The Things a Date Will Do To Me

SO I WANTED TO DRAW A PICTURE, BUT I CAME HERE INSTEAD.
And I didn't know what to say, but that I'm afraid to sleep tonight. Why is that? I loved my bed as a child, and as a baby. Now I grow, and think that I may waste time sleeping, lying in wait, or waste, as something could have happened.

So now I'm afraid of more than just that. It's what drives me to write at such a late hour. Who writes what they feel at 1:00 A.M.? What scares me? What is it? I saw the Slender Man outside my house two weeks ago, and I laughed that off, because we all know what that is, and what it isn't. It isn't real. but yet I feel.

It's like I hear this song, and I want to scream. As loud, but mostly as high as I can. Not scream, but screech and shriek and wail. I think of fall, and then it's all coming together. I think of five different bands, and they bring it back to fall. But only one reminds me of what it is that scares me so. . .

It's her. Everything about her seemed so perfect to me, for me! You were perfect, but now that dream is over. You burned it, or did I? That is what scares me. Did I ruin it? Did I leave such potential such beauty to ruin at the avarice of my own hands? Or was I just too awkward to make any damn impressions. I remember many conversations. I'm afraid I said the wrong words, but what do I know?

She asked me how school was, and I said it was shit. I did. And I didn't hold back. Because in my stupid mind, I thought I would sound and look so cool, and I fear that I did the opposite. I cannot impress her. I remember that night. Halloween. And I went with her, trying to do my best to make her happy, but I only let ourselves down to my foolish antics. And then she tells me of some boy in Arizona. Some damned hacker, that is going to be the next government hero; he is going to be some hero and some amazing man. I don't know what I have going for me. . .

What do I have going for me? I've never had a single person tell me that they want to be like me, or with me, or anything about me. I've been told I'm such a great kid. There's that word again. "Great". I don't want just great. Grand. If you want to be grand, do something cool. Oh, how foolish I am, I was. Woe, is me! I never knew what I got myself into, but it was a living hell following her leaving.

I still blame myself. I'm afraid I will never get over this. I tried to turn lust into love, because I felt she deserved so much better. Much better than the average guy who like her just because the way she looked and talked and walked and dressed. She was incredible. What was I? What am I? I am so proud of what I was, once upon a time. Now, I'm stepping down to the average level. Life is progressing, and I'm not ready.

I'm too afraid of change. She left, and that changed way to much. Have I gone lower? I'm so afraid that I am becoming lesser than great, and that's great, not grand. I once was grand. My moment of grandness squandered on pre-adolescent youth. I'm so afraid to go forward, because nothing in the past makes sense. It's like everything has it's own agenda, and only passes through me, unfazed. What will become of me.

I fear I will think like this forever. Metacognition brings to me no small amount of peace. The more I seek, the less I feel is answered because I know a lot of ways to answer, and the digging only makes me go deeper. What became of me? And what of her? She left. She moved away, physically, emotional, mentally. She moved on. She did what I could never have done. What were the last words I said to her?

'Forget It'. Out of context it sounds terrible. But it was us talking about music, and that is the name of a song. Yet, I said Forget It to her, and I fear that it came across all wrong. And now I can only think of it as forget it, no longer in context. What have I done to myself? I nightmare about meeting her again. I nightmare about forever. Will I leave that mark again? My grand moment may never return. Perhaps I'm just to arrogant to realize I'm arrogant, and now I want to be noticed.

I want to say that I'm sorry for going on and on about this. I want to apologize for the language. But what will it do? I was never being negative, only fearful. This is my fear. A fear, and one that never was resolved. I had a dream of another girl that I felt hurt me. I worked it out, but it still doesn't feel right. How will I handle this? How will she? Well, you know what? . .

Forget It

Reflections and Him

The brick I had taken offered something unique. Something that didn't belong in the room was now offering itself as a great holder for light. Perhaps I would be the same. I did not belong here, for all I knew. For all I that I know, I could only come up with simply strange and silly excuses as to why I am here. Still, the fall. But how and why it is here, and what, where and when about the fall. Memories seemed to come less and less lately.

I returned to the house, pondering what light my existence here could provide. I felt some sort of tie to this place. I couldn't understand it. Another thing I couldn't understand. It hit me then that I didn't understand a lot of things. Obviously I'm not omniscient, but this started to make me feel rather insecure to a point I couldn't bear. What was really going on? Really. . .

"It offers . . . powers." "You'll die! What if. . . he will not hesitate."

