me just get through mine, huh? Hell, trash my reputation while your at it, I’m fine how I am.”

Yusuke, satisfied he made his point, looked to President Honma expecting anger, perhaps shock at being spoken to in such a manner. Instead he looked at Yusuke with bewilderment.

“Oh actually I couldn’t care less about that nonsense.”

Yusuke and President Honma exchanged stares across the table.

“Huh?” Yusuke exclaimed.

“From the moment I first saw your work, I knew that you would be perfect for this school! After-all it’s why I decided to send that scholarship to your home-“

“Wait, what!?”

“Besides, you actually aren’t failing any classes so really there isn’t any need for us to step in, that was just an excuse-“

“I-“

“But I wasn’t lying when I said you had wasted potential! Your talents were truly impeccable. Yet at the time I didn’t have the means to actually make my dream a reality. With your potential now, however, and with the Student Council complete, it can finally happen!”

“What are you talking about!?” Yusuke blurted out.

President Honma smiled, then gave a thumbs up to Goro.

Goro sighed before flipping on the light switch. “Yep, here it comes.”

The lights illuminated the room as a sign hung overhead reading “Welcome Yusuke.”

President Honma spoke triumphantly “Today, I hope to welcome you to both the Student Council and the Club of Horror’s as our make-up artist”

Two poppers exploded in a shower of paper confetti.

Yusuke naturally had a expected response.

“WHAT THE FU–“

Next time; Revelation of Artistry, and the Student Council Members.

Impact

It was two in the morning, and it had started to rain. But no, this was not the start of a grand adventure. I was simply up and engrossed, an animated show fresh on my mind. Simply through walking and breathing I was calming down from the artistic high I was on. I can compare it to the moment when a love letter is opened and you can see your name at the top. I could also compare it to the moment when you look down and see that a goal has finally been achieved through hard work and perseverance. Yet what excites me the most are the Show Bombs.

It’s those moments when we see a beloved character sacrifice their life to save someone who in the beginning could be considered the villain. Moments where teary eyed the lead finally can confess their feelings to someone, to be heard, to be accepted. In our darker days, it can be when the monster is finally killed, or the tyrant finally get’s the comeuppance they so rightfully deserve. In this case, my Show Bomb was finding love after that person had died. As I circled my street, I at some point stopped and looked up to the sky. It wasn’t raining in buckets, but rather in drops from a sink not quite shut off. These flecks of water ran down my face, and I could close my eyes and remember.

That is the hardest part after-all, my remembrance. Racing thoughts always crest of the waves of older memories, but these new memories become the coral reef’s below the surface. Sadly, they are bleached in many places. Imperfect memory is absolutely normal, but I hate it regardless. I want to remember every moment from the night I stayed up. How the music swelled and suddenly fell as the musician felt the presence of the girl that inspired him, and yet knew that she was already gone. How her letter, her last memento, caused me to cry uncontrollably. Yet I was angry because only flashes remained in my head, and it just reminded me of how it is every day.

I don’t remember event’s, and almost daily I can be reminded by friends or family of something happening only for me to look at them puzzled, the event gone from my mind. I can remember who I have loved, but not why or what we did, simply the start and the end. I can’t remember when I felt alive after college, only that it never came. The infuriating psyche that drives me forward and yet when I become inspired it is in snippets of word vomit, and like any mess it takes far too long to clean up before I can locate my gag reflex again. Wonderful imagery, but like memory only a moment in a string of thought.

It’s perhaps why I become so emotional during a show that I truly enjoy. I hope that I can remember it better if I love it or hate it with all my heart, leave me struggling to stand or breathe without flashing to what Show Bomb blew up inside my skull, caking the walls of my mind with art. It’s the high that I enjoy, and it also is cruel. It is wonderful, and yet at two in the morning I’m walking the streets, the rain on my face, and hoping beyond hope that I remember.

Crest of the Dawn

Light shines into the windows, the ghost’s of conversation revealed
while the living remain alone. Here the pall of silence is deafening.

Shadows stalk what was once opulent and alive, while desperate lives hunt.

Luxuries redefine themselves, and necessities become all the more precious.
Conversations once common, muzzled with masks in another’s presence.

Earth continues to spin undaunted while her tenants become still upon her shoulders. She closes her eyes while tears stream; she knows why they freeze.

Bright leaders are terrified while cruel leaders are horrified. Reality has popped and the bottle will remain uncorked.

Yet it is the sun that remains unfazed. His radiance passes through the mountains, and through crusted windows I can see the world.

It is quieter.

It is discomforting.

It is not hopeless.