Blackout Writing

Sorry but I must refuse, I cannot do this to a book.

Memorable Passage

People always argue over what is love. They say that teenagers are not in love, they haven't lived long enough to know love. They say that old married couples must be soulmates who were lucky to find each other. Everyone has an opinion of love, and love has no truth, it is like any good art, open to interpretation. That is why a certain passage from Anna Karenina comes to mind. It is about love, seemingly implying that everyone can feel love, we just will all feel it differently. 

"I think... if it is true that 
there are as many minds as there 
are heads, then there are as many 
kinds of love as there are hearts.”
 -from Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Just because someone doesn't share the same kind of love you do, does not make theirs any less true or genuine. People fall in and out of love every day, it is a word that is constantly defined and refined. No one really knows what love is, some will tell you it is a chemical equation in the brain. Others will tell you it's something you feel deep in your soul. One belief does not make the other any less real for someone else. We can all feel love, just as we all can think, we will simply do it in different ways.

If I were in charge of the world

If I were in charge of the world
I'd remove heartache,
Regretted love,
Crashed bikes, and those hacker types. 

If I were in charge of the world
The skies would be clear,
The stars visible, and
Travel not such an impossible goal.

If I were in charge of the world
Death would be a lie.
Love would be genuine.
Life would be truth.
And Hamlet "Not so mad, after all."
He never would have gone crazy.

If I were in charge of the world
Ophelia would never have drowned,
Families would never be torn apart,
People would know forgiveness, 
Mercy would be standard,
Cruelty would be no more, if I were 
In charge of the world. 

Pillow Talk

He hasn't left me, no he is still alive.
I keep him here in my heart and my mind.
I don't miss his hugs, I keep them nearby.
In the form of a pillow that he used by and by.
He was quiet, a brooding gentle storm.
Harmless, no matter how everyone did scorn.
If they had seen him as I did, how I still do.
Perhaps they would know as I know is true.
The pillow beside me holds the broken promises,
The promises of a boy who died before his time.

Dead, but his body still walks. The one I loved no longer exists, replaced by one who fell out of love as easily as the boy had fallen in love. Did he love me, once upon a time? He cannot recall, or so he says. He remembers not the years we had, the late night skype calls and early morning cheer. But how can he forget what I remember so clear? That is how I know he has died, that someone else uses his name.

If he holds no love, at least he isn't cruel. A young person who makes mistakes, no different from you or I. Someone I saw a life with, a life that faded before my eyes. It wasn't fair, but then life is never fair. It's cruel and Cupid performs the cruelest of hoaxes. Yet I can hope he is happy, as happy as I. If ever I should lose my memory, there is one moment I wish to retain. The homecoming night I spent in isolation at a dance, wishing he were there. The simple joy of returning home, of playing our song, of slow dancing with "his" pillow and pretending it was him. Of reuniting with him that night, if only for a while. If age should take my memory, I give the rest freely, but let me retain the memory of the dance I never had.

Birds

Birds have always appealed to her,
Especially owls, oh be sure. 
Outcasts and demonized like her
She found that misfits can belong.
Happiness is a right, not a liberty.
She learned to speak her mind,
To speak her heart. 
She learned that waves of sadness are just that,
They are just waves, 
And soon enough they will fade.
She knows freedom is a penalty, a curse and a virtue.
Yet would sooner be cursed with freedom than ignorance any day.

Recurring Dream

A recurring dream? I’ve had several recurring dreams. One that has always stuck out to me would be one about the girl and the boy I often write about though. It’s like the middle of a chapter in the middle of a book, you can tell a lot happened before to lead to these events, and a lot will happen after the event. I never get to see any further or before what the dream has always had since I first had it three years ago. Since then, I’ve had this dream at least five or six times. The dream is as follows: He is holding her, she’s bleeding out in his arms. His usually kind and affectionate eyes are full of rage, anger, and perhaps a look of grief. She pleads “No, stay. Please.” And then the dream goes one of two ways. The boy either holds her as she starts to succumb to her injuries, or he lets her go, too bent on revenge to stay and comfort the girl who he always claimed to love so desperately. If he stays, she dies with a smile and his name on her lips, the way she would want it. If he goes, she dies silently, slipping away like the faint hint of a breeze you can’t seem to hold on to long enough on a hot summer’s day. It has a lot of personal meaning to me, a lot of boring stories I won’t delve into on this post.