My surroundings surged towards me, and in the same instant they backed away. It happens again, again, again, again. I drop to the ground. In my mind, I hear a faded and distant conversation. It's missing pieces, words, and context. I don't understand it at all. I crawl to the side of the house and sit down. The sun was slowly setting behind the vast ocean ahead of me. I could not see it, but I knew it was going to be night soon because of the chromatic sky. I close my eyes.

I slept there on the ground, leaning against the house. It was peaceful, full of solace and very quiet. But I awoke when my arm gave out from supporting me. I slowly slid over to my left, waking up in time to catch myself. I got up, and began to return to the inn. I walked through the open-ended building, which surprisingly still had many people awake and going about whatever it was they did. It must have been about two o'clock.

As I was walking through, one of the men in the room called for every bodies attention. I stopped to listen.
"I have found the legendary. . . Mirror of the Lich Queen!" He grinned, awaiting everyone's response, which was surprisingly a bunch of boos. He laughed a nervous laugh.
"How many times are you going to go on about some Lich Queen!? You-- there is no evidence there is one."
"Yeah, give it up. There are some better things to pursue in the desert."
"Oh ho ho! When will you learn Gerald? There is no such thing as legendaries!"

Really, they were all just joking, but in that manner only good friends can do and appreciate. Although it was all just fun and games, per se, he seemed rather upset. The mirror was rather beautiful, and I began to believe I understood his disappointment. Such a nice piece, whether it held a historic value or not, was hard to appreciate in their eyes.

I approached the man, Gerald. He looked up at me, a small bit of sorrow in his eyes. I smelled alcohol. Perhaps they all thought he was drunk.
"It's really the Mirror," he tried to explain, "it's something special. . . I wish they would know." I felt bad. I looked into the mirror, and for the first time since I've arrived here I saw my own reflection.

My hair was as red as blood. My eyes reflected the candle light nearby, giving my eyes a glow that made them appear more yellow than their normal gold color. My ears were slightly pointed, but nothing like an elf ear. My lips were colored like my hair, and my cheeks had red color in it, though not as much. All the angles of my face: cheek, nose, chin, everything, was sharp and smooth and strong, yet it captured the beauty of any noble woman. My skin was clear, and ever so slightly tanned, and I looked young. All the curves of my body were well defined. In essence, I looked perfect.

Yet I wasn't perfect. Who was I? Was I noble, or famous? Something about my appearance seemed more taunting and rude, rather than being complimentary to who I was. I felt that because I missed so much in what I am, I didn't deserve such looks. Like a thief who stole the beautiful jewels of any grand being, I must have stolen the beauty of another living person.

Quickly, I dismissed those thoughts. I knew that I didn't want anything from any other life, and those thoughts only brought me to that level.
"How much?" I asked, smiling. He looked shocked, and didn't know if he heard me right.
"What?" he asked, his ears twitched.
"How much for the mirror?" I repeated myself. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing, examining me, trying to decide if I was really serious. I was. It would like nice above that table, or maybe even somewhere in that brick house.

"I suppose. . . a thousand gold coins. No wait! A pretty, young lady like yourself deserves this mirror for, say, two-hundred coins. Sound good?" I blushed a bit, although I knew it was something other than flattery that made me blush. And it was not love.
"Well, I don't know if I can really afford something so nice as that." I said innocently. He looked a bit stressed.

"If 'ems don't like it, or believe it, I guess I can let it go. How 'bout. . . one hundred and fifty." His eyes met mine. "Er... one hundred?" I laughed softly.
"One hundred-fifty is fine! But you're so sweet for making such a nice deal for me." I pulled out my coin purse, which quickly captured his attention.
"What a nice purse, there! It must have been expensive. Where did you get it? How much? What kinda job do you have? It looks like it's from far away."

"I--. . ." Counting coins, I began to wonder where I got this? I hadn't thought about where my money came from. I never thought of what to tell someone these kind of questions, and now I started to panic inside. Keep calm. And where I got my clothes and equipment. Keep calm! My past. . .
"It's, uh. . . I work. . . in. . . foreign. . . affairs." He smiled. It worked. My past tells me I'm a foreigner, and so I wasn't lying, not that I cared if I did.

"So are you from across the ocean?" I didn't know what was out there, but I went with my story.
"Yeah, I just travel a lot. No real home for me. I can't even remember my home. Been on the road for so long, you know?" He nodded in agreement. "Well, here's your money."

I walked out with the mirror. It was large, and heavier than I thought. It wouldn't have been too much for me to handle, but its size made the weight awkward. I struggled to carry it. As I was walking, I stumbled and began to lose balance. I fell backwards, hoping I could try to save the mirror, but my fall was stopped. . .

