Nothing Hurts

I was invincible,
My heart was too critical,
And things were pretty simple,
Until you loved my demples.
No one could break Continue reading


Mind the skulls, Deary

I find it odd and yet fascinating that pain compels me the most, to write. Especially heartbreak.

Why can’t I write as well, or at least feel inspired to write when I feel good?

I don’t know, but there’s a name given to people like me: dirge-singer.

Or “emo”. I guess it depends on which millennium you grew up in.

I mean, I don’t personally remember the previous millennium, but sometimes I feel like I can almost scry it. My mind’s eye picks up a variety of times and cultures and influences me to try to live through each of them.

Of course, since I’m basically making up what I think it was like at any given time/place, I realise I’m probably well off the mark– but it still entertains me, to do so.

A break-up feels like a death. That feeling when someone really important to you, dies. I hate them both. I want to say death is worse, because you absolutely can’t avoid it– but on the other hand, one of two things about love must be true, which sometimes feels worse. Either:

Love is avoidable, and I keep falling for it despite my best efforts to guard against it–

or else it’s unavoidable, and I was doomed to experience many deaths without a funeral or closure rituals.

Either way, seems like a bitch.

Oh– this is probably the part where I should mention, my lover and I didn’t break up– or maybe we did, but decided to undo it.

Either way, it feels like hot nails in my heart, and the coldest, emptiest abyss in my stomache.

Just … loss… such loss… it really is the worst feeling I know.

I gave you all my keys, Babe. Even to my skeleton closet.

Cheers to Bluebeard.

Saint Allie Rodriguez the Martyr

She takes a long drag from her dirty cigarette, delicately hanging in her mouth between two full, but dry and blood-stained lips, then looks up at you with eyes so dead you could swear you stood beside her in Hades. The cig dances up and down as she speaks, threatening to fall out, but never does, “You know, I’ve been dealing with ’em longer than I can even remember. In my earliest memories, my family and I were being terrorised by Continue reading

Impossible Utopia

Frequently I find myself battling with duality.


I know that a “perfect world” is practically impossible, but I keep seeking Utopia.  It seems the answers to all of our problems should be relatively simple– the real complication is human imperfection, but most commonly: greed.


I’ve spent a large portion of my life complaining about why things aren’t as good as they could be.  It always seems so simple.  Why are there homeless people in North America?  Why are there hungry kids in Africa?  Why do people kill for diamonds?  Why, why, why?


Asking “why” isn’t very productive; society at large would have us believe that it’s not at all productive: “Don’t ask why!  Just accept it and move on!”

Yet that creates a problem: if we don’t ask why, we don’t uncover the source of the issue.  If we don’t know the source, how can we solve it?  How can we make a better world?


The Taoists believe that we should accept our reality as it is, without judgment, and let that be.  I’m sure it’s more complicated than that, but that’s the jist of what I’ve learned about them (so far).


Plato, on the other hand, talked about the “forms”.  The “form” of something, was it’s ideal existence.  Without having a “form” (a model) to guide us, how can we know what to strive for?  We could toil all the days of our lives toward an end, but if it’s not the best we could have done, what was the point?


I subscribe more to Plato’s ideals, but that’s where I come back to duality: they seem to conflict, yet both are true.  We must accept the world around us as it is– not judging, or pining over how it could be— and yet, at the same time, we must strive to make it better.  How do we make it better if we really accept it?  How can we say we’ve accepted it, if we’re trying to make it better?


This is my struggle.  Any insights?

Living Intentionally

A lot has been said on this topic, and I won’t expound it further, but I feel that I needed to briefly address something that changed my life– or at least, contributed to that change.


My favourite author has long-been Charles Ludwig Dodgson– a.k.a. “Lewis Carroll”.


A lot of misconceptions exist about Carroll, his drug use, etc; these are indeed, misconceptions, based on little more than speculation regarding the oddity of what he wrote.  I’m not addressing this further, however, in this particular post.


He once wrote in a letter to a friend, “To be sure, the best rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we dare not die.”


I found this to be profound, and it set me on a path.  I quit my job working at a call centre shortly thereafter, and have been making choices to increase my happiness more than my wealth, ever since.  I don’t regret it, even though I now find myself lacking in funds compared to the majority of people I meet my age (or even younger).  I’m also currently in a place where I’m somewhat forced to chase the money– however, I’m now doing it on my own terms.

What Carroll wrote doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t ever do things we don’t want to do– he means that we should live deliberately; live through our intention, and not just pass day by day with no purpose, or simply by “accident”.

Whatever you do today: choose to do it.  Don’t let it choose you.

Peace. ❤

Black & White

I’m glad to see you’ve all joined me here tonight,
I’ve invited you to this place to discuss the black and white.
I’m not talking about race (altho that could be easily segued),
I’m talking about the motivations of people throwing shade:

You see, it’s easy to inevitably get swayed,
I personally, have occasionally gotten played,
By the vacuous systems of distraction on the web,
Which appeal to us in moments of weakness as if we’re plebs;

But the key point, that on this evening I’d like to make,
Is that assertions of dichotomous absolutes are just fake.
No single thing that’s right means that it’s opposite is always bad;
As if having two moms being okay means that it’s wrong to have two dads.

It’s like thinking that if chocolate’s good, vanilla’s gross;
It’s like thinking you can never again have something doughy because you like toast;
As if someone who’s usually wrong can never be right,
Or the night time and darkness are evil because we like light.

