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, and habits are the hardest of all to break. Habits are ingrained parts of a person’s psyche and where they seek comfort. In order to break someone’s habit you have to shatter their reality, and even then, that person might still end up right back where they started. The action does no more than put a bandage on a gaping laceration.

When does one person decide to help another? To what effect do they decide to help each other out?

Is the help out of pity? Then it is sympathetic in nature.
Is the help out of compassion? Then it is empathetic in nature.
Is the help out of regret? Then it is commiserative in nature.
Is there no help? Then it is apathetic in nature.

The more emotional vesting one person has in another, the more ‘caring’ they will show towards the person in need. What is this apparent cost of caring? Emotional vesting is directly proportionate to the distance two individuals have. These are distances in space and time. As the distance becomes greater the caring becomes less until caring becomes an afterthought requiring effort, which is an inconvenience to most. If you do not care effortlessly, then others call you insincere in your caring.

There is one decision that most people tend to overlook. That decision is when to stop caring if they started at all. Akin to coming out of a hangover, there is no gradient from one extreme to the other. One instant you sit there reeling in gut wrenching guilt, and the next you want to take on the world for all it is worth for new adventures.

This dividing line itself is a silent one, since you cannot seek it out; a silent hidden dividing line between empathy and apathy. When you cross it, all that you know is that you crossed it. Usually you realize you crossed it after the fact never pinpointing when or where you transversed the line. You will not even realize you accepted passing over the line into a new apparent situation. You will just come out on the other side in a different mood or outlook.

Until that time comes when you stop caring, just continue drifting. Drift far and wide for when you completely stop caring, you can start caring yet again. Emotional vesting is not a zero balance account. There is always a balance in there as you receive and give emotional stimuli. However, people set up different accounts and decide to give of themselves to those closest to them. Sadly, there is always a desire as a pack animal, for humans to give of themselves to strengthen the herd.

Fear those who pity you, for they look down upon your weakness.
Fear those who show regret, for they project their past onto you.

Respect those who know you and will not help you, they have their own issues to deal with.

Honor those that show compassion, because they are taking time out to help when they could be anywhere else doing anything else.

Sincelery,
Leo

“All those who will never know of my lust are all those that constantly feel my wrath.”

Its arm with sinuous claw stretches out towards me, and touches my right shoulder before I had a chance to dodge out of the way. Its touch is warm compared to my coldness. Then with energy expended, the arm falls limp to the bamboo mat. The resounding thud, followed by the long drawn out exhale becomes the last sound from that side of the dim hue of the black-lit room.

The silence becomes deafening at this point as regret starts to take hold. Quickly silencing that bloody roar with classical music from the stereo, I reminisce on an evening unfulfilled. In retrospect, tonight chalks up to a poor decision, and nothing more. Irony is that the Noble and Sentimental Waltz from Maurice Ravel fills this room of the dead and the damned.

There will be the need for much explaining come late afternoon, since the dawn has already come. Odd, it would appear that this is now the screenplay for a situational romantic comedy. What went wrong? Habit or convenience? They will all sit around and wonder what went wrong; he seemed like such a nice boy. That is what they’ll say when he vanishes for a while. When he simply goes….

For now, the trusty trench coat will double as a blanket as I will sleep on the air mattress in the other half of the room. For my own protection, I remove the Katana from behind the pillow of the bamboo mat. What little good the Katana did me though. They offer not protection from home invasion, especially when you invite the marauders in.

I do not trust this one; I think I should hold the pair close to my chest while I sleep. A slight churning in my stomach starts to take hold as the room itself becomes dizzy.

Dizzy with a rising hatred from having compromised and succumbed to habit. Dizzy with a wrath gaining up from the bowels of my innards outwards towards the throat. The gag reflex starts to take hold as previously drinking salty tears and smelling flesh of soot and ash overcome the senses. Acid reflux fills my mouth as I force a swallow, one of the last bits of lucidity I remember from the evening. Convenience tastes a lot like bile at this point.

I managed to drink too much, and not enough all at the same time. Yes, I will probably wake up very enraged from this occurrence. Perhaps my dreams will calm me. However, tomorrow probably starts with waking up very angry. Was there any other outcome?

Sincelery,
Leo

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?

If it donned a heliotrope cloak complete with a pewter gothic ankh pendant, and directed the sorrow outward instead of inward then perhaps one would not see the gaping exposing wounds. Instead, it continues to tear away at itself as piles of sinew fall to the floor. The sobbing grows louder now. This situation might require a larger clean up in the future than originally anticipated. If it did don a heliotrope cloak then it would not be here to begin with. Such is irony.

The thought does cross my mind that if the sound of the quiet sobbing is soothing, what about the taste, and what about the smell? Would that quiet the impending river of doom? Would replacing the source for the patterns of the breath, the wince, and the sigh with something else better or worse? Trading sorrow for joy, albeit temporary joy might just be in order.

Cycling through the memories of smell the first that comes to mind is the taste of blood. It is always the first smell that pops into mind with its distinct rust iron color. Cycling past the first memory, I can recall exactly how this will play out if it continues. The flesh will taste of soot and ashes. The tears will resemble salt. The smell will be a combination of stale cigarettes, unkempt hair, and regurgitated alcohol. The experience will be an empty one, and I will not be any better off for it in the end.

A grimace and a smirk flash across my face on a single thought. Why break a bad routine at this point? This time it could be different. This time it could be different since this one will not be like all the others.

That thought is a great rationalization on false hope. This time will be different, because if all the inputs remain exactly the same then the output can be different regardless of what experience taught us. If you learn to recognize the patterns quickly then you can bring yourself to that inevitable end just the same. You can sit back and go along for the ride of your death. Take the guesswork out of the situation and just repeat the process repeatedly. You are a born natural at it now.

Each time you repeat the process you will get better at the systematic tasks. You will hone your skills, and before you know it, being in this situation will be second nature to you. Since it comes so easily, you might even seek comfort in the situation, be it right or wrong. Rinse, cycle, repeat.

That is when the false hope and rationalizations set in. It is what you are good at, so you might as well enjoy the fruits of your labor. It was exactly upon that thought that the apparent situation came back into focus. The tears did in fact taste salty, and this member of the walking dead did smell of soot and ash. Perhaps I just wanted to see through the eyes of this walking dead? At least that is what I will tell myself later as a rationalization.

