30 January 2017

Dom spiro, spero


The eyes see all the colors in darkness, where there was this memory that it never happened, dreaming that I fell as I slept on a throne dreaming that I reached into the air, waking myself up. Taking the emotional response into sleep I dreamt of a place, where thoughts are all that have power, thoughts of thinking of thoughts, the mind as a mode of emotion, communicating with memories, or temporal futuristic beings if you prefer, where imagination defends itself and reality imposes belief as a means to confront our own desires, there are interpretations of infinity and representations of truth, and yet I found a surface, where there is a wall there is a way out, not a mental barrier of mortal ambition for I had brought that with me, but something more than the human condition or emotional barrier, by beginning and end not, those trivialities of consciousness, the surface i could not see was cold before contact, by my fingertips the knowledge of moisture and texture, sight and sound a real wall in my dream of dreams. 


I drink from the serum of life, I borrow from light to make sacrifice for time, of all things shadow of a soul, the echoes of pure darkness colliding with my skin, in the wake of creation I am an atom, and yet unable to define purpose like the first of a species to see its reflection, this place from beyond has become my memory itself, while I breathe I hope, as I speak I am cast from the eternity of salvation into the chaos of the omniverses, brittle are the divinities be they thieves of the atoms that bind us, the prison of time feeds the essence of my soul and i pass thru its walls strengthened by dying stars and endless light, to escape and know the demise of the enemy, incomparable of memory of dreams of memory, nothing is as it seems, nor is it otherwise.    



29 January 2017

Of Immortality & Ice

There are many tales of heroes come and gone, as poets let them live forever, building sagas from rumors a story lives a long time. An immortal man, living as if he had no time to spare was punished to be a statue for 1,000 years, and one day he escaped, as all immortals eventually do, to see a world memorized for the first time as what it had become. 

So he wandered with a dead language learning the world with only a few phrases taken from his captors and other prisoners, doing good for the world and making many mistakes, and in a quiet place learned of a wizard to end his eternal boredom freeing him from immortal duty. In this low place he met a witch of fire who giveth him light living forfeit to burn with his passion for her. 

In three years time she was with a child born in the first winter storm, their magic powers against the violent skies bore a child like the mother with the gift of fire, you may now this story from the people near her statue carved by the immortal man at the base of the black mountain Palidrias. They say for childbirth a mother's water "breaks," now I would have you imagine what fire would do instead. 

The immortal can recount many experiences more than there is time to hear just a few by so many that he knows, but for his family's safety he made it that only a precious few knew their life after the childbirth other than the gods and ghosts. 

Now, as trees sleep, being immortal and in that most dangerous magic of love the wife and child could live extended lives while supernaturally bonded to his soul, and they hid in the child's birthplace in the mountains titled by the unused name for the poisonous flowers that grow in the snowline. The fire magic allowed mother and daughter to burn away the toxins and the immortal would die and wake from time to time, learning that even having walked the world he lived in a place unknown to him. 

In three years neighbors were met, traditions of fire magic celebrated in old ways that humans and most cities wouldn't. Terribly, three years later the child became sick, with magic it was postponed and this new tale of loss to the immortal frightened even he who is usually without fear. The mother and her coven tried to burn the illness and the child's blood would not purify, and so they tied more of the immortal's essence to their auras. It almost killed him, not waking until the spell was diminished. 

Offering to sleep for the child's life he rested in a silo, to channel him his immortality required offerings of life that would wilt in his presence, and the child was not dying, but not healing, and in only days what things once wilted now quickly became ash. 

The mother became rage and fire as one and drew a circle on the ground and summoned that wizard that her immortal husband once sought, promised, and abandoned. The magician was thrown from the ground with a tear and a laugh and held accountable for all things in time, whose quick response was to offer her a diamond made of pure coldness and night sky to offer the immortal. 

For reasons of honesty, there is too much to understand in this story to explain both why and how a puddle in mud became a mirror, from it three men without mouths crawled from it without ripple, which then became muddy waters again, and the druid has better places to be right now. 

The immortal man grasped the cold-star and woke, fear-driven eyes he worried his awakening meant his child's demise he ran toward his home, the mother chased behind. 

The child was getting much worse, more as they ran, the child began burning in magical fire to heal and running outside to breathe, seeing the stone ran to them, taking the stone and collapsing. A silence consumed everything and they watched as flames died and child rose, black veins receding toward the neck until the eyes black. 

"Are you well, can you see?" they asked.
"I can see...I can breathe..," smiling first in weeks, "but I am, ...warm?" she asked, almost complaining. To relieved to worry they hugged their child.
The mother asked, "Can I see the stone?"

When the mother took the diamond it burn her deeply, matching her pain with her magic fire to heal the child, intending to make holy fire burned a shade of green, making the wound worse. 

The immortal moved the child away taking more damage to his clothes than any danger, asking the mother, "Are you healing?" 
"I am, not by that diadem shard," she replied, healing herself, holding his hand. 