A Strange Sensation, A Stranger Discovery

I lay in bed, arms and legs spread out, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, I sit up, looking around the room, and finally take in my surroundings. A chair and a desk, which has three drawers. Simple, cheap wood, with several candle sticks. The door, made with the very same wood, with only one lock, my window to the right of the bed, and the bed itself. Pictures everywhere, but they are all provided by me. Really, this rooms is bland, tasteless to the eye. The only color comes from my hair and the variety of pictures. Honestly this mundane atmosphere wouldn't help me in my thinking at all.

I left the inn, inhaling to clear my head. It was late afternoon, or early evening, and the business in the trade district was heavy, and so amid the people and noise I wouldn't be able to think without some sort of distraction. I walked into the Residential District, past the now familiar houses, past the crayon man, who smiled and waved. I waved back, and carried on. I was looking for love now, and childhood had been found here.

Another canal over water lead to a new district of the city. The air was smoky, hot, and strangely charming. While the air wasn't the greatest thing to breathe, it offered a sense of liveliness, as if there was something to always do here, and do more than just buy and sell things. More than living space. I felt as if I was inside a living city. A strange sensation, and a strange thing to think. I couldn't explain what it was about this place that left me feeling good.

I walked in to see some construction equipment: a crane operated by levers and pulleys, some crates and work men. They didn't pay me any attention and talked among themselves. Further ahead was a forge, and many people shared plans, examined each others crafts, and talked about metals, and wars, and praised some for their experience and skill. I walked further on.

After turning a corner, the air seemed to become cleaner, and the sensation left. As I walked, I could see more houses with unknown purposes, although some housed professional miners and blacksmiths and engineers. Further on was an arch leading out to the outer street, a pathway that circled the entire district. I turned to the left, and noticed a building that had no doors, simply a frame.

Several people inside talked of adventures, treasures, achievements, and songs. They made no sense, but it was amusing to hear them speak of their random and curious tales. I stopped to listen for a while, but they continued speaking. Honestly, I didn't care to be noticed, and unnoticed I went. The rear end of the building had no door like unto the front. I went through, trying to understand what kind of purpose that building served. It looked like a store on the inside, but it wasn't.

I arrived at the other end. To my left was the back of many houses, leading to a dead end. To my right was a house. It stood out. It wasn't like any other house. It was there, alone, unused, and unique. No other houses stood out towards this hidden street, only the neighboring backs. It was made of something no other house was: bricks. A brick house, alone and alienated by its architectural peers. I hadn't seen any other house made of brick.

I went to the door, and knocked once, only for the door to open. It hadn't been shut, nor was it locked. Inside was a rug, a few chairs, a table, and a bookshelf, with a simple wooden chandelier. I went upstairs, and saw a bedroom. The bed was large, large enough for four of me to sleep comfortably.

I went outside. It was a nice house. Nobody lived there. Why the door was open is a mystery to me, but there was no sign of any life entering the house. A good amount of dust covered the inside. The bricks made me smile; people must not appreciate the kind of material this house is made of. A pile of bricks laid fifteen feet away from the side of the house. No doubt these were left over from construction. I picked on up and put it in my bag.

The brick would represent something, an emotion, or a feeling. It was sturdy, unique, and patiently waiting for someone to live inside. My search for love today lead me to find something important, and not through a memory. The present time importance of this brick would remind me to be patient, waiting for something, someone to live within my heart. It reminded me of how unique I was. It would be there to remind me to be strong enough to endure the weather, even the weather of life.

This brick is important. Strange thing to think. But if it taught me something, it's important enough to listen to, just like Soul. Maybe this brick is Soul. I went home, and set my brick on my table. I put three candles through the holes, and began to draw with my stubby crayons. . .

Music Change

I don't know if you listen to the music I put up or not, and I'm not here to tell you to listen to my music, like "LISTEN TO MY MUSIC!!!"

SO! New music time anyways. To much Alesana, and that's coming from me. I'm going to get a better playlist, and I want YOUR opinion. What would you like to hear when you come on and read? Post a comment, and I will try to accommodate you. 

Have a nice forever!

-Shawn

Re-Collections

Since I can remember, I've always seen, had, and played with Legos. Every time I see a Lego, to this very day, I get this nostalgic feeling. I have been collecting them forever, and probably will. Always. Just because I can. They are fun and a good reminder of the child engineer within us. I protect my horde, my treasure collection, like a fiery, greedy dragon. And sometimes I do bite the heads off of anyone who touches them. They are my link to present, future, and past; they are something I look forward to, and look back upon.