Sincelery,
Leo

The desk becomes nothing more than a row of keys. With each keystroke, the beautiful hymns of destruction sound off in the distance.

The glowing flames have a black lit hue to them, and the ceilings emanate from their reflection. Crimson red wax melts ever so slowly onto the floor. Each click and tick of the board itself sounds a note in the scale of the Hungarian Minor. Am I preparing a fugue? In more ways than one, in more ways than one. Such is the incantation of protection from the pure and corruption of the innocent.

A voice starts to speak, “Come back to…,”
“What, the floor? There is great work to be done yet, and I am inspired to do it,” is the response that cuts off the first voice.

“I’ll be here when you…,”
“Yes, you will. You have no where else to go, and no way to get there.”

“Are you always this mean?”
“You are free to leave.”

“I have no where else to go.”
“And no way to get there. Yes, I know. I knew from the moment we met.”

Their voice starts to trail off in the distance as the expanse of the 13-foot long room grows to a thousand yards. Glancing back with a harsh glare, I can vaguely make out the thousand-yard stare, the one that does not hide the blank inner non-workings of the mind.

Usually people wear a mask to protect themselves, but like all masks they generally leave the eyes open to see. Sight works both ways as the predator and the prey have different ways of looking at items. As you look out, others look in.

The prey animal typically has eyes on either side of their head allowing for a wider range of sight. This is so the animal is constantly on the look out for things to run from, and places to hide in. The smaller prey animals are constantly watching out for danger.
They will shift their head about their surroundings constantly on the lookout.

The predator animal typically has eyes on the same side of their head, close together to work towards pinpointing a specific target and then striking at that target. When you focus, you squint your eyes further diminishing the field of vision towards your prey. The predator animals are constantly focusing intent and follow-through for the kill on one item.

When a predator squints, and shifts their eyes back and forth they are preparing to be danger. This shift lasts very briefly for they are about to make a choice. The wounded become easier targets for a trained predator allowing them to conserve energy. Know what to look for, and you know how to respond.

The blank empty human stare is a way of emulating a prey response from a wounded animal. They cannot run. Their eyes go wide, and their brain stops processing, and starts preparing to flee emotionally. It is almost as if the brain suffering from delirium decides to shut down instead of subjecting the individual to apparent danger. The brain will turn back on once the danger subsides. By then, it is usually far too late.

It looks like I have prepared two fugues this evening after all. Behind me, I hear the quiet sobbing of tears from a broken prey animal. Glancing back with a harsh glare I can clearly see fragments of the innocent chipping away. Preparations are almost complete as each keystroke the beautiful hymns of destruction sound off in the distance.

Sincelery,
Leo

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?”

Perhaps that was too long of a response to give when the zombie said, “Wait, where are you going?” Then it started to scamper in my general direction. I could have kept walking, but since I had already turned around to check behind me, I decided to turn around and head back towards sanctuary. The mind rationalizes a lot, and then replaces fact with a skewed fiction. I did realize at the time, I would have to walk right past it shambling towards me. That would explain why I stuck my hand out to help it up off the ground.

The mist is very thick, and the fog has a sticky hue to it. Its hand was cold, but mine was colder. Its gaze was cold, but mine was colder.

Pizza always tastes better the day after you wanted it, more so than the day you actually want it. The absence is where the desire grows. In addition, we had already had a “moment.” Who is to deny that “moment” a chance to blossom into a lily, or a chaff of wheat ripe for the scythe.

I shall have a moment with pizza in the future, when sustenance is required as opposed to when wants take the place of needs. The needs say to retreat, the wants say to hunt. Why can’t one have it all? Just change the nature of the hunt to accommodate the retreat. This sounds simple enough.

Some call it settling, and others call it cutting losses, but there comes a time when one makes not the best decision, just the best available decision. This decision in the end always leads towards an empty feeling coupled with the driving nagging twinge of “what if.” That “what if,” gets louder and louder, especially if potential gains walk into the room.

However, chasing an ideal is just as dangerous as settling. If you chase an ideal, you may never find it, and nothing may be good enough either. The one who chases ideals is never grounded, and never complete. They might excel, but that is quite the cost.

Where does one compromise and meet in the middle? Where does one not settle, but not waste time chasing ideals? The answer lies in enjoying the here and the now while keeping the future in mind. Stay grounded, but gaze 45 degrees off into the horizon as opposed to straight up, or down at the ground. The answer lies in having an open mind.

That way you can see what is directly in front of you, and at the same time see what is off in the distance. Is this a compromise?

I guess you could say my fascination with death is the experience is one thing I will eventually have in common with every living thing.

Can you forget your past? Because it will surely forget you.

Sincelery,
Leo

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.

They cry the last bit of their humanity out onto the streets between episodes of bile and wash with regret. The all too familiar high-pitched quote of, “How could you?” startles me for a brief second. This one was close and I did not see them until it was too late. This phrase audible to me and one other person on the receiving end of a telephone. I know the phrase is not aimed at me, but the effect is still the same.

“How could you?” is a loaded question. It ranks up there with the short phrases such as, “We need to talk,” “You are going to be angry with me,” and the completely random, repeated, and yet unexpected, “I’m sorry.” All of these phrases instantly change the mood of any conversation to dread with uncomfortable silence. Saying them holds the power of an indirect Basilisk’s stare. Hence the problem.

“How could you?” means one of two possible things. The first and most plausible explanation is there is a pack of zombies near the horizon shambling to retrieve their lost member. It is so easy to lose a member of the pack in the mist when you are not paying attention, or do not want to pay attention. The night is over and it is time to retrieve all possessions and valuables left about town. In the first explanation, this person is nothing more than a possession such as a jacket, hat, purse, or Chap Stick.

Ignore them just long enough and they will break down from rigor and curl into some fetal position awaiting rescue. When rescue does not come, they will shoot up flairs from their digital pocket candy. The second and less likely explanation is this one is no longer welcome in the pack for whatever reason, and the herd culled them that night. They too, break down from rigor and curl into some fetal position awaiting rescue.

While the explanations are different, the intended results are the same. Their presence for whatever reason is not welcome. They are a lone sheep without a flock, lost, confused, and sad. The rescue is of the locate and extract variety, while the intended who is different.

It was then that a pair of bloodshot eyes matched stares with a pair of demented eyes. Later one would describe this episode as a “moment.”

