After many years,something else- a strange Thing-appeared in the darkness.
The Thing was round,and brown, and red. Something reached out and held it, but it slowly turned to nothing but dust and ashes, and Something and Other became bored.
However,eventually a new ball-that was what the two had decided to call the Thing-, identical to what the first was originally like, appeared. Other held it, and the ball lasted longer, but it soon became completely brown, and then turned grey and dusty. After several thousand years,yet another appeared. Other and Something took turns holding the new ball, and the brown turned to green, and the red turned to blue.

One thousand years passed, and Something wondered if It was alone.
Finally,They received a response.
Yes.I am Here.A thought, carried by Nothing to Something.
Something did not reply,Who are you?,Because the concept of Who had not been created.Instead, Something walked across the Nothing and found an Other being. And for a time, the two were happy.

In the beginning there were two-the dark Other, and the shining Something,separated by endless Nothing. The only things were the light and the darkness.
For five thousand years, both were content, sitting by themselves and never moving.
Finally, Something thought.
Is there anyone else out there? Would be the best translation, although language had not yet been created, and so it was more like some eldritch,incomprehensible form of binary.

I’m just sitting here staring at the photograph and I can't stop grinning.
It’s me and you and Vince out in the woods.
Vince’s making bunny ears at us and you’re laughing at some stupid joke I told you and I’m leaning over to touch Vince’s back to try and ***** him.
I took the photo out of the bag half an hour ago. It’s four in the morning.
I don’t care. I’m gonna keep looking at this little piece of frozen heaven before I fall asleep.

Do you remember
When we were birds
We preened
We sang sweet songs of our love for each other
But then the song
Became just squawks
And preening became another task, and then
How it became pluck the others feathers out
How it became see how long we could go without wincing in pain
A contest of which could be more miserable
Who could hate the other more without showing it
And when we had no more feathers left to pluck
each of us having finally bested the other-
We flew
Like Icarus, in spiteful triumph-
We fell
-Turning rapidly into horror-
(What had we done
How could we have ever enjoyed this)
-And finally, we drowned.

No. I refuse to let the darkness and futility break me.
I am going to be kind, even though it doesn’t seem to do anything.
I am going to be happy, even though I have no reason to.
Hope is spitting in the face of the world and saying I am not going to let you break me and grinning at it through your bleeding face viciously spitefully victoriously alive.
Do not say I am kind because of my sorrows, for that is false.
Do not say I am kind because I am weak, for that is the polar opposite of correct.
I am kind because I choose to be, and I am smart enough and strong enough to know that just because I may have an excuse to be cruel does not mean I am allowed to be.

I’m in the never-was and could not be,
I’m in a daydream,
And i’d like to leave reality
Behind
Just for a moment
So kiss me and hug me and tell me you love me
And we’ll pretend we care about each other
And we aren’t just in this because we want to hurt ourselves,
That we aren’t just in this because we want someone else to confirm that no one else cares about us.
Let’s just pretend a moment more,
okay?

I am homesick for a time and place where you said you loved me and you meant it.
I am homesick for a place where i am happy.
I am homesick for a time that never did exist, and I have become more storybook and pseudo- nostalgia than human being.

You will survive this.
You might be in a bad place right now.
It might feel like the feeling will never go away,
like its too overwhelming to imagine ever leaving.
But this too will pass.
you can survive this.
Someday, maybe years from now, maybe months maybe weeks maybe even days from now,
You will look back and think to yourself:
Hey. I'm still alive.
and you will be happy about that.
Even if the pain doesn't stop,
it will eventually ease, and you will be happy.
The difference between how far you've come and surviving this is just one more step. And one more step and another until you look back to where you stand right now and wave, because there is a world where you have already survived this.
Although it seems now like walking across the ocean,
On the other shore of this calamity,
You are waving to yourself, saying
Hey
You're still alive
You got this.

I don’t sleep anymore.
I lie in bed and my mind immediately drifts to the news.
People killing each other for no reason. Fires being started. Virus deaths climbing ever higher.
And who wants to think about that?
So i’m not sleeping anymore.
Instead i’m frantically googling-
How to survive a civil war.
How to survive a nuclear bomb.
How to survive a shooting.
How to survive living in a time where I constantly have to think about surviving.