They watched as the child quickly learned what still looked like familiar fire made mountain grass brittle and water eventually freeze. Putting the stone on the ground made the child sick again, troublesome veins and making bones to strains. Putting it to their decision that if the child was warm they would move up the mountain and left for a tethered ridge with a common breeze. 

It was only days before winter, in a few weeks they had to build a cabin where the treeline meets the stone of the world itself, and still the child would often sleep outside, such an altitude that even their resilience needed fire to cook and keep warm, but mostly for comfort. 

The stress caused hate, the most common of elements, to be uncovered and derided, and caused a contemplative tear from the child that quickly turned to snow and drifted into the wind. This mixture of magic and melancholy made a sound only deities of ice can hear, of wolves and spears in distant echoes.  The immortal opens the door to the rising storm of the summit skies and the child is gone, footsteps and heavy sleeted wind he chases his daughter austerely for the track's path could erase it. 

He followed the tracks until they vanished, in the growing storm the mother also went looking for the child, running until escaping the snow into a clearing of blue sky and sunlight. He is snow-laden and damp, his child sat on the ground to the side and one hand, smiling at the immortal man. 

"Fair greetings, my father, you are very snowy," the child said.
"Out of breath, ...out of my mind, ...who in all the hells, ....are you, ...?" he gasped.

There stood a woman, dressed as priestess throwing the seeds of the poisonous flower on the ground as would a farmer on a spring morning.
"Your child has something that doesn't belong here," she said. 
He replies, "And again, who are you so I can decide to run with my child."
"I am Skade, this is my storm, every stnowflake is mine, and there is a bear in your house."
The immortal kneels, "I know your name, in your audience I ask you heal my daughter for the diamond."
Discontentedly, "It is not a stone, it is an eye, and there is no cost, one cannot keep things from me."
"Then please, my child is sick, my 'little torch' is sick, unable to fight the poison flowers like the wizards and witches, heal this child or tell me what it is that I can fight with my aching heart!"
"Witches of fire suffered a plague when their home-world split during Ragnarok, they called it "the night root," and unable to get a cure from another realm they nearly died. Your child is descendant of them, altho it is rare the risk is more so from being surrounded by the green poisonous flower."
"I am well aware of the worlds having been, but i cannot guess who has the cure, that stone is the only thing keeping 'the child' alive"
"'Cure?' You will sadden at the pain, and you will hate the reason."
"I am ready for everything when by living I am not alone, one way or another."
"Taking the stone, the child will not enjoy, curing the child, you will not enjoy."

Skade walked to the child and raised her hand to the immortal, freezing him in his footsteps almost unable to move. The trees stood still watching snowflakes hover, she knelt over the child and tore it from tiny hands. The more the poison turned the child's veins against them, the more the child screamed. The immortal can move slowly, but Skade notices him as he almost cut her throat. 

"An immortal? in this forest? we will freeze your time more so for your patience," she said. 

She slowed the immortal to a total stop, the toxin moved faster thru the child, and Skade began pulling out the black veins faster to compensate, pulling at threads like fates. A very black blood was everywhere and the child didn't move when Skade finished. 

Skade stood and release the immortal man from frozen time, the wind blew, the storm circled and he knelt at his child. 

"What have you done!?" he asked.
"Your hearts may beat as one again, " she said, but then her voice became many voices with the powers of time and space, "Stand, give yourself selflessly, and the child will live!"
"I surrender to the cosmic balance."
"Sleep," she said as she touched him on his face. 

He fell directly to the rugged and jagged ground, into he bloodpool with the child. The mother, burning dark colors to survive the storm in squall surrounding the the other two, enters the utopia without cloud or shadow. Seeing the mother's face Skade collapses that utopia, the storm retakes the entire summit in earnest. The sky diamond is gone, the witch's fire is all that protects them. 

28 January 2017

Virtue Signal I

The pathological liars are everywhere, in for all, I write arguably badly fiction, and some of you I think were told not to lie and took it as a challenge and, after a thousand times, it became instinctual/pathological lying, which you should do as an adult, and some of you have jobs to tell the truth to millions and critically shouldn't do it, sleeping was invented for the very reason of not being able to stop lying. Basically, if you can't stop lying, dream awake or fall asleep.

Because I didn't realize this challenge by heathen protestant intradimensional idealist insomniacs was in effect, I'll start posting something, imperfect work and projects, i won't dip into the blogger drafts folder, but there will be stuff. I subscribe to my own blog by email, because I can, and know posts can bind in delivery, so tomorrow I'll wake and do an image interpretation for that fresh britches feeling, you will be fine having been warned, thus lo it shall be to those who'll hate it, yes, there are those among you it will not scratch their surface, this light is of their burning machinations reflecting off-of me at their immense power to hold power over stars and consume raw matters as the universe expands at a constant rate, while some of you are made of stardust and we assume your atoms will drift into the nearest orbited star from whatever planet you died.