From one there came sorrow, tears, and pain. From the other there came rage, disgust, and hatred. Yet these two people did not know each other, and probably never will.

It was then I asked a question I already knew the response to. I did not know the answer though; just how they would respond whether or not the truth was in those words only time would tell.

“When are they coming for you?”

“They’re not.”

The problem with this exchange is what comes next. I have two options to determine the truth. The first safe option is I shake my head, sigh, and walk off receiving a trailing, “Where are you going?” Then I would have to look back to make sure I am being followed. This answer means no one is coming. They want to leave.

The second safe option is I shake my head, sigh, and walk off receiving a trailing, “Wait.” Then I would have to look back to make sure I am not being followed. Others are soon coming. This one wants to stay put for their friends to find them.

The wrong option most people take is to walk closer and ask more questions. This Good Samaritan will probably meet the shambling herd in the distance coming in for the locate and retrieve. No amount of questions will give the quick truthful definite answer from the first two options. The shambling herd will not greet you with happy and pleasant exchanges either.

Before this zombie could say anything further, I simply shake my head, sigh, and turn to continue walking. After six steps, I hear a response, and that response starts with a W. This is a pointless exchange worthy of a chalk mark for an unimportant accomplishment. Number three for the running tally. I walk six more steps and then look back to make sure, just to make sure.

Sincelery,
Leo

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.

They come seeking reckless abandon, and are invaders to the sanctity of the psyche. Their egotistical drive and desire to feed their insecurities push them forward. I sought reckless abandon one time, and in retrospect the failure was a success. A ten-second pause is all you need to avert disaster. Perhaps if I indulged more, then life would be different. Life would be different; it would have disaster in it.

It is a shame that they will get absolutely nothing done the next day, but recover. That is the long-term return for this evening, recovery. Perhaps in three days you will call that number you triumphantly sequestered. It is a shame that you do not remember their name.

Given ten more hours, you will forget what they look like too. Chances are they will forget they gave you their number, and you can try to get the number again next week. A lot of nothing accomplished, and nothing worth remembering happened tonight.

Ah, but those were glorious times are these you will say, leading to great memories, which unfortunately you will forget completely before you even make it home. You will instead have a cross between perceptions of what happened colored with your new mood for the walk.

Did you wear the right clothing? Did the right people notice you? Did you leave anything physical behind? Did you say the wrong thing, and did that person take note of it? Can you even tell this night a part from the one the week before? The month before? Rinse, cycle, repeat. All these questions are meaningless.

The whistling howl of the wind replaces the loud barrage of 85 plus decibel chatter, music, and beats from earlier. The person is out to find solace, familiarity, and the comfort of a warm place to drift off into a slumber land. This is also the time of the night that the semi-cognizant replay the events of the night over in their mind. This is a study on what went wrong and what went right.

In retrospect, what went wrong was I never did end up eating pizza after the bars closed on my way home. There is still time though, and it is time to turn back my collar to welcome the unknown. The rain stopped over an hour ago and pizza sounds very tasty in this drunken haze. I am in no rush to get home, still lacking a bed to sleep in. Might as well live in the here and the now with a fresh slice of gooey cheesy delight. Who knows whom I might run into on the way there, or the way back?

The rain might have stopped, but now the Florida early morning fog creeps closer in the distance. Weekend warriors transformed into zombies in the mist. What glorious times are these indeed, what glorious times indeed?

Sincelery,
Leo

The funeral mass and dirge I sing with delight. The end of a night spent poorly, but spent nonetheless. Physically, mentally, and emotionally spent. A rage encrusted bloody howl rises internally, and becomes my third wind to get home in the evening. I close my eyes and recharge myself enough to have purpose, and that purpose is to retreat. To Valhalla, I sail on my raft with no hopes on my flag. A warrior’s welcome this is not, and a warrior’s greeting I do not receive. I am not a warrior though. Perhaps the other 90% left from tithing is the stoic and strong 90%, and I removed the weak 10% to replace it with another.

Was it expected? Was it sudden? Who instigated the goodbye? Was it heartfelt? Was it gut wrenching?

Do you feel drained? Do you feel fulfilled? Do you feel empty? Do you feel enriched? Do you feel nauseous?

I feel enraged. Was there any other way? It all comes back to anger; such is the plight of a Necromancer, a heavily misunderstood Necromancer. This piece continues the decimate.

As I said those two words, “goodbye,” I envisioned their life drain from their eyes. I said those words with a piercing glance that penetrated their core, their soul. I used a tone of voice that matched the stare.

I envisioned their eyes rolling ever so slightly into the back of their head before their skin started to melt off and pool onto the ground circling towards the drain. I envisioned their muscle and sinew start to vaporize in a cloud of smoke rising upwards. I envisioned their skeletal remains simply crumbling on the ground becoming a powdery dust. I envisioned their skull rolling away from me before a casual stranger walked by not paying attention. This casual stranger did not pay attention or notice when they stepped onto the skull shattering it into a thousand pieces. Those pieces too, turned into a powdery dust.

This was not mere illusion; this was from the book of Evocation. How do you look at someone the same way after you envision the above? You do not. You treat them indifferently and move on. As I started to walk away I heard my name echoing off in the distance, but I did not look back. Their voice even now sounds unfamiliar to me. There is pain in that voice. As the tumblers and locks of my inner mind reshape themselves, I forget that they existed. They might as well have been another mouse fed to my ball python back at home. Here five minutes ago and food the next. Food for the wolves and predators that lurk in the watering holes as they lay stranded.

I hear my name echo in the distance again, and again I do not look back. I ignore the sound of my name as easily as I ignored the pocket watch vibrating against my leg, and as easily, as I ignored the sight of the Bishop on the chess table glistening in the Crepuscular sun rays.

Perhaps they will call my name three more times and then leave a message. Since I do not recognize them anymore, I will have to let the sound of my name go to voice mail.

When you know it is for the last time, hold onto that anger. That is all I ever ask of an apprentice in training of the dark arts. This can be a great source of power for you.

sincelery,
Leo

Perhaps I should answer it. Perhaps I should let it go to voice mail and then listen to the message. If the call is important, they will leave a message. If the call is unimportant, they will not leave a message. Does it matter who is calling? The pocket watch vibrates for the third time. At least I should have the common courtesy to check to see if I recognize the number. If I do not recognize the number, I will let it go to voice mail for sure. It could be someone of the crew coming out to meet me. However, it is more likely someone from the crew calling to tell me to meet them elsewhere. I am content here for
the moment leaning up against the wall glancing around the room at the weekend warriors.