This week, we talk about bricks. Bricks. Just say it. Go on. "Bricks." And once more for posterity. "Briiiiiiiiiicks." Mmhmm. What a fun word. Don't you just love bricks? Their color, their soundness, the comfort of your grandmother's home, which is made from these lovable rocks of the modern world. Such grandness from something so seemingly trivial.

So, the Lego-brick bridge that bridges this together, made up of no other than Lego bricks. When I thought of this topic, I didn't know how to make it meaningful or able to relate to. And when I saw someone messing with my Legos, it came to me; I would write about Lego bricks.

They are small, colorful, and something everyone has probably seen at least once in their life. They bring this sense of comfort, at least to me. They make me want to build infinitely, and in a way that not even Minecraft can capture. Our hands become the gods of yellow-brick men, and we design their lives to satisfy our need for fun. They make great gifts, and they make a good vacation. Anyone been to Lego Land? Tell me how it was for you!

They are our best friends, and if you think about, they are just bricks. Small, plastic, multicolored bricks. Sometimes you lose them, but you may not notice or care. They are just bricks. But they have deeper meaning. Don't forget them. Just like bricks build our homes and buildings and offices, those Lego bricks may have built your childhood memories. Don't forget them, and they won't forget you.

What I Was Missing All Along

Pictures were scattered all around my room. The walls, the floor, the table, everywhere! What remained of my crayons were several stubs from a fifth box, and every predecessor was rubbed thin across my room. I felt almost infinitely better, but. . .

A room that is cold and hard, and I am young. The huge man lay in a room of his own across the hall. Restless, I arise from what I call a bed. I walk over to a window that is almost a foot taller than I. I push a large box across the ground in front of the window, and hop up on it. Staring out into the night, I wonder why I feel this way, whatever it is that I currently feel. Besides the unpleasant bed and room, I feel I must be missing something. From what that man tells me, I have everything I could ever need: Food, shelter, and a job. I have some friends on the side, but we don't really talk, so I guess it's a bonus to what I need.

I have been here for years, and up until this point, I had been content to some degree with what I have been granted by this man. He was nicer than a lot of people outside this house. Nice compared to people outside this window. I've seen people killed by others, even by friends. Stabbed, broken, beaten to death, and sometimes I just see people disappear. However it happened, it never got to me. I would carry on from day to day. The next day was what I lived for. 

I just couldn't imagine why I so suddenly wished for something more. I had been recently granted a dagger for my own use. It wasn't anything spectacular. It was sharp, sturdy, and no longer than my adolescent arm, from elbow to wrist. It wasn't concealable, but it did seem to keep the more shady of shady figures away from me, who happened to stare at me, whispering their wretched secrets, while pointing at me. Boys and girls my age did seem to disappear, and occasionally reappear somewhere, dead and naked, otherwise to never be seen again.

I felt sad when that sort of thing happened. Once, I never understood why. Now I know, and it saddened me to see that there was that. Occasionally I would follow these things, and what I saw was. . . inexplicable. I never got caught, but I stopped the first time. It made me feel something deep down inside, what the huge man calls a soul. I thought I didn't have one, since nearly everyone here lacked one, but that made me question something I didn't care to learn about. But I felt my soul that day, and Soul was sad. 

Soul told me that there was something that this was misrepresenting, not only to me, but anyone else who saw. I never knew why Soul knew such things, but Soul was wiser, wiser than me, and so I listened. Tonight I look out the window, and see a women and a man talking on the street, between buildings, before walking away. I smile, but Soul cries, and I am beginning to understand that they lack something in what they do. Souls pats me on the back. Funny, but he never had a hand- 

I jump and shriek, falling off the box, and landing hard on the floor. The large man stands over me, his hand frozen in place, and a puzzled look is stuck to his face. He is no doubt tired, and confused as to why I am awake right now. He blinks, and I pick myself up off the floor. "Sorry, I didn't mean to cry out so loud, and fall," I apologize. He just smiles and moves the box so he can sit down. 
"I didn't mean to scare you. Why are you up? You realize you are useless when you are tired." 

I just stand in silence for a minute, and then I try to explain, "I- My soul wanted to see something." He just stares, blankly and tired. "The man and the women, they were doing something, and Soul- and it doesn't feel right," I touch my heart, "It feels wrong here." He looks out the window, but the people are gone.
"It's a business thing," he tries to explain "And a popular one around here." 

