I Have Returned.

Wonder, wander, wither away.

In a world so void of time and space,

Whither shall the rosebud ever decay?

Greetings to all elven folk and faeries! As evident from the lack of activity concurring throughout this blog, I have obviously been very lackluster toward updating my writing status. Honestly, this lag has disappointed me immensely, and I hope to compensate for any ambiguities I have set upon my readers.

This year, I have divulged a few opinions/facts about literature:

- books dating back to the 1800s can be both a pain and joy to read

- teen romance novels repulse me

- the themes of greed, conceit, and death have been prevalent throughout my readings

Writing has often been a great fear of mine, something one can both love and blatantly abhor. It is a monster that stalks the breadth of our trailing aura, the voice that cues our stopping and goings.

Of course, I am not saying writing is always such an apprehensive idea; sometimes it reveals the truth behind our potential. Contrary to popular belief, you don't have to graduate from Yale to be an excellent writer. Proceeding in said direction might render you a respectable author, but not necessarily an honorable writer.

Authors speak the voice of an ever demanding society, working around the clock to settle the relentless flow of intractable editors and untimely deadlines. Many of them are just what we conceive one professed in knowledge to be: erect, imperturbable, and bursting with wit and humor. But then, others shrivel their inner flame in all courses of events, for the stress accumulated with years of strife and grief eventually cripple what may have once been both beautiful and deadly.

Writers, on the other hand, sing from the depths of their hearts. The light behind evening star, the sigh of meandering breeze... the latter allusions are what truly construct our soul into what it was meant to be. As time continues to take its toll, many neglect such petty ordeals, seeking greater sources of power in the monopoly of life. 

My only message to you is this: don't let society blind you. It's utterly cliche, but please take a chance to find the true epitome of beauty, whether it be repulsive or alluring. As quoted by Anne Frank, "[I] keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be, and what I could be, if...there weren't any other people living in the world."

If ever there were to be

If ever there were to come a day

Where green left silver passing;

In woodlands born and withered

May starflower be ever lasting .

How broken the songs now echo

Upon fallow seas torn asunder

If there may come a day

When paths gone tither will wonder.

Tell me of another rose

That may bloom beneath cloven tree.

Speak of mortal greens

That replace golden casting.

If there were ever a forgotten day

Where eternity softly breathed;

In woodlands born and withered,

Thus the seasons were ever bereaved.

The Road goes on and on

At the end I will meet you
on the silver road.
I will see you clad in white
moving on
on
on.

Over tea and biscuits will
the Sun shine unawares.
Such oblivion to light
and ignorance to
dark.

It will never matter again
as the Road winds on and on.
I will wait for you
always
with taut fingers,
darkened claws.

-----------------------------

It means not that I have gone,

Or come at the very least.

How lovely the times have passed,

So fattened with its feast.

Will moonshine sustain us ever on?

In her eye I glimpsed

a wounded memory.

It lives on now

as corrupted legacy.

At last the star shines upon Eden, upon all.

Looking Up

As a child, I always believed the sky to be a sacred little realm where the Faerie-people often had seed-cakes and pudding to satisfy the hunger pangs that provoked their stomachs. Sometimes they dined under the stars, with the moon to guide their evening serenades; and sometimes at the crack of dawn, sewing cobwebs along the seams for tablecloths. They drank sunshine for tea and sculpted the most elegant tables out of clouds and various mists. Silence itself was their music, and it would be sacrilege to deny this common assumption.

Yet, science intruded this childhood fantasy, and soon crooked-nosed tutors tapped their "wands" sharply against whiteboards, instructing us to understand astronomy and the water cycle under microscopic attention. They expected us to be riveted by condensation and steam and bore into our minds the countless constellations that I still cannot thoroughly recollect. I enjoyed learning things through a disparate perspective, but I couldn't relieve myself of the world I worshiped as a child. Time never took its toll when it came to common sense.

I ask you; where have the innocent days gone?

Just a thought...

She paused, and time paused with her. There is nothing to be said, unless you know what you are saying.

            How would you know? How can you live a life that is not a gift, but rather a fate - a wound that could not be healed?

            Furtively, she advanced her gaze towards the tangible shadow, where a barrier drew light from dark. The sinuous arms of a grandfather clock began its daily revolution.