My life- everything i have done- is becoming debris.
Fine, then.
I will sing in the wreckage

The child is going to the woods, having not told a living soul, to spend a night alone, and find monsters and magic, or at least something wondrous.
They lie down in a blanket of vines and wait for a sound.
Hours pass.
The child has closed eyes and is almost asleep when they hear a noise.
It is a noise they have never heard before.
They should open their eyes- or should they?
If they open their eyes, perhaps there will be a monster. They will be sure of it, and the creature will be known.
Or perhaps they will find some great and brutal creature that will devour them.
That option might be better, truth told.
Or, finally.There are no fairies, no ghosts, no bogeymen.
It must be a deer, only a deer.
And if they open their eyes to find that, they will be crushed.
This is the perfect time to leave, run out into the deepest parts of the forest, where one might die, but one might also live there, in the unknown parts of the wood with creatures fanged and strange, in a land where there may or may not be magic.
The child is too scared.
So the child waits the rest of the night, eyes closed, shivering: and returns home to live their life in a land full of only ordinary wonders.

"This is going to **** us."
"So? That never stopped us before."

I am not angry about what you did.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I understand why you did it.
You were hurt as well.
But I have been hurt too, and I did not perpetuate it.
So is it an explanation or an excuse?

You are made of stardust.
2. Dark matter makes up 80 percent of the known universe.
3. It would take 1200000 mosquito bites to completely drain the average human of blood.
4. There were many horrible injustices in the past.
5. In the past, you could see the stars.
6. Starfish arms can regrow new bodies.
7. When you have done something wrong, do not make excuses.
8. Goosebumps evolved to warn off predators.
9. I hate that I don’t hate you.
10. All things end in blood.

I move my vocal chords in the motions necessary to forgive you.

As a kid, I loved to read.
I'd read pretty much every waking moment.
Even if I hated the book, I'd keep reading.
It was a distraction from my life.
Now, I still read,
but definitely not as much as before.
Is it because i lost my passion,
or because i'm finally out?

I heard you this morning. I woke up to the radio playing that song you always liked but neither of us could quite decipher the words to so we would just hum along. I woke up and for just a split second I didn't remember you were gone.

I heard you this morning. The neighbor’s cat’s sitting on our doorstep and screaming its lungs out like always and you would always give it a treat to get it to shut up and why is the world still spinning? the birds are still singing as if you are still here. as if without you the world is enough.

Yes, we are angry.Yes, we are upset.
We are upset because it was unacceptable.
We are angry because we have been treated unfairly.
We have the right to be.

In stories, things end neatly. Everything is ******* with the ribbon of the last sentence.
But things do not end neatly. There is only one story, with almost-endings and sort-of beginnings of words and characters, and there is always another page to turn. There is always another and then.

Rage is a good thing.
It is not anger-anger is a child demanding candy and throwing a tantrum when it is not given to them, A man who is in power of the country screaming when he is told killing is wrong, Someone who is rejected from an art school and decides to geneocide those with less power.
Anger is annoyance and entitlement blown to gigantic size.
Rage is just.
Without rage, without rising up, nothing changes, and those in power pat themselves on the back.
It says:
What has been done to me, to others, to us is unacceptable. This is unjust, and I will not stand for it.
Rage is not petty. They call our rage petty, and demean us. They say that we are just naturally like this, as though they are not the ones hurting us until we have no choice but to be. They say we just don’t know any better, as if we are not both intelligent and correct.
This is wrong.
Rage keeps us from getting hurt again.

The uninspired poet begins to write.
After just one letter is typed, the uninspired poet stops.
They have no idea what they want to say.
They know they want to write something meaningful, but cannot find the words.
They stand up, and go to their bookshelf.
The uninspired poet finds a passage that sticks out in an old story.
They look at more stories, and find more passages.
The poet is uninspired, but perhaps they can borrow a few words,
And in combining the words in novel ways, make them into something original.