I once heard a quote that a ringing phone has to be answered. There is anti-compelling desire to interact with others of your own species in any manner. That is why humans are pack animals with a herd mentality. The fastest form of communication is currently the telephone in this modern age. The average call lasts only two to four minutes. There is more than enough time to talk about the who, what, where, and when in that brief timetable. However, I am and always interested in the why. The why never enters into the conversation on the telephone, and hence is not worth answering. The pocket watch vibrates for the fourth time.

The unspoken piece of the conversation is why of all the people they have in their walking rolodex of numbers that they chose you to call. The pocket watch vibrates for the third time. Maybe I am thinking too much, and I only realize the vibrations between thoughts?

What do they want from me of all people? I am thinking I should just wear a watch and leave the telephone at home. The pocket watch vibrates for the fourth time. Did I lose count? At least this will be over soon if I do nothing. Doing nothing is still making a choice. Then again, I do like the reassuring snap of closing the lid. Perhaps, I will get an analog pocket watch instead.

The telephone becomes a device in which one person can not only reach out and bother someone else when it is least convenient, but they can ask you for something as well. That is pure genius in my opinion. There is no limit to when and how someone can harass you. The less you want others to harass you the less you listen to them when they speak.
Instead of practicing the art of dialogue or conversation, one person merely talks at the other. Since one person is talking at the other, and there is no exchange of ideas, the person not paying attention takes a passive aggressive tone. In this scenario, the most common telephone scenario, nothing happens except time is wasted. My time is to valuable to let others speak at me trying to convince me to dedicate my resources to their cause.

The pocket watch vibrates for the fifth and final time. This time I am sure of the count. Here is to not talking at you on the phone. In retrospect, very few can understand me, and those that do understand me do not use the telephone to talk with me they use e-mail when both parties can communicate in depth on their own timetable. I do not get
many of those either lately; perhaps it is because I do not talk to them on the phone to ask them to e-mail me? I will give it a minute to see if they either call back, or if the pocket watch vibrates ever so slightly letting me know that their is a voice mail.

Ignoring another phone call, that is a rather pointless accomplishment: Worthy of a chalk mark. I think so. My job here is done then. Time to move on.

Sincelery,
Leo

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, even if those feelings make them resemble a doormat more than a mammal. Those feelings make them thunderous to prove that they exist. They need to scream to feel alive. That would explain why the walking dead are often so loud, boorish, and arrogant. That would explain the thought process of a weekend warrior. They find me disturbingly quiet and reserved. How little they know about how disturbed I actually am.

What about the goal from earlier? That goal is to know for sure that there is so much night left and tomorrow is so far away. If I had a checklist of all the things I have accomplished, yet never needed to do, it would stretch for miles. I place a chalk mark on the ground signifying the first of five pointless accomplishments tonight. When I am complete, I will mentally connect the dots and draw a circle around them before lighting a piece of blank paper in the center. Keep in mind that tonight will span over a month at the rate these minutes tick by.

Does it matter the time, since there is nowhere to be except right here and right now? Why must we always preoccupy ourselves with the future at the expense of the present? If only you are able to accomplish this and that, then tomorrow will be better. My hand still hurts from the last time I pondered on tomorrow. Yesterday I slept on an air mattress, while today I sleep on a bamboo mat.

Tomorrow, I will remove the Katana from the wall, and do so many things that I will never accomplish in the near future. Perhaps I left the house to find a better place to sleep. Was that the goal? I thought the goal was to eat Pizza? There I go again, confusing causality with effect. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is eating Pizza.

When you have an idea, if you procrastinate, that idea is dead. Habitual routine takes over and the feeling of content will keep you from your aim or purpose. At least with a pirate flag held high above my bamboo mat, the experience still resembles that of a raft. The gentle hum of an electronic fan resembles the roar of the ocean. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is restful slumber giving me excess energy.

Occasionally, a brief poorly structured scribbling of text flashes across the LCD screen. Even then, it is usually from someone less than 100 feet away that does not want to scream across a crowded room. People find me disturbingly quiet, and they themselves speak to each other in scribbled text in a crowded room? Perhaps, I am not as disturbed as I thought.

How long ago did I start walking to find his crossroad of regret and despair? The streets are already starting to fill up with weekend warriors attempting to hit up “happy” hour specials before 22:00, and perhaps sneak in past a cover charge or two. Their badges of honor become wristbands much like a decorated solider flashes their ribbons or medals on the home front.

Walking in the shadows almost invisible to the naked eye, I travel undecorated and at will. I do not concern myself with badges of honor or trophies. One pointless accomplishment completed, and four more to go. With a handshake, sardonic smirk, and a sarcastic remark, I enter the den where regret meets despair.

That would explain how the aroma made its way this far from the shop. The alley is desolate, and the perfect place to emerge from the shadows into the mainstream just long enough to strike and dart back into hiding. Of all the things to twirl between his right fingers, a stick of chalk would be the least expected, but the most needed for tonight’s adventures. Checking his pocket, he did remember to bring his lighter as well. The other material components such as intoxicants, stimulants, and test subjects are just around the corner.

Pizza is on sale this time of night, before the hordes of weekend warriors run amuck until the wee hours of the dawn before retreating into a state of sullen regret. Pizza is on sale this time of night, because the only people about are those that will cater to the weekend warriors in less than 2 hours time. Pizza is on sale this time of night, because those people who cater to the weekend warrior have grown tired of Pizza, and do not covet it.

The sale is the only way to draw them inside to partake in warm sticky gooey bread. If the price is low enough, perhaps the store will see a demand. Pizza is only on sale this time of night, because no one wants to eat Pizza. The ironic tale of supply and demand told in such a cruel fashion on a night such as this. How sad is the world when one does not covet Pizza? Pizza might be called the world’s most perfect food to those that are aware of the impact Pizza has on group dynamics. It is all in the tells, all in the tells.

The open-faced sandwich, meant for your traveling party to share, topped with a mixture of the essential food groups combine your clique into one common unit. Tear from the central pot of nutrients and share your tales of bravery and woe. Tear from the edges in unison and enjoy the company of your comrades. Fold and stuff it quickly into your mouth if you do not want to enjoy it, or take small precious bites to savor the moment.

