Sharing the Hate
There comes a time when one needs to make a decision. Some decisions are easier to make than others, such as when to eat, and where to sleep. Other decisions are more difficult such as what to study, and where to learn. Still other decisions are extremely difficult such as what to create, and where to seek inspiration.
All throughout these decisions are choices that people made through the summation of previous experiences in their apparent perceived lives. If you call this falling domino effect fate, then free will itself does not exist, (continue reading…)
Looking down onto the bamboo mat, there is a member of the walking dead left broken, cut open, and mentally bleeding much like a cutter on the rebound. As it reaches the fringes of almost falling asleep, the body starts to twinge, and become stiff. This rigor mortis like state compounded with a cold shortening effect. It briefly moans out my name in a semi-lucid state answering that final question of whom it will summon on its deathbed.
Its arm with sinuous claw stretches out towards me, (continue reading…)
Grounded for a split second I look up from the row of keys out the window into the distance. The quiet sobbing of this walking dead is very soothing, and yet very close. I take special care to hear each breath, each wince, and each sigh. The sounds form a beautiful symphony of empathy in the Persian key of A# minor.
If given more emphasis the sighs and winces could become the wails of an opera singer, a black metal singer. Given more puissance, they could even shatter glass windows and frames. Given direction, they could share with the world misery and despair. In its current state, it just sits there on a bamboo mat shivering with skin barely clinging to its raw and ruby flesh. Upon closer inspection, I can see flexible cartilage where both flesh and muscle are no longer present. How much cannibalism has this one done on itself?
It is around this moment, this apparent moment, which I perch hunched over the keyboard wearing a black leather trench coat. In this moment, the keyboard transforms into what might as well be an organ. A gigantic organ complete with fiery torches based on the floor towering over the tops of the tall silver pipes. A steam rises from the tops of the silver pipes sucking in the mist from outside. These pipes take in the mist and return it to fog.
The desk becomes nothing more than a row of keys. With each keystroke, the beautiful hymns of destruction sound off in the distance.
â€œAnd what do you know of rejection? What do you know of loss, of death? What do you know of the absence of everything, great abstinence in the presence of the plentiful?
Has the world turned its back on you, or just this group? Has everyone you have ever known and will even know become a fragment of the mind’s eye? Did you blink on purpose to shut your eye, or did you never possess the ability to open it? Can you forget your past?â€
Perhaps that was too long of a response to give when the zombie said, â€œWait, where are you going?â€ Then it started to scamper in my general direction. (continue reading…)
Off in the distance I hear a moan. On the other hand, was it a shrill cry from the confines of the mist? Perhaps there is moaning in between episodes of crying from the mist. Nothing comes into focus around this time of the night because of the fog and the haze.
These human sounds albeit inhumanely cut through the biting shrill wind. The zombies are about again. How close are they? Around this time in the evening all weekend warriors transmogrify and revert into zombies. Others fled before the perversion, but the result is the same whether or not they shamble aimlessly on the streets or in their mausoleums. (continue reading…)
Usually around this time of the night, after the bars have closed, the wind is harsh, cold, and biting. This physical pain cuts through all others, and becomes a driving force to get one home or back to their vehicle.
One cannot properly prepare for this frosty wind since they dress to impress, or they dress for their surroundings. If you are going to spend half an evening in a hot and sweaty dance floor, dressing for the walk out is the last thing on your mind. Even if you managed to bring a coat for that final walk, you probably lost it along the way through the course of the coarse malaise. If you did manage to dress warmly for the walk home, you spent most of the night sweating, and the sweat just makes the wind even colder. The alcohol makes the body think it is warmer, which makes a cool breeze, an artic blizzard. That alcohol effect would explain how one could be cold in Florida in the spring, or is it summer?
The irony of the situation is each night begins with emotional hopes and ends with physical pains. The two are unrelated to each other, hence the irony. One more fix in a string of short-term gains at the expense of long-term returns. The credo of the weekend warrior: Live in the here and the now, regardless of responsibility and repercussions. (continue reading…)
There are very few moments when you say goodbye to someone you know that it is for the last time. When you know, hold onto that anger. Therein lays the pith. Let it consume you through mental tithing. Ten percent, and no more echoes in the distance. Depose yourself to that goodbye. This is the requiem of despair. Two words some up the evening: No Hope
The funeral mass and dirge I sing with delight. (continue reading…)
Leaning with my back up against the wall in a slanted position, I glance around my surroundings. Currently I reside in the den where regret meets despair. The black deep ceiling interior makes the dark brown wooden tables and bar stand out a little bit more than they should. The only overhead lighting brings the bar to focus, while small white candles briefly illuminate the tables where people can sit and chat. There is probably a pool table and a dartboard off near the side by the bathrooms for those lucky enough to grab them early. At least that is what the loud cheers and boisterous noises tell me. The pocket watch vibrates slightly against the side of my front leg. It is a strange sensation, but it must mean someone is actually calling me. Odd, since I am the type to go out and find people to interact with very rarely planning this feat. The pocket watch vibrates gain for the second time. It is easier to talk to those that are out of their own volition than to drag people out who will be miserable for leaving their home. (continue reading…)
Glancing down at his pocket watch, he notices the time on the LCD screen says 21:34. It would be foolish to call the pocket watch a cellphone since it never rings. Set to loud, vibrate, or silent the end result is the sameâ€¦ SILENCE. Not the deafening silence talked about earlier, just nothingness neither calm nor disturbing. The consistency is calming though.
There is a loud snap as the lid of the pocket watch opens, speaks its purpose and then slams closed. There is satisfaction in that sound, knowing that one small goal is over. At least the watch generates sound then, proving through clapping thunder that it exists. This goal is a rather trivial and pointless goal, but an accomplished goal nonetheless.
The pocket watch has no purpose, thought, or feelings. Its ability to prove it exists is irrelevant. If the walking dead have no purpose, thought, or feelings, why do they need to prove that they exist? The walking dead do have feelings, (continue reading…)