That's settled, now let's waste the rest of this entry by settling a few questions.

A resistance fights a transition, to the new order your opposition is more like a rebellion or sternly-worded dissent.

Altho time waits for no one, it does wait for people to stop arguing, if it be about science, on the scale of things, we're not any farther until we go farther, stop complaining.

If you're reading this, your life isn't hard as it could be. Remember that.

A pro-life socialist wants programs for babies, a prochoice antisocialist doesn't want money for babies, and women don't always look at this that way.

Despite what they told you, you can put "Anti" on any word you want, even if people have never heard of it before. For example, I'm anticlimactic.

We are a species, however quaint on this suburb of a planet somewhat in the galactic sense and largely in the universal sense, there is no reason to starve anyone. Don't be shitty.

I almost forgot, if you couldn't do something in 8 years, collectively, unanimously, famously and willingly, let the people along the way you've hurt fix what you've broken.

Cake is a breakfast food, cereal is a lunch, and bacon is clearly a desert.

The first day of the week is Monday, day month year, water is wet, we tried to warn you, I'm sorry.

Hasta mañana

23 January 2017


The things that exist are drawn within the lines of reality, that which is everything else is drawn with perception, to imagine a future, to remember it in ways others cannot, the undiscovered truths of facts realized only by greater beings, and then there are the rest of you.

I hadn't really thought that this was a necessary post, condescending and pointless, they wander drawing lines in the air for others to see, and as much as i envy those tracing the celestial boundaries only to color them with dreams there can only be my objectification of those that draw these lines for others, how they put so many into layers of those above and those below, never knowing how low they themselves wallow in moral turpitude.

How very kind of you to lead those who can see, faithful to a promise you only made to yourselves, to not have need of allies in your quest to blame the world, a sovereign depression, a contagious angst, never a retaliation toward ... I'm getting ahead of myself, we know you didn't want to actually fix anything.

Well hello to the protectionists, who spent all of yesterday learning the day before's words, lashing out at the silent with your impudent rage, enough to spare time blaming others to celebrate disdain, but i shook hands with the devil just to see you smile, this repayment is paltry and infantile.

I despise calling people what you are as a mode, the rains do not cause the wind, the day does not cause the night, even the most colloquial languages and ways of life attempt to prevent barrages of profanity at their children.

I am I, of course except for when I am not, writing prayers to send the dead to where they belong, tremulous in circumstance the living are on their way, these matters of the day give me trepidation enough to light fires for the clouds and reign-in the eight seasons, not every echo pissing about a voice.

Make you weary, like a voice from the shadows are the whispers of war, like a thunder from heaven is a passing of storm, waves break on stones like words of the living, only do those that travel carry the sea.

I was thinking of the wailing witch of the sea and the man of the woods, one sinking ships, one hating trodden trespass, it is like this i in fact do see two worlds, there are those who do not see any suffering in the storm, the sea the banshee cannot control, there are those who dare not question, the leshy lets anyone leave if he doesn't see them steal from the forest.

Forever these i see as past and present, not forward or backward, not in existence in now, prevaricating without vacillation and heading to one or the other in the wrong direction, you too will be remembered in one way or the other when you are done.

A melody of the bird, how many notes to the cat.

03 January 2017

Té Mélange

My light does not find me, 
and i am told to shine at endless space, 
chaotic expanse of wavelength, 
massive wave in storm of dawn,
universal light perceived not,
eyes like the sky beneath it all, 
stopped by aura and fauna, 
spirit and breath making memory,
a questionable approach to sight, 
changing future in this moment,
changing past in pure illusion, 
this celestial grace would perish, 
as a desire in a metaphor, 
broken by all that is impossible, 
a planet a ship or a star an empire,
or a galaxy a quaint fortress, 
like the desires of winds and roses,
endless gravity consumes light,
reflections of surfaces above current,
revelations of howling canyons, 
endless sand that cannot hold tears,
weightless songs of war saga,
pious emotion without shelter,
time hammering thru lies, 
sins staggering for vicious spies, 
a moment's posture rent,
castles at corners of circles,
bridges encircling wraiths, 
unable to hear the light,
maker's task to forge the heart, 
and carry the wisdom back, 
these relics of mystery boughten, 
a gotten fear to writing gramercy,
a bridling ire and libertine rage,
taking after the teft of sageness, 
the greed of things not about me,
I druther to let you have yourself, 
save putting arsenal amongst you,
forbade of all you desire,
farthest from the blades of grass,
farther than the final moment,
far more than can be known,
as far as the eyes can see,
made of the energy within existence,
so many words for word, 
and none of them with meaning,
surely if the gods are on high, 
we are beneath them all, 
grasping at clouds of mist,
stalling time denying action,
yet better to erode for beauty beneath,
they are sands of time,
and strands of timeless, 
for demands of timelessness, 
made echoes and postures, 
like raindrops and roots,
in this future nearly abandoned, 
for a handshake and a cup of tea.