so I surrounded myself with stuff it made me feel better worthy, an achiever bolstering my confidence stuff came through the post parcels to open everyday it was like Christmas stuff was in shops where people were happy to help spend my money it was like they were jealous wanting to live through me getting the stuff they wanted but I was paying then I began to worship stuff exclusive stuff one of a kind stuff then I woke up literally opened my eyes and saw all this **** how I had coveted it no friends, no relationship no emotion, no soul I was effectively dead some Egyptian mummy preserved in a living tomb full of all all the **** I'd need in the afterlife because I had no time to appreciate it all now so I sold my **** to people who were like me and I looked at them slavering over my old **** and I hated them like seeing my image in a mirror they were so pleased carrying off their prizes not realising it was all cursed they never owned anything just stuff someone would someday prize from their cold dead fingers
The sun rises over the hills touching everything turning it gold. The dew rises from the cactus as the scorpion rises from it's slumber; surely a sight to behold.
Another day has begun another story is yet to be told. For it has been written so many times it has became a story of old. But today is no different. It is the day the world was sold.
Our protaganist a young man is not carried by the plot. He is not conflicted by his emotions. He needs no changing of his thought. He instead drives the story forward with the unraveling of his soul.
He finds himself pitted between himself and the world. Like a tree that is battered by the wind refusing to fold. He is no ordinary man, he himself has a well defined goal.
Although his expection is not certain he has yet be told that the road ahead is trecherous; it is filled with opstacles and it has many holes.
His plan is to stand his ground and by no amount of money can this man be sold.
If you find this man to be unwilling to change, there is something you must know; this man has been here before. This man has seen with his eyes just how the story goes.
His countrymen are in turmoil held captive by the idea that a tyrant would have complete power or complete control.
They suffer from hunger for lack of rations. They trust not one another for fear that they may delivered over to the one that is in control. They our desperate for a hero
But little do they know that one of them would spark a fire that would trigger a movement that no authority on earth could slow.
Rumors of his valor would spread across the land. Surely this is he that would take the stand. All to soon would the time be that a man would rise to power. That there would be a new king in the land. One who could break the powers and fairly distrabute the wealth by the turning of his hand.
The people were filled with hope while the weak could barely stand.
His movement grew in numbers his trust would cascade in the enemies betrayal amongst themselves. Even the powerful tyrant's minions would show support for this man.
The moment was here so fast as if it were controlled opposition. Now it was time for the peoples voice to be heard. It was time they take a position.
Put they're trust in man or support the opposition.
As you would guess the choice was all so easy, so many would say. Little did they know that would be when they gave what little they had left away.
Plunged into chaos for the people had been betrayed. This man was not they're hero. He was the embodiement of they're willingness to give it all away.
A simple parable of trusting others to do what you must find in yourself to do. Sometimes the beta has no choice but to be the alpha.
The clock on the wall is busted I don't think I'll fix it What causes the hours to fly? Maybe our trespass to count it The clock on the wall is slow I don't think I'll speed it up Why am I always so stressed? It could be I am possessed The clock on the wall has stopped I don't think I'll start it Why can't I not be still? Perhaps that machinery is my ill
Who owns grief? The one who cries the loudest? The one who acts the most disturbed? Or *******-ish? Or eerily withdrawn and quiet? The one who had The Best Relationship with the dead? The most unresolved? The one who feels the most guilt? Who feels out of place at the funeral? Who resents the world? Who is named in the will?
How many people can have a share? Who is allowed a say on the Board of Grief? Are children underage?
How powerful are the grieving? Enough to command a neighbor’s chicken soup? Casserole? Cake? Family heirloom? House? Family entire? Telephone call?
This vessel is not yours, But the wheel will still turn Under your hand. She creaks at your step As though you may break through Her soft Swiss boards. She is stronger than you. And she is still yours in part. Do not forget that this Is the only reason you do not Crash below her decks. She may turn for you, But you are not welcome Under the floor you let rot.