You see, I’ve said it before in many platforms but I’ll say again:
Duality is nature’s reality, my good friends;
And I’ve yet to discover enough ways to sufficiently say,
That in between the black and white are a billion shades of gray–

For that matter let’s discuss even that black and white,
Because I betcha I can find a shade darker, and more light,
That an average observer out of context would confess,
Is the same name of the different shade which you suggest

Is called “black” or “white” as I hold up a tinted tile,
And even let you stare and ponder on it a while.
Yet in this regard I confess I’d do no better,
Subjected to the very same test right down to the letter,
The only thing I could say when proven wrong in the end,
Is “There are billions of shades of black, white, and grey, my friends.”

Excerpt: Jim Butcher’s Hospital Escape

The monitor beeped its steady rhythm; an ironic annoyance, simultaneously comforting as it let everyone know that he was still alive.

There were a lot of questions, and no answers. What started the fires? How was he not dead? Who was the burned man, with nothing else aflame near him? How were his wounds cauterised? Who were any of these people to him, and who was he to them?

Most importantly: who was he at all?

Agent Stanfield stared blankly from behind pitch black wrap-around shades– they helped against the glare of the flourescent hospital lights, which always gave him a headache.

The beeps of the EKG were almost like a metronome, keeping time for some rhythm that nobody but Stanfield could hear. A melody struck up in his head, and he began to sway back and forth, adding complexity and breaks to the beat of the EKG.

In his mind, a dance club careened with swirling colours, sexy young women, more exctacy than one person could take, and drinks, drinks, drinks!

He was startled out of his fantasy by a heavy caloused hand cupping down abruptly upon his shoulder. He turned to look back at the interloper– it was Agent Ashwen.

Ashwen was an Indian fellow, good looking, young, fit, and an expert at Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. He had three kids, all U.S.-born, but he was a transplant.

“Status?” Ashwen asked, dispassionately.

“No changes,” Stanfield replied, his eyes already blanking and glazing back over in a haze of his own imagination.

“Keep us posted,” Ashwen said, straightening his black-and-white Ralph Lauren suit, “I’m gonna grab a coffee.”

Grab one for me too, Stanfield thought– and thought he said aloud– but actually said nothing as he drifted back to his night-club fantasy.

A gorgeous young brunette danced her way up to him. The lights were disorienting, as was the blur and rush of the extacy. She was wearing cat-ears, a mesh see-through top with no bra underneath, and tight, form-fitting booty shorts which didn’t fully cover her ass. She swayed her hips alluringly at him, and poked her bottom out as though daring him to slap it. He wanted to, but felt like he’d get in too much trouble if he did it and she actually didn’t want it.

She looked back at him with this innocent glance– he didn’t know what to make of it. Was she making eyes with him? Did she look forlorn because she really wanted him to touch her, or was she just checking for space so that she wouldn’t accidentally dance into him? He took a chance, he pressed against her. Her eyes went wide and she gasped, feeling his hard–

— another hand interrupted his beautiful dreams; this time, it was the patient, clasping Stanfield’s own hand.

A grizzled, sun-browned man with wild and wirey hair which reached out in all directions like the rays of the sun, he looked like he had wrestled with a mountain and lost.

“Mr. Doe,” Stanfield said, hoping the man would respond. The man locked eyes with him, and seemed to peer into his soul. The man saw Stanfield’s dreams, his visions of being in a better place, and he penetrated through even these to see Stanfield’s nature– and this shook Stanfield. He recoiled his hand suddenly, gasping, his eyes quivvering as though on the verge of tears, and after mere moments of this he got a hold of himself.

“Mr. Doe, we have some questions for you.”

The grizzled man took a deep breath and stared silently at the ceiling, placing his own hand on his chest.

“Butcher,” the man said.

“Excuse me?” Stanfield replied, raising a brow.

“Butcher,” the man repeated, with no further explanation.

“You’re a butcher? Or you mean I’m a butcher?” Stanfield queried.

“No. I’m Butcher. I need to go,” the man replied flatly.

“I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere for now,” Stanfield replied, actually relieved to finally have a dialogue with this guy instead of baby-guarding an unconscious body as he had done for the past 11 hours.

“Says you,” the man replied, as flatly and dispassionately as Ashwen had been in his previous command.

“You may not have noticed–” Stanfield started, but at that moment the lights in the room burst into a bright flash, and with a small explosive POP, Butcher’s handcuffs were broken and he lept out of bed and to his feet.

Stanfield recoiled, still blind from the flash, unable to see what was going on.

Butcher smirked and glanced over his shoulder to see his open-backed hospital gown revealing his ass to the world. He shrugged inwardly, and threw the private room door open, casually making his way out as though he were walking out of a movie theatre in which he refused to see the rest of the film.

“Amateurs,” he scoffed, and sauntered undisturbed right out of the hospital, and into the dark night.

Monster Drama

“Do you know what I like best about myself?” she asked cheerfully with her back turned to me, cramming the remains of a third toddler up under her mask and down her gullet, slurping its little leg down like a wet spaghetti noodle, “It’s how I don’t eat children.”

She giggled as she practically skipped over to me, her hulking 9’11” frame covered in coarse black fur silhouetted against the single orange, dim lightbulb in our apartment, like the stuff of nightmares. She plopped lackidasically onto the couch beside me, which rattled and shook the floor as though we were going to go crashing through it. “You know what else I like best about me?” she asked, her smile beaming through her words, Continue reading