I don't understand why people could like it so much, but I guess it's life. "Do I have to do that someday?" I ask, fearful of my welfare. He just bows his head, a quiet chuckle somehow soothing me. "No, not if you don't want to. It wouldn't benefit me to lose you that. You would probably benefit me more by continuing your current work, than to switch to the love business." Love? What in the world is love? 

I've heard of stories of demons and titans fighting our heroes to the south and west and east, but I've never heard a story of love. "What's love?" I ask innocently. 
"What?" he asks, groggily. 
"What's love!?" He squints, trying to figure if I am joking with him, or am serious. 
"Well, it's. . ." He scratches his head. "Hmm. . . Well, you've seen those people outside, just a whi--" "NO! That's not love. I can feel it deep inside: that isn't love. What is it?" I correct him, trying to get the answer that satisfies me.

"Go to bed, and I will explain when I can think right." He just doesn't understand this, what it means to me to know. I'm not yet satisfied. . .

I'm not yet satisfied. All around, I see pictures of fantastic things: buildings, people, strange creatures, and past events that tickled my fancy to be recorded by my wax art. Some were just letters, poetry of both heroic and thieving deeds. And here it was, right in front of me. The answer to what I was missing. I curse myself for remembering a past life I wanted no part of. This is my life now, but something tells me I am in need of what happened before now.

Soul. I forgot about Soul, but I know better than to think that a soul could be a person or thing that speaks to me. I listen to what Soul has to say anyways . . .  Love! Love. Love is nowhere on any paper. I search frantically for anything. I've seen love before. I know I have! Where is it?! . . . Nothing. Nowhere. No love. I sit on the bed, and then I lay down, suddenly exhausted. "This is. . . what I was missing all along." Somewhere, love is waiting for me, but for now I rest. I know that finding love will tire me out. However, I will find what I was missing all along.

an honest, personal, frightening, petty emotion and thought. . .

I'm feeling rather bitter. I know why, and yet I don't. Mostly it's just envy, jealousy. Nothing new; sorry folks, it's something we've heard a thousand times before, and a thousand times to come. I really just think I need to point something out. Maybe I need to be more open and say more 'me' stuff, and less of this Ama-story stuff, but I just don't see what I can share that doesn't go too deep, too shallow, or too personal. Those other stories have plenty to write about, since there's much to make up.

This bitterness is insincerity from those I'd like to like

This bitter feeling comes from an effort gone unnoticed

This bitter taste is them spitting on my joys, hopes, dreams

This bitter sound comes from the silent mockery, and the noisy jeers and taunts

This bitter sight are those are in pain, and pain entirely avoidable,
crying, "Why do I hurt, why do I hurt? . ."

This bitter scent is that of blood, and not of the body, but from spirit and soul as it dies

The ends of each bitter sentence is left open, unfinished. We all know something that can fix it, right? Love! Well, I don't give a bit about love; love isn't what I want to hear. Love is accepted, but it's just to straightforward. You all can fix it with whatever you want. If it floats your boat, then float it! As for me, I shall be ever resilient. Good luck!

I Guess I Don't Know Love...

So as we should all know, this week is the love week. Yeah. . . couldn't wait til Feb, right? Anyways. . with my new post (it's not this one) about love, I foresee that I shall be challenged about capturing the true (or truer) essence of love, with the hopes of not making it any of the following: Cheesy, stupid, predictable, cliche, obvious, redundant, Twilight, pornographic, redundant, immature, monotonous, lifeless, soulless, redundant, lacking in emotion, dragging on, self-circling, redun--. . .*AHEM*, etc.

The point is this; I don't know love, because my definitions of love are generic (forgot to add it to ^ that list), or non-sensational. I don't know what love is because I've never felt the love I strongly desire to capture. That being said, I have been in love. It WAS lust, but I realized that, and I felt so strongly to want and to feel more than just petty lust, that I made it into love, and it was going great. But when a new year hit, KABLAM! It was over, and I had no idea why.

There was no obvious reason, nor motive, and when I tried to understand, I hit a dead end. I had a chance later to make a move and potentially get my shot for something great-- I mean grand, back, but I feel I fell so short of what I needed to do that I landed flat on my face, and it hurt. I lost so much, and I don't know how the other felt, if they even cared. Do you even care?! It means a lot that I even say this.

The results were devastating, and know that I still try to piece this together even now. I can't be in love again because I am incapable of feeling something for someone who doesn't know better than to screw with someones heart. I'm incapable of loving someone too immature to feel or know the hope for something better.