There is so much to learn about a group of people by simply watching them eat communal food. You can see who the Alphas are, as they take first, fold in half, and then sit back boasting. You can see who the pleasers are as they take last, and also fold in half to be able to sit back and make sure everyone else’s needs are met. You can see who the outsiders are as they wearily take with a lack of confidence, and will follow the movements of the Alpha not folding to keep themselves occupied with eating. Those just under the Alphas, the lieutenants, will take before the outsiders and they will not fold out of defiance. This all happens without anyone realizing it. Given enough time these lieutenants will stand up to the Alpha, just give it time.

Watch carefully next time, and see how the Alpha, or lieutenants treats his significant other in this case. Does he take her for granted? If so, he will take for himself and let her, fend for herself. He does not care about her needs, and she is miserable for it. Does the lieutenant take before the Alpha’s significant other? If so you can be sure that the Alpha not only takes her for granted, but also does not even want her present. Does the Alpha mock the lieutenant for being kind to his significant other? How does the lieutenant respond? That response will show you his true level of defiance.

This group as described is the easiest to cripple. Simply start by talking to the one who takes last, and then pull away with those that lack confidence. Odds are they lack confidence and stick around because they are interested in the Alpha or the Alpha’s significant other. Give them something else to chase and a better chance for success. They will be yours to command. You merely present them with an out.

At least one dozen, possibly more, weekend warriors will fight ferociously against their own inner demons and lose. These fallen warriors will lose more than their tomorrow, but their dignity and their will to carry forward retreating into the inner recesses of their habitual droning. The harder one fights against one self the more one will end up losing when they fall. Run from yourself and smash into your own wall you spent years building. It exists to trap you inside more so than to keep others out.

A slight drizzle causes the droplets of water to bounce off his cap as he pushes hit hat back onto his head using his left hand. The water stings ever so slightly. The water makes its way inside the bandage touching the last of the open wounds from punching the mirror so many weeks ago. Glancing down at his pocket watch, I notice the time on the LCD screen says 19:47. Time to set up camp where despair meets regret and go on a recruiting mission. I think I might be in the mood to pretend to eat Pizza later this evening.

sincelery,
Leo

It is not as if I could simply trade this world for another physically or metaphysically.

Instead, I could sit and continue to gaze at the stars while anthropomorphically personifying some elaborate concept transcending levels of spirituality. There would be a great debate on cause and effect due to the mind grappling with reason and conscience. It is a virtuous internal debate on immorality and ethics.

I continue to drift on the raft now with my left hand, almost healed, lapping waves. The last port, albeit brief did nothing to satisfy my needs, wants, or desires. Perhaps I should concentrate more on assembling a party of skeletal warriors for the upcoming battle. The game of smoke and mirrors only requires one or two key lieutenants capable of preprogrammed thought when the dark battles the light. Animate, recreate, and decimate.

Just get caught up in the wake of my raft and you will see what I mean. My strongest passion lies within the kiss of death. I speak this phrase in an utterance with a glib sincerity, “Let’s just be friends.” Is that fear I now smell? Can I taste that fear too, it smells delicious?

There is still a sense of unease that a conflict brews close on the horizon. Conflict always brews on the horizon, because for one party to prove that they are right, another party must be proved wrong. The conflict strengthens their own resolve, because they themselves lack security in their ethics. The less secure they are with themselves the more likely they are to lash out at others. Does fighting back mean that one is also insecure in their beliefs? In this case fighting back is an attempt to earn the respect of onlookers who undoubtedly feel that they have choices in life. That ploy for respect is the animate.

The dictionary defines how to apply the process of applying anthropomorphism, but not in the reverse. This piece is the recreate.

Perhaps, the dictionary’s ego runs unchecked denying an animalistic nature to the common human. Common human? Any human would be more fitting. It is all in tells, all in tells. Here is an experiment played out in reverse anthropomorphism, where humans take on characteristics of rodents. Not just any rodent though. Let us use the simplest of rodents, the common inbred pet mouse.

These truths of our animalistic nature are all buried within tells that humans subtly do to each other. If you understand tells, you can start to see and predict how humans will interact with each other. Those days of mouse wrangling did me good on predicting how humans will forage for sales in bargain bins much as the mice hunted the fresh cup of food for the sunflower seeds. They fought for dominance on who was first to the food bowl. They were weary of outsiders, and only felt comfortable when their closest surroundings remained undisturbed. Confused on the “they” yet between man and mouse?

The mice, slept made bedding from cotton, and slept under paper much as humans also make their bed. If the mice did not have this bedding, the stress became palatable, and they act anxious. The mice would also have a pecking order in who received the most comfortable place in the nest, much like parents dictate where their young sleep in the house. A female mouse also is prone to eat her first litter. There is one area where humans and mice are different, or are they. People often hurt those closest to them. This piece is the decimate.

sincelery,
Leo

It is standard practice for a necromancer to not only communicate with the dead but to command the dead to act according to his own will. I vowed a long time ago to never exchange passion with the dead, but like most resolutions, it was broken even before I could finish the sentence. The dead are so easily to animate with the lie you can give them life. Even if you give them life for a moment, they become dead again once you leave often times before you head out the door. Perhaps to be alive, truly alive for one moment is worth an eternity of living death. Why fight one’s nature with a conflicting demeanor? These demented eyes have seen too much, have experienced too much to keep from sharing torment with those around me. The trail of blight and decay long stretches behind me with creaking embers glowing in the distance of shattered bridges. Who burned those bridges? Not I, it was always them.

The mirror in the bathroom pales in comparison to the shattered bridges of my past. The bandage on my left hand will become a warning flag to all those around me.

People often ask each other a relatively harmless question, “So, what are you thinking?” However, the answer to such a question if spoken by one capable of thought is neither refreshing, rewarding, nor requested. It is always better to lie in this case, and state what the other person wants to hear. Never let someone know what you are truly thinking, because if you do, then they will have either an advantage over you, or they will succumb to the fear of knowing the truth. Nothing is more harmful and malicious than the truth, so comfortably lie to them. Comfortably lie to them if you want to feign the truth and prolong the agony. Speak the truth and end your own suffering. There is a better answer though. Simply state that, “You really don’t want to know.”