It calls to you across the parking lot, past the shorting-out street lamps and the trees.
You ask your friend if he hears screaming. He does not.
You need to make a choice. Fall together or break apart?
You know exactly what will happen if you stay put- nothing at all,just the same few weeks of work and dishes and sleepless nights and not being able to even tell if your eyes are closed because you know exactly what will happen next.
You know and do not know what will happen if you follow it.
It beckons.
You both do not care at all and care immensely about your current life.
You both care and do not care about the consequences.
You are a creature of many parts, and you need to make a choice sometime soon.
They’ll be waiting.

You ever just eat a piece of chocolate and suddenly realise
They never loved you
And you don’t know what you’re doing with your life?
Do you ever just look out the window on a beautiful day
And want to disappear, and not spoil the morning’s beauty?
Ever walk your dog and wonder if everyone knows you’re a pretender?
Have you ever been reading a book and think maybe you should get help?
Ever been feeding the birds and notice maybe you aren’t a waste of space?

I don’t collect rocks, nor art, nor broken pencils(though I come close.)
I collect things.
They can’t break all of you if they don’t know what to break.
They can’t take everything away if it is truly everything,from the piece of lint on the floor to the sticks and dead leaves and dirt stuck in my shoes to the bedroom wall with the paint chipping off to the leaky faucet i always say i’ll get around to fixing but never will,to the windows that haven’t been opened in so long they might as well be completely covered in spiderwebs to the ceiling that’s actually okay to the sky.

The leaves are falling.
so am I.

And I’m sorry for all the unanswered messages you left me
I never responded to
I was too busy trying to forget i existed,
hiding from myself under blankets.

Johnny, Johnny, widow's son,
Here he lies- he tried to run.

Sally, Sally,Born to wealth,
They got her when she cried help.

Thomas,Thomas, Oh so sad,
Now he laughs, since he's gone mad.

I'm too tired of your BS
to be afraid of you.

You made a horrible mistake, and horrible things happened to you.
But did you realize something?
The world didn’t end.

The world won't end because of our mistakes,
But it might be easier that way because now
We have to own up to them.

If a blue ribbon is first place,
What does second place get?
Not the slight pity for third, nor the admiration of first-
So what do we,
Who are neither prized gems nor coal,
But simple rocks,get?
What do we in-betweens get,
But a shadow of a life?

They probably won’t apologize.
But the chance they will crushes many more hopes
Then if i was sure they would not be sorry.

“It’s fine,” they say.
It is not.
“You're okay now, and that’s all that matters,right?”
It is not.
You are not.
Nothing is okay.
And it might never be again.

I did not choose for it to happen
I did not have a choice
But the gods
They do not care.

And so my hair is naught but snakes.

I came to this cave-
I had to eventually-
My only choice was when.

Still,  I chose the time of my own volition-
the people do not care.
They  blame me.
They say it was my choice to be struck
And drowned
And violated
In the temple I lived in.
They say i deserved the poison,
And they call me a monster.
The snakes may bite me,
But I choose who else they attack.

It is not my fault it happened.
The curse is not my fault.
The people, constantly attacking me and being killed for it-
It is their fault.
And it is the gods’ fault too.


The gods-
They do not care.
They send a boy to attack me,instead of doing it themselves.
Perhaps they feel guilty.

They do not care.

I cannot choose to die-
But I can choose when.
And so i open my eyes-

Foolish.
Used as an object, even in death.

Devastation

Noun

I Inspecting the wreckage,they say it’s a good thing you weren’t there, that you didn’t suffer. You bite your tongue. They do not know what good is.This is not it.


II  You feel free. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s wrong. You smile anyway.


III You suddenly feel like you are drowning and no one is noticing. You cover your face and begin to cry.

Once, a fox was boasting to a cat.”So clever am I, I know hundreds of tricks! How many do you have?” asked Fox. the cat replied, “just one-but it is useful.”
The Fox was going to say something, but changed her mind.
Nevertheless, wolves came, Cat scrambled up a tree, and Fox died.