Dream Threads

He was trapped in a small, compact room with bright shards of glass protruding from every available surface. The blue haired girl reached out for him. He glared, crimson and the scent of copper clung to her arm. She was bleeding. No, he shook his head. Yet she continued to reach for him. Red eyes stared deep into his purple eyes and then he understood. She would die, whether or not she saved him. Glass shattered around her as she attacked it with her sword.

"A." She said simply, knees shaking, lacerations criss crossing her skin, old scars replenished by the new.

"Wiv-" He faltered in speech as she collapsed.

Everything was a blur. He pulled her away to safety, to where he knew the medic would be awaiting her return, prepared to heal the boy that the girl, who had quickly risen to power as a fighter and military leader, loved. The medic who drew their sword, unsure why their beloved leader was being carried, unmoving.

"How is she?" he asked as the medic examined his beloved.

The medic whispered something to an assistant and walked away. The assistant's face went pale as they spoke barely above a whisper. "He siad there is nothing more that they could do, so we had to let her go. I'm sorry."

Other color stuff

~Haikus~
It's pretty black and blue
So well then, who are you to
Be like such a bruise

Her eyes are red
And oh how she makes them dread
What she has said

~Seven line poem~
1 She has such crimson eyes
2 Her dark blue sky is such a lie
3 Such is life, what a cabaret
4 But suck it up, buttercup
5. You are a night flower,
6. Who has no mystical power
7 Locked away in the rose garden

Color Story

The girl's eyes were red, the proof that she was the only one with Mori blood to have escaped the destruction of the land she was born into. Proof of the spideresque  blood that coursed through her veins and the reason for her black widow hourglass symbol.  The blood dripped from an open wound. Old scars criss crossed her arms and legs as badges of honor, her proof that she had fought and survived. She was motionless, watching the sunset. Tomorrow would be another battle, another test for the strength of her heart.

Her hair was a dark blue, unnatural, but then who could call the feral child natural? Not born under a clear sky, the girl had been born under the third full moon of a four full moon cycle. In her veins was the history of many wars, different cultures, all somehow blended and meshed into a rather short and scrawny creature. She was like the water, many different parts all combined and flowing naturally, mixing and never the same pattern twice.

A white rose hung limply from her hand. She'd spent days scouring the land to procure the precious gift, the snow having been a hindrance but not enough for the flower to elude her. Pure, innocent love was what she had found, and a pure, innocent representation was her response, the dove flying overhead seemingly confirming that. Her albino skin was well suited to this wintery wasteland known as the North, her Northerner heritage coming in handy. Nightfall came early in this unforgiving land, and the girl could not help but admire the stars above, her beacons in the sky to guide her to where he would be in hiding, awaiting her arrival, the irony of two star crossed lovers, she thought silently. 

The sky was midnight black, save for the stars which would guide her to him. His dark eyes sought her out in the snow, seeking the familiar hair and glowing eyes. The cawing of his crow heralded her approach, and his smile was visible beneath his beard. The boy had escaped the dark castle where he was in training to become a knight. She was his world, and he would sooner death take him than their love be put asunder, the war between their factions be darned. Finally, he could see a shadow, hear the crunch of boots on snow. He left his hiding place, the world going dark as a sword pierced his heart and the words "Death to traitors" fell on dying ears.

The first line last line thingy thing

"The moment one learns English, complications set in." 

Written by Felipe Alfau (January 1st, 1902-January 1st 1999) in the 1940's but not published till the 1990's, Chromos is about Spanish immigrants who come to America and try to blend their old culture with their new culture and find it simply doesn't work. Its setting is slightly apocalyptic. Personally, it sounds like the typical book I would read. Though arguably I probably wouldn't read it due to lacking a passion for literature in recent times.

"This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere."

The author, Sue Kossew, has lived in South Africa, the UK, and Australia. She's published a couple of books. She is currently a professor. 
Pen and Power: A Post-colonial Reading of J.M. Coetzee and André Brink is about two South African writers:
John Maxwell Coetzee who was born February 9th of 1940. He is a South African author. 
Andre Brink (29 May 1935 – 6 February 2015) was a South African novelist. 
Again, perhaps if I still had a passion for books I would want to read this book. I do not, however, and as such would have no interest in reading Pen and Power: A Post-colonial Reading of J.M. Coetzee and André Brink. 

Quotes

Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier and simpler.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

It is always consoling to think of suicide: in that way one gets through many a bad night.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Happiness is only real when shared.

-Christopher McCandless