So here is the problem, again. I don't how to capture something I've never felt in its fullest. To leave you, my faithful readers (who never comments, except for Mort), with less than what is true here would be the equivalent of me cheating you out of the deal of a lifetime. How can I promise you something I claim is true love without understanding it all. I want to make this as legit and ten-fold that of what is real. A so real love, it's surreal love.

I guess I can only give it my best. Put forth my grandest. Hope for the best. Be patient though, because however much we're told differently, girl and boy don't fall in love in a single chapter. However, for the sake of making this progress at a reasonable pace, I will try to push it to the point ASAP. So just hang tight while I work this out. If it sucks, tell me so I can at least try to improve. If it looks good enough for government work, and it really is bad, I may never know.

With you in mind, and only hoping for the best, I'll leave with this. I WILL write this love I praise so grandly, and I hope you feel it full force. I'll get on it sooner than later so you get more Amanalii stories (That is her name if you didn't pick that obvious one up in the second story). Finally, freaking comment if you like it! If you don't like it, shove it in my face!! Fetch, I don't know how I'm doing. . . Support, team, support!!!
-Shawn

P.S. My definition of 'redundant' was "uncalled for", from internet definitions.

The Next Day

I awoke early the next morning, feeling no amount of rest from the previous night. I had stayed up some time crying to myself. Once again I felt weak, useless, and much like dead weight. I don't know if I had suppressed those memories in my mystery life, but seeing it now did not help me at all. I knew what I had to do, even if all this that I see is a lie, or even if what I look back on and call 'memories' are lies. One world was always what existed. Now there was a slight twist to that. One world exists, and it's called me and my life.

I left the inn a bit shaky, not sure how or where to accomplish my goal. I wasn't even sure if I could achieve what I desired here, but I had to try. What I recollected, and what my mind fantasized, left me devoted to reclaim what had been stolen from me. Whether it was my fault or not, I need to go back in time. "Turn it back; just turn it around," I tell myself "I need to do this. Besides, I need something to do now that I'm. . . here." I still don't know where 'here' is, but it doesn't matter to me. Not yet anyhow.

I walk out into the Trading District, looking around. Already people are starting to run errands and purchase items they want. Some people wear armor and carry weapons that appear to be rather powerful, running from auctions to banks, and then flying away on different kinds of mounts. Others, in elegant or plain dress, walk to flower stores or jewelcrafters, looking for items of beauty, seeking the praise and attention of others. Some look for breakfast at bread stores or fruit stands. General stores offer a steady flow of customers and merchants selling and buying goods.

I look around me, trying to absorb it all, but mostly looking for something to stand out. I wander around the city, still unsure what will aid me. A bridge crosses over a canal of water, leading to a different district. The Trading District held nothing, but what could these other ones offer? I walk around a more residential area, admiring the architectural finesse, but no matter where I look nothing offers the slightest hope off emotional reprieve. The large man, who would probably stand a foot taller than me now, was right about one thing. Left alone, I would cry myself to death with no help. People pass by, and I have no way to tell them I am alone and dying.

I don't stop searching however. Determination burns inside, but I still don't know what I need to find. A child darts outside his house bumping into me, and calling back "Sorry, lady!" I don't know what has him in a hurry, but I decide to follow him. I walk at first, but slowly increase speed, keeping distance between him and I, not letting him out of my sights. He stops at a stand, that, unlike all others, stands out with the most color, but it feels humble. I approach it slowly, excitedly.

I arrive at the stand, the vendor smiling brightly. "Take a look!" he tells me with enthusiasm that breaks my darkness. I smile and nod. I lean over the small shelf that holds the items he is selling, and there I see it what I have been missing. A solution to my problem. The boy looks up towards me, waves, and runs away holding his prize.

They weren't as I remembered. At home they came in limited color, all sorts of very randomized designated lengths, and came in large crates, so one would have to search for the perfect one to fit their needs, and it may not be there. But here, oh here, they came uniform, each the same length with a defined point and all in a box. Some had six in a box, others had every color the very world and more could offer. I purchased some, a box with twelve colors, with some paper. I never grew up; I was a grown up from the start. Without a sense of purpose now, I'll start to turn back the clock. . .

I sprinted towards the inn, fluidly moving around, over, under and between any person or obstacle in front of me. I ran up to my room, shut the door, and locked it, although I had no reason to. I pulled out the chair and sat down in it with such haste that I fell completely over, letting out a cry of surprise. I picked myself up, and opened my box. I always saw these as a child, but was never permitted to buy them, and I didn't risk stealing them, although I had no objection to stealing anything.