Leave yourself in a comfortably numb state. A state where you know you lie to protect them. Protect the dead from ever having to experience true pain and suffering. A state where you know the protection comes at your own expense. This protection comes at your expense and suffering. How much longer must there be give and no take? How long will you help others at your own expense? For me, the answer is no more, or not since a while ago is more accurate. Tonight, I might regret that decision looking at the result of my actions.

Tonight’s encounter was a bit different than most. The embrace involved something that felt quite natural at the time, but never had I experienced or practiced it before. Tonight’s action was second nature, and yet there was never a guide, spell book, or instance where
I stumbled across a self-help or how to. I was not even aware that this was a skill that a necromancer or a Psion could possess. Spiking and flaring are dangerous arts though. The motion was simply to breathe in deeply during the embrace. If there is an airtight seal of both lips and essences, then the outcome if a bit different than standard fare. The motion of breathing in deeply to suck all the oxygen out of her lungs as opposed to just exchanging saliva felt invigorating. Since it was my first time, perhaps I went a bit overboard. That could explain what happened next.

She now lay twitching on the ground subdued to any sort of stimuli in the world around her. Here I thought I was merely going through the motions. Who knew that the motions held power such as this? I am done with this one. I seek other victims in the land of the walking dead. They are all walking dead, and I do not seek to find another living being in this lifetime. The dead comfort me in their emptiness.

Through my death sight, I have become a necromancer. Follow in my footsteps, and walk with me in blight and decay. I promise you a world where the grass is browner, and if you are lucky enough, you will get to attend the funerals of all of your friends before your children can attend yours. This end, I promise you. I promise you if you are able to possess such luck. If not, let my wrath provide you a glimmer of sanctuary. I continue to hate this world with every ounce of my being, and will one day find a way to….

Sincelery,
Leo

Cupping the water gently up to my lips, the water tastes of despair. Despair tastes very bitter. Bitter is one of the tastes the tongue can specifically differentiate when tasting food such as salts, sours, and sweets. Bitter supposedly triggers a response in the brain that one should not eat the food since it is poisonous.

Yet, here I drift on my raft tasting and consuming the bitter water. Ironically, I consume this water knowing it cannot quench my thirst. Knowing that that the water is poisonous to me. The bitterer the water tastes, the more I am sure that I travel on the right path. Such is the penance a necromancer pays to practice his craft. At least this path is kept warm by the black trench coat I wear with the regal deep purple liner. I must remember to practice my spells, and memorize those arcane movements with speech patterns to protect me from the self-righteous and good. They are out, and close. I can sense their presence.

The water might as well be coffee, alcohol, tea, lemon, ginger, horseradish, or any number of bitter foods that we consume on a regular basis to challenge our minds to eat poison. Stupidity is its own reward at this point. Is this a case of stupidity, or of one on a Stoic path of conviction? Is conviction itself a rationalization of stupidity and following tradition? Can one see the sea from the height of the crested wave, or only the next pier that one is about to crash into?

Is this another case of drinking too much, or not enough? Since the bitter water cannot quench my thirst, the answer to that question is irrelevant. Many irrelevant questions lately. Many answers without the proper questions. Since the answers do not match the questions, the journey to find questions for the answers propels me forward. A self-destructive thought briefly passes through my mind that if I were to just punch the raft with my Katana this all can end. This all can end so quickly, but then the journey will be over. This journey has just begun, or has just begun to continue. This journey will end, and yet the answers will never have questions. A multiple choice where there are no wrong decisions, because the question was never made clear. I have answers, probably not to your questions, but I have answers nonetheless. Let me pull from my pre-written note cards and hand you an answer to the question I think you are about to ask.

Not that puncturing the raft would have any profound effect either. I would simply drift wet and float, as opposed to being able to lay comfortably and take in the surroundings. I would exchange warmth for coldness, and be no better off than I was before. When I arrived at the next wall, I would salvage planks and build a new raft, only losing energy and time in the process. The self-destructive thought passes.

Wait a second. I do not even remember departing the mound. I do not even remember abandoning my post where I so vigilantly watched the damned burn in an eternal pyre of misery. Where am I? Why have I left my place of comfort to drift along these poisonous seas?

Since when was leaving the sanctity of the inner psyche a good place to venture forth? Is this how a necromancer becomes a lich wizard? Did I ever want to be a necromancer in the first place? Might as well finish the task at hand though. Stoic conviction propels me forward, and there is a new target on the horizon. The stronger the water becomes, the closer I am to that next port.

Sincelery,
Leo

Your construction of that wall will give more away to the trained eye than what you are trying to protect. As you build this wall, you reveal yourself through the artistic slant placed in the foundation. The flaws become the building blocks of your towering heap of rubble. The older you get, the weaker your foundation becomes until you collapse your own wall and drown in your own misery.

These Ramparts you built fight off invasion from the Vikings and Pirates of the high seas. Those marauders will pillage, rape, and desecrate your core being if given a chance. They will always leave unsatisfied since that being is empty. Other lesser barbarians chip away slowly at your precious wall though. These lesser barbarians come constantly and inconspicuously while they chip away quietly in the night. They will cause your foundation to collapse, because you do not protect yourself from them.

The waves of dissonance and discord smash into the barrier reefs of reality. As each wave crests into the pier, it takes with it a plank of wood, and a barnacle or other sea creature that made its refuge against the shoring. The cresting waves each take, and continue to take back to the sea what once was whole. The cresting waves in return give the shattered remains of what once was living in the form of shell, sand, and seaweed. This attrition makes it easier for the marauders to claim what is left.

Push away all others, and build your wall higher as the water starts to rise. Spend your entire life protecting yourself from the outside world, and never look inside to see there is nothing to protect but the opposite side of the wall. Your hollow existence you call hallow, living in fear is your only reward. I congratulate you for that, and I will contemplate shedding a tear at your funeral someday. Perhaps I will say something to someone who will shed a tear for me at your funeral.

I will talk to you later, I will see you around, and I will call you in the future all become funeral hymns to me. I am a witness to walking death, and leave behind blight and plague in my wake. I might as well wish them a good life at the end of the night and send them packing. I am bard who sings dirges into the early hours of the morning. I knew them only briefly and gained nothing but torment for the occurrence. Perhaps I gave them something to contemplate to chip away at their walls in return.

