Echo

Late in the murky evenings
and at night with its cold pale moon

When the shadows of silence have settled in
and that ceaseless din
of the busy day
has
finally
died
down

I am alone
with my thoughts.

Oh
the ranges they range

How they grin
and snarl
and bite
and tear
and shred

And gnaw away at a fragment
of myself, surrounded by emptiness

There's nobody there
There isn't anyone here

No guiding light
no guiding hand
no lantern in the dark
to lead the way

And I remember that it's always been like this
And a cold warmth suffuses the self
Sealing the lips of a thousand screaming shrieks and wails
That never truly stop.

What's left in the end
is not a bloody pulp
or pile of broken bones and hopes

but a steady
ringing
lingering

echo

Another Story for Another Time

"Another story for another time" is a recurring phrase found around here. I usually use it as a red herring, but more often than not I use it because I don't feel like writing about whatever it is that preceded that phrase.

Kind of feels like being let down, doesn't it? Of course, it also builds interest of some sort so it can't be all bad. I write, you read, it all works out. And it works out even better because someday, I'll actually write about those stories and anecdotes I vaguely hint at and allude to.

I figure I should because one motto I live by is, "eh eventually." and its variations "it'll get it done... eventually." and like I used to tell someone, "I'll get it done. It'll take me a while but I'll get it done." or something like that. So don't fret if you come across yet another "another story for another time." and you feel misled and disappointed: I'll get to it, eventually.

A Reflection with Gray Hair Trying to Show Teeth

I used to take public transportation everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean pretty much everywhere: school, friends', business, leisure, ladies, nowhere. I still take public transportation these days because it is how its and that's the way things are right now. I should point out that I've relied less heavily on it lately on account of my latest material acquisition: a bicycle, which I ride everywhere... for the most part. I won't go into further detail with that right now but you get what I mean. And by that I also mean that my bicycle isn't the main focus of this post. It's actually what I would see on the bus or subway train: life.

Broken down and still walking at differing paces I see them: older people. Older people have begun to become a reflection of some sort. A vision of what lies ahead for me. I'm not very fond of this, not because I'm a shallow asshole who also happens to very vain and narcissistic and all that crap (though there are a few people who would say that I am, indeed, all those things). But because it doesn't paint an accurate picture of me or them; it doesn't take into consideration the different circumstances and experiences that we have lived, it makes a vast and sweeping generalization about youth and age as a whole. I've already been told I'm going to resemble my father when I get older (or have been told I already resemble him). Both of which really suck because it hurts when the boy who doesn't like his father, is told he is becoming more and more like his father. But it does make me wonder (about other people): how were they like when they were younger? What did they look like? What aspirations did they have? It's mostly questions that I have and my imagination to fill the gaps.

For the most part.

The bags bearing down on their shoulders, children wearing out the already vacant and expressionless faces... these things give way to certain information. Or at the very least hints at information. They're miserable, or they seem to be.

That's probably why I don't like being told that I'm going to end up like them: misery. Feeling like shit because I didn't accomplish my goals and am now stuck in a downward spiral allowing everything to collapse and tear itself to pieces because I just don't seem to give a fuck anymore.

No, that can't be me. I can't let the mirror show me the broken-down reflection of someone else's agony. Almost like breathing it comes, a cry for help masked in a bark to sheathe the ceaseless anguish that comes with breathing and living. That's another reason I hate that sweeping generalization: I refuse to accept the notion that I will be tied down by a bunch of kids that I hate and shout at them to do this and that only to have them run around wearing me ragged all the time.

In a nutshell: I don't like being frequently told that I'm going to age badly and still be strapped to the sidewalk burdened by screaming miniature me's.

Wouldn't you feel the same way, too? If all anyone did was tell you that you were going to be trapped in a hole, skewered by rusty daggers at all hours of the day, wouldn't you want to lash out and be a little scornful of such notions?

It's only natural, I suppose.