I didn't know where to start, so I started drawing random shapes with different colors and sizes, until I decided on what to draw. It would be my life. At first it started alright. Me as a child, the man, food. But I felt bereft of my joy. These things did not deserve my time nor attention. "Alright then, I will just draw my life again," I said to myself. "I will draw MY life. No more memories, because I'm here now."

That was when I decided to move on. I'm not sure if I held onto that part of my past, but from now on, I will not be weak. I am no longer dead weight, because I'm no longer dead. This is my new world, at least for now. And so for now, this is my new life. This is my new life. This is my new life!

Turn it Back; Just Turn it Around.

The city was amazing! Alive and bright at even the latest hours, people went back and forth with selling goods at an auction, or visiting the bank, or seeing any new papers attached to the call-board. Some people looking for anyone with a particular skill in certain professions, whilst others advertised their own skills to try to make profit in gold coins. The buildings were tall, and very bright for it being so late into the night. I assumed that this was a trading and business district of the city, for there was few houses, most of them being family businesses, and only one inn in the entirety of the district.

"Hmm, an inn sounds good right now. I haven't slept in. . ." I say to myself, pausing when I realize that I have no idea when I last slept, or even if I ever slept. Try as I might, I cannot think back of when I slept-- of when or if I did anything in my life. The fall still taking a toll on my memory, I push myself to remember. I enter into my room I rented out for the night, and sit in a chair, concentrating as hard as I can. Suddenly I see something I wish I didn't see. .

". . . Amanalii! Why did you drop your food?! Do you think that such a meal comes cheap, especially in these parts!" roared a large man. He stood at a height that easily was triple that of mine, and thick enough to be three-hundred fifty pounds. I look away from his ominous, hurtful gaze to where my meal now lay: in a pile of mud and filth, ruined and no longer edible. A boiled potato and a small bit of meat, likely from a cow, now lay ruined by the earth.

My face burns red, my hair matching its color, and tears swell in my eyes as I look into the glare of the man. "I- I- I- I'm s-sorry," I stammer "I-i-it was an acciden--" 
"SILENCE!" He roars, slapping me across the face, sending me flying like a rag doll  spiraling towards the ground. "I don't care if it was an accident or not; You cost me an entire meal, and I don't have money to constantly spend buying you food if you don't bring in enough money yourself! You hardly benefit me as is. You waste food, you don't bring me money, you act so weak, and you take space here in my house. In essence, you're merely dead weight."

I pick myself up off the floor, brushing myself off, preparing for a painful and hungry night. "You know," he continues "You should be thankful that I'm so kind to you. Others might kill you, or even worse." 
"What could be worse?" I ask boldly. 
He only laughs, and then replies "Kick you out into the night to leave you to whatever fate any crook or animal has in mind. Murder would be merciful. Leaving you broken, beaten, and abused on the side of the street where people pass you by, as you cry helplessly, until you die. Or they may just sell you around, to put it softly."

I wasn't sure what to think, but I wasn't happy. My cheek, for instance, was hurting and swollen. A bit of blood trickled out the corner of my mouth. I had nothing to say. Maybe I should be thankful, but how I ended up here-- How did I end up there? What was that? WHERE was that? The memory vanishes.

Questions flooded my mind, but all I could think was that my childhood was built around some sort of job. What a funny word to use, now that I think about it. 'Childhood' repeats in my mind over and over, again and again. Did I really even have one? I look out my window and see some middle aged kids in a group walking down the street, laughing and enjoying the great night that it is, not caring at all about the world around.

A tear rolls down my face. . .
(To be continued)

My Quick Thoughts on Blogging

Since this is, quite honestly, my first time ever trying to blog, or even involving myself in the blogging world, I think I misunderstood what its point was, or, more importantly, how/what to blog.
As is seen in the first two posts on my page, each blog runs on for five or more paragraphs. Examples I've seen on others are a paragraph or two, maybe even a few sentences. Short, sweet, and too the point, am I right? So by blogging a "book", I may have been doing this wrong.

That being said, however, I believe that after re-watching the Ted talk that there is really no point, purpose, nor passion in posting less than what you want to be out there! I'll post whatever I want, however much I want! And since this is the first experience, I really don't know where or even if there is a right and a wrong way. I'm just gonna be creative, as usual, but be out there with length too.

Say what you want, write what you feel, because you cannot buy sincerity to give to others. It's all inside you and other cliche gags. I want to know what you all think/feel on what a blog should be like, and what it's all about, granted we do have certain topics to fill out. Do not fear to stretch out too far. Just do it, and have fun with this all. I know I will.