Once you are gone, there will be a sea of others to take your place. I hear waves crashing, so my idle raft must be coming over the horizon to shatter someone’s reality as I stare at them with the demented eyes. Am I smiling, or baring his fangs in aggression? Am I laughing with you, at you, or at the situation in general?

I place my hand into the ocean and I feel despair. This despair will never quench my thirst, but just infect the world and those around me with pain, sorrow, and agony. However, it is the only way to see past the barrier and know if there is anything behind it. The only way is to follow the course of the waves, tasting the water to gage progress.

Sincelery,
Leo

If people are a consumable and renewable resource, what good can they be for? Let us start with the basics and elaborate on possible ways to consume thy neighbor. Some say people find the utmost peace by the water while others say the ocean is a frightful place of the unknown. Did we come from the water? The answer is yes, as we gestate in embryonic fluid. Did we evolve from fish? Do we have gills? That is irrelevant to this discussion, since we evolved from the womb. Perhaps people’s opinion of the water is a reflection of how they see their mother. They project their feelings of submerging in the fluid with their very childhood and their first years of life.

The embryonic fluid supposedly is saline in nature, and a kin to salt water. Might as well be salt water then, only vitamin enriched. Can they gestate the children of dead mothers in a salt-water fish tank? I have seen close resemblances in movies involving cloning. Has anyone tried to save a second trimester baby in such a fashion? What would they hook the umbilical chord to? This vaguely sounds like an IV connected to bag of liquid food. Sadly, adults cannot drink this fluid and receive sustenance from it. This disconnect must be a safety mechanism for society.

If they could drink it, they would. Not only would they, certain cultures would brag about it. I would sure hate to wake up one morning and go to the store to find cans or bottles of embryonic fluid energy drinks on the shelf. The marketing for it would great though: “Drink Life Deeply,” “Feel Alive,” or “Harness the Power of Youth.”

With marketing you can convince the herd to do almost anything though. People eat and drink what is not healthy for them all the time. What could not be healthy about drinking the very substance, which sustains young life?

A pregnant woman’s water would no longer break; doctors would carefully drain the fluid when the time was right before a cesarean section. Eat your new son’s slightly grilled placenta and wash it down with mother’s water. You should not eat meat and milk in the same sitting, so that option is gone.

The craze would be endless, and people would have embryonic bombs with shots of Yager dropped into the fluid for the ultimate human buzz. Which do you prefer with your Yager? Bull Testicle Hormone, or Human Embryonic Fluid? Use Tequila instead and skip the salt phase. Just do the shot, and eat the lime since the salt is already there. Patron and Mother’s Water is very smooth, very very smooth. You will have to trust me on this one.

I would only hate to wake up one morning and see these cans or bottles in the store of Mother’s Water, because I thought of the idea publicly more recently. Someone else merely beat me to production. This water would be synthetic, since it would take too long to harvest naturally in the field. You would not really be drinking human embryonic fluid, just cloned fluid. I mean artificial fluid with artificial flavors.

The natural stuff would then fetch a very high price on the black market. That is where I would make my money. Trafficking the real thing to Ivory Tower young professionals caught up in the wave of implants and plastic surgery. I could even see more marketing spin in the form of, “Mother’s Water from a Virgin.” That would be spectacular, and probably in a pink or sky blue label.

Would you rather have your Ivory Tower young professionals snorting cocaine, or drinking Mother’s Water to get ahead and crash into their glass ceiling? That is the real question here: What do they want to use to crash?

sincelery,
Leo

That is the true definition of good vs. evil. Good is the ability for one person to serve a purpose to society as a whole. Evil is when one not only knows that good is the ability to serve a purpose, but one can craft that knowledge to serve one’s own purpose for selfish intent and motives. If the outcome of an evil action is good, does that make the action itself any less evil?

The cold unyielding engine that is any industry realizes the true power of evil and uses it constantly to feed on the youthful and the ambitious. Industry uses the following magical spells to serve its malignant hunger:

Tell them to aim high, and then place barriers in their way
Tell them they can be anything, and then limit their ability to get there
Tell them they are gifted, and hold them back because they lack experience
Create a small crisis that needs immediate attention to hide the big picture
Constantly give them hope, but never follow through with substance
Keep them busy, too busy to realize what is actually happening
Limit the information you distribute to them

How can any one industry be so evil? The answer is through numbers and separation. The further you distance yourself in an ivory tower from the impact of your actions the easier it is to make those actions.

It is simpler for a commander to push a button to drop a bomb on a small city than for a sniper to shoot one person.
It is simpler for a sniper to shoot one person than for an infantryman to engage someone in hand to hand combat.
It is simpler for an infantryman to engage someone in hand-to-hand combat, than for an industrial spy to befriend and steal secrets for their agency.

The further the degree of separation the easier it is for a person to commit acts of evil. People are numbers, and not named individuals. They do not take the time to get to know a person on a personal level, but rather just know a person based on their skill set, knowledge, and ability to perform a task. If that one person is no longer reliable, just replace them with someone more dependable.

The easier it is to communicate and travel, the easier it becomes to separate yourself from the underlings who do your bidding. The easier it also becomes to find those willing to serve. Once you live your life to serve, you will spend your life serving instead of enjoying it. You will get caught up in the system, its games, and its draining nature. Are you quick to snap at solicitors that call you on the phone? Are you just as quick to snap at solicitors that walk up to you on the street? Are you just as quick to snap at your so called friends you surround yourself with?

Serving will leave you empty, hollow, and lonely having wasted your best years following someone else’s evil intent. Life is a journey, one that ends in a cold lonely death, and how fast you want to get there is your decision. Once you are gone, there will be a sea of others to take your place.

Sincelery,
Leo

Each minute becomes a month in the short lifespan of this one night, and this one night is not specific to any given night. This one night can be any night, and all nights at the same time. This one night is any night you choose to interact with strangers at a club, bar, party, or small gathering. This one night could even be when you choose to interact with yourself.

In the proper setting, there will be an exchange of conversation, people will share drinks, and people will experience life. People will then meet others, or stick to their small groups occasionally bringing in outsiders whom some of the group does not know. People will reveal their hopes, dreams, aspirations, and expectations to each other. Those are glorious nights where people truly live.