Once, a fox was boasting to a cat.”So clever am I, I know hundreds of tricks! How many do you have?” asked Fox. the cat replied, “just one-but it is useful.”
“What! How much good can just one do, compared to hundreds?” exclaimed the fox.
Wolves came, and Fox greeted them, telling Cat they were her friends. “Hello” said the wolves to Fox.
“It is good to see you again, brothers.Shall we eat?” the wolves agreed.
Cat, thinking of fish, agreed as well.
The wolves killed the cat, and the fox and the wolves shared their meal.And that was one of fox’s tricks.

Once, a fox was boasting to a cat.”So clever am I, I know hundreds of tricks! How many do you have?” asked Fox. the cat replied, “just one-but it is useful.”
“That is just as well,” said the fox,” for I can see what you cannot.” and the fox dashed away.
“What! How conceited Fox must be,” said the cat, '' I must not deal with her again.”
Wolves came, but the cat was so angry at the fox, that he only noticed when he was already being eaten.

Once, a fox was boasting to a cat.”So clever am I, I know hundreds of tricks! How many do you have?” asked Fox. Cat replied, “just one-but it is useful.”
“What! How much good can just one do, compared to hundreds?” exclaimed the fox.
Wolves came, and Fox had so many plans, Fox could not choose one, and froze in fear.
The cat scrambled up a tree. “There. That is my trick.Very useful-wouldn’t you agree?”
And the wolves killed the fox and ate it.

I am trying to listen to the birdsong
But all I am hearing are cars
And screaming and arguments and doubts
And I am trying to hear the birdsong
And I, in focusing on the things that are not birdsong
And being annoyed,
I cannot hear the bubbling brook
And the wolves howl
And the cicadas
And I do not notice
Because I am trying to listen to the birdsong.

Listen.
This is a story about despair.
This is a story about someone who was strange-
not strange like einstein was strange, not strange as in excellent-
strange as in always being too slow to catch up to what others were doing, and when they did, they did not understand it.
This is a story about someone who, when they finally managed to talk, the conversation had just ended.
This is a story about someone who gave up.
This is a story of how they looked around and noticed-
the birds were still singing.
this is a story about how, no matter the problems, there is hope-
for the birds are still singing for us.

I remove your words from myself-
And in doing so,I create and rediscover my own sentences and paragraphs,
My soul a novel free of your lies,
With much more meaning than mere repetition.

(These are what never was and could not be.)
This is the world that never was.
(We sit at the edge of the world.)
If one door opens when another door closes then does one door close when another one opens?
(We are at the beginning so it’s after the end.)
Before thought.After thought. Same life.
(Nothing left to do but swallow each other and ourselves whole.)
Let yourself be cut to ribbons.
(Harm one, heal the other.)
We consume ourselves constantly.
(We are never satisfied nor disappointed.)
What is unseen is known to all.
(Are you far enough yet to return?)
We’ll eat ourselves alive if we keep on doing this.
(Good.I’m tired of all this, so let’s start again.)
We sit at the edge of the world.
(This is the world that never was.)

"remember me is all I ask,
and but if remember be a task,
forget me."
- William Percy French

dance with demons,
smile wide,
and show the devils
what hell looks like.

no one knows what it is.
They never did.
and we might never.
so lets go do something together,
and carve out of own meaning
in these endless halls.
let's go figure it out.

they say,
but are we players or the played?

Words are planted in my head-
it's not my choice that they are said.

But of this mad,mad world,
who's author?
To make this place,one
must be a monster.

This is a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing-
should we out this brief candle,and die-to sleep-no more-
or shall we stay,and make this last syllable of recorded time meaningful-have all our virtues ,and sins, remembered?

how oft men are at the point of death.
Let the coin flip one last time.
/curtains-exit left./

There, i saw the Faerieland-
And Faerie looked away.

You ask me what's wrong.
I can't answer.
I'd tell you if i could,
I really would,
But I can't express it.
I'm not sad or anything-
I just feel blank.
Something feels wrong, but nothing out of place
and it feels like a brick in my brain.
I'd tell you this,
but you would not understand,
and would worry,
and i cannot find the words
to ask for help.
so i say i am fine and silently beg the universe
to release me from its choking grasp.