With much to contemplate about
Shawn

P.S. I'm still going to be writing other long, and rather 'fantastic', stories.

I'm Here. . . I'm Alive

My eyes open, and I stare into a night sky with a million stars, lighting the blackness with the soft-blue light it offers. Funny, but last I checked, every star in our sky had winked out mysteriously. I look around, and see I am in a wide field. Confused and lost, I stand up. There is no one in sight, nothing at all. All around me is gentle rolling hills covered in knee-high grass and weeds. Everything around me looks the same, and since I have no sense of direction, no land mark or constellation to guide me, I head to the left of where I had laid.

The stars above me give me light, but I feel so dark inside. So much confusion dwells inside me. I try to think, but everything is so fuzzy right now. I concentrate, halting, trying to remember. I see. . . water. . . and mist. Yes, it comes more clearly now. Water up to my shins, flowing gently off the edge of the world, and mist rolling back up and around me. There's a blur. . . No, two blurs. Two people, but they are obscured by fuzzy shadows. I cannot remember them, but they stand motionless, and I see myself becoming agitated, offended, aggressive.

I pull my daggers-- I have only one dagger in hand. Why only one? I always have two daggers. Something else is in my other hand, and, it too, is a blotted out shadow. And then I'm falling, and for a long time, water soaking me to bone, and only feeling fear, denying my inevitable demise. I close my eyes--

--And open them to realize that something happened somewhere. I am not home, and my location remains a mystery. I fell from somewhere, and must have hit the bottom of my graceless descent. I must be dead, and falling to my death is not a proud way to die. How did I fall though? And why am I here? How can I be dead, and still be here? Did I even die? I stop thinking about this; It's hurting my head.

I continue my walking, through a forest, onto a stone path. I walk past a small inn and a forge and continue. The stars have been blocked by the forest's majestic crowns, and diminished by the lights of the city ahead. Built by the ocean and mountains, and in the middle of a forest, I have no clue what lies ahead in such a strangely placed city. But whatever lies ahead, I shall endure. No matter what is in the future only one thing matters: I'm here. . . I'm alive.

A Hymn for the Beginning. . .

Shawn Milke, for those who don't know who he is (which I assume is 98% of you readers), is a lead singer in a band. Look it up in another tab, because I could care less to explain someone who is not me. That being said, I do like Shawn, and his love for poetry has inspired me to take under his name for some time, maybe forever.

Now. . . what to say? I'm not going to tell you what I like/dislike in the typical and generic classroom setting where the conversation starts like "Hi, I'm Blah. I like blah, blah, blah and blah. I have blah, I do blah, blah blah blah blah bla-" You get the point! It's tedious on any first day. It's annoying, monotonous, inexpressive, and rather lacking. In everything. Without exception. Foreeeeeeeeeeeeever!

SOOO, let me tell you what I like. I like being open about what I feel, regardless of whether I say it or not. In person I may never get to the point, just end up beating around the bush for what feels like an eternity, but under anonymity, I will get straight to the point, more or less. This means I will write in some personnal feelings without to much to give away carelessly. Also, this world is great, my feelings are great, and great is great. But great is not great. Great is everyday, everywhere. "How are you?" "Great!", "I finished this project!" "Great!", "I feel great today!" "Great!"... great is starting to sound like greet in my mind.

Grand is the word of the day. Grand is what I'm searching for. If I fall short of grand, then. . . great! What now? Try again, but maybe a different way. A grand new way, but not a brand new way. This world is great, but what lies inside and beyond the perceivable image of this planet is a grand fantasy, and so fantasy it shall be.

"Oh, great! Another fantasy..." Not exactly. Fantasy is like fighting dragons and using magic and stuff that hugs and borders and stuffs that stuff. Stuff it! To let you know my intentions, I will be using the mind a friend of mine, who has some incredible material that I will use to write a story about her stories. Her fantasies, her dreams, and the dream of her dreams as she sleeps in her dead life. A dream-ception that will make more and more sense as we dive deeper into the sleeping world of our (mostly my) beloved friend, and capture the grand moments of her dreamer.

So you just sit back. Shut your eyes and let the pleasure strangle you. Taste the tears of sweet indulgence, pain and fantasy. Let the visions roam in your head, and the emptiness haunt towards you. Let sanity slip from your hands now, stand closer to the edge than you should be allowed. Feel no regrets for this, and become the dreamer.
Your interpreter and creator,
-Shawn Milke