Each morning I wake up sad, realizing that so many people died to me the night before. They died the second I left the room since I will never interact with them again. There could have been so much potential to move forward towards building bridges. Instead, they are part of the forgotten past. Those bridges burned quickly as the entire night was spent dousing the bridge in fuel. Anger is the next sensation to wash over me, since anger is a great medication for sadness without taking happy pills.

The resolve knowing that they lived last night is not comforting to the awareness that they will never live again in my mind. Hence, they are all dead. I am slightly the cause of that death, which brings about an even greater state of sadness. Those around me will bring me great pain, and I will bring great pain to those around me. That is my true and powerful gift to the world to share my hatred and discontent with those that bring me pain.

What actually happened last night? What did they say? What did they do? How did I react? These memories move forward, become warped by substances and perceptions never really revealing a true picture. I could always recreate the past to make it more comforting with falsehoods and hyperbole, but the rational truth is cold. This rational truth is cold only because it leads to the emptiness that is morning.

People tend to build walls to protect themselves, and never open up to other people. In reality, these people are forgotten within days of passing, and it does not matter what other people know about you. You are not important enough to remember, and whatever you are attempting to hide is not important enough to leave an impact on anyone other than yourself. Bottle up your fears and let them consume you. My world of chaos will be a better place for it since they will distance you from me.

This perpetual cycle of nothingness is never ending. If you see me out in public, please do not approach or talk with me. I do not want to mourn you in the morning as I prepare to head out the door for work.

Sincelery,
Leo

This time around there was no deafening silence. There was no numbing sadness, rage, or hate. The voices actually made sense, and in that moment, I realized the voices had won. They won exactly what they set out to do in the first place.

It is the voice of intuition, which knows me better than I know myself.
It is the voice of guidance, which has strayed me from the pack for my own protection.
It is the voice of salvation, which has led me down this long dark yet comforting road.
It is the voice of reason, which has kept me from the herd for my own good.
It is the voice of damnation, which breeds an outsider looking in mentality.
It is the voice of command, which drives my actions forward.
It is the voice of cleansing, which burns my bridges behind me.
It is the voice of awareness, which is my only true friend.

It was time to revisit that happy place again. However, this time I wanted to take a different perspective on the situation. Instead of supervising the macabre by looking down the mountain into the fields with the funeral pyres of decay, I decided to look behind me.

Behind me were the charred remains and embers of bridges once connecting me to a mainland. The engorging chasm was vast, too vast to look across. I expect at one time like Pangaea they were connected. Was the grass greener there?

Connected, and slowly drifting apart to the point where the rope bridge itself snapped. The fire from the funeral pyre started on the mainland, and just jumped across the suspension bridge to get there. Makes sense that I did not turn my back on society, but society turned its back on me.

In that instant, when I gave into the voices the world ceased to exist. Everything ceased to exist and became blank. I could see nothing, hear nothing, experience nothing, and feel nothing. The darkness enveloped my core being like a white hole pushing out everything a black hole would suck in. This cathartic effect was very calming to say the least.

To describe this feeling as anything other than rebirth would not do the feeling justice. Rebirth as akin to the Phoenix. The Phoenix who recently had the flames burn out. The Phoenix who recently became a pile of ash and soot. The Phoenix who hits rock bottom. Then the Phoenix rises up in a wave of fire and passion in all its glory.

I awakened now to a steeled resolved intent and strengthened purpose. I should have known better than to argue with myself. The obvious damage created has a resounding impact on my surroundings. That reminds me, I still have to go to the store and get a new bed. For it all to start with waking up angry, it looks as if it all ends at waking up focused in intent. The hate and rage still burns within, but now the aim is outwards as opposed to inward.

sincelery,
Leo

Movies glorify one on their deathbed, and gives a chance for the soon to be departed to call out for a long lost friend. They sit there in pain, suffering, and torment until that summoned individual appears to start to say some reaffirming statement of apology.

Right after the burden and weight of that apology leaves the lips of the sick; they pass with their hand firmly tucked into the hand of the one they apologized to. This exact point in time is where the hand slips down to the chest, and the camera pans up to the one who traveled from afar to be there. A tear gently rolls down the side of the cheek, and the camera fades just as life itself has faded from the character. This newfound epiphany sparks life into the one who traveled. They then seek out the next scene inspired taking with them a piece of the deceased if only in memory. Surely, it is magnanimous. Whom will you call when the bell tolls for thee?

This sensation is no more applicable to the real world than a situational romantic comedy. The one where a girl in a poorly treated relationship and guy very much down on his luck manage to break free with each other and move on from their current shackles. It will not be until they almost both lose each other, that they realize how much they are now deeply in love after so short of an amount of time passes. By the end of it all, the guy has rebounded with a better job, and the girl has rebounded with a better man.

While it is believable for the girl in a poorly treated relationship to long for and desire a chance to escape that relationship, they rarely do. Instead, they are enthralled with the comfort of the routine they developed with their significant other. As long as he does not completely ignore her, she will cherish that interaction until they reach an escape point.

That escape point is a drastic change in the life of the guy, and not the girl in the relationship. Such an occurrence is exactly what places a guy down on his luck to begin with. These events usually involve their day job and money. A real situational romantic comedy would start with a guy down on his luck losing a girl instead.

This guy would lose himself in himself, and the pity party created becomes an escape for the girl who is now being ignored. A guy that has stability and treats his significant other poorly, will still have his significant other at the end of the day. Humans are creatures of routine, and the comfort of sleeping next to someone is one of the most ingrained routines they have. It is also the hardest to break, because without the warmth of the body heat, there is only coldness. This routine is no different from looking into a cage full of mice during the day and peering into the nest.

The girl in this case would start down a self-destructive path commonly associated with rebounding. This rebounding is no different from cutting oneself and is a cry for help. No healthy relationship can start from a girl who is a cutter, and a guy that is trying to find himself. The two, if they got together would only find misery, and that misery would be short lived if that.

Usually a girl who is rebounding is attracted to a player that will give them the attention that they need in that moment. They will give them this attention string free, and leave them broken, cut open, and mentally bleeding. This is the screenplay for a real life situational romantic comedy.

Now I just have to sit here and think, in the future when I am on my deathbed, whom shall I toll the bell for to come to hear this tiny passage the warped twisted reality of how life plays out? Perhaps if these two scripted truths of death and relationship are actually falsehoods, how many other truths are nothing more than a pack of lies? The voice from the reflection in the shattered mirror is almost comforting at this point.

sincelery,
Leo