            The bell struck twelve. Midnight.

            Tick! A mother’s countenance shivers into view, and screams reverberate throughout the chapel. Upon the threshold of immortality, crimson blossoms into a vivid memory.

            Tick! A scarlet rose. Never had she believed there to be another. Playing a demure smile, the woman scampers away.

            Tick! In the dingy London streets, a russet hearse trudges sluggishly along. Trailing unobtrusively, the translucent menace pursues its victim.

            Tick!

            Tick!

            Tick!

            She opened her eyes to be welcomed by another smile and another flash of vivacious red. Behind her, time paused, but she did not dare to stop with it.

            The dark shadow plunged sluggishly toward the snow, playing its elusive figure once more.

            She closed her one window to the world, and her resounding sigh snaked through the strands of her sedate hair before sinking to a broken void.

            I accept.

--------------------

Hope you enjoy! The tense switch was done on purpose; I'm only stating this to avoid any confusion.

Ah, I'm heading towards the art store soon. That's a prospect to look forward to, I suppose.

Dear Death

It is with some concern that I say that I'm feeling tad morbid right now. Oh, the joy of rainy days.

Not that I despise the music of gentle pattering, or am ignorant to the tears of nature. It's just that after being so accustomed to glorious sunshine, a gloomy sky of drab, drab gray can a downer.

Anyway, here is a letter to death that wrote for school. And no, I am not kidding when I say that I actually wrote to death.

And to those who have read my previous post, I may be taking it down because there are details I want to revise in the excerpt. In other words, I am not really compatible with what I had written there.

So to not dull this prosy day even more, here we go...

(Yes Nat, this is a vocab assignment. Week 11 to be exact)

Dear Death,

            Whenever light falls to dark, I perceive a shadow that swoops furtively upon the open prairie. It often appears to be a motif, a reminder of the most beautiful yet daunting story.  Yet, I know that with this eclipse, you ensconce yourself in a dingy hovel, writhing in not your own agony, but our remorse.

            It is said that man leads an incorrigible conscience, and that because of this inevitable streak, we will never live a day in which the vile poison of want and ignorance is extinct. For years, I have stood as sentries by countless individuals and watched them be seduced by greed, speculating the claws that tear their lives apart. But you always elude the enigma that wreathes your very breath at the last precarious moment, and you obliterate their vanity and self-conceit. You are their one salvation.

            Despite this benevolent consideration, you express no ingratiating feelings toward our race; no daring smiles of encouragement or firm assurances of support. Instead, you precipitate sorrow and mock our population in their most wretched and indigent hour. I sometimes question our very existence: are we another one of the Greater Good’s inscrutable mistakes, not a gift, but rather a “result?”

            Perhaps we should not have slipped past the cunning fingers of the one who gave us the chance to breathe, the one who presented us with the ability to dream and think. So many of us let these neglected talismans fly away or inflict them upon others with a dark motive. It is certainly disheartening to be a spectator of intemperate plundering paralleled with stingy alms, and even more so when you realize these souls are linked to you by relentless chains. But you will be there. You will rinse away our muddled colors and replace them with your very own.

            I have often heard that the most insignificant, innocuous endeavors can bring upon the greatest change, though whether or not the reforms strive for a brighter future is still one of Life’s intriguing mysteries. Even though you may not have yet divulged the truth, something unfurls whenever you take a burden in your arms. It is as if the question mark perched upon their shoulders dispels into light, and through their grief, they see a revelation – the rawness of their actions. The feigned insipidness they once expressed to each other crumbles to a formidable unity, as if the lines that divided them are the ones that tie them closer together.

            While we will never wholly exterminate the intractable problems that bring so much turmoil and bloodshed, the conflicts can undoubtedly be mended with time and forgiveness. Because you will be there, healing and destroying the worlds you played a part in creating.

It is with a bittersweet tear, however, that I annunciate I am not indefatigable, for the sigh of fate emanates from every cell and garden I now place my foot in. Perhaps this pronouncement echoes in a rather irrelevant tone with the rest of my salutations, but I thought you would like to know and plan for the upcoming career.

I shall see you tomorrow, if it ever comes.

Sincerely,

Unknown

           

           

                         

Immobility

There is often a secret behind the russet gate -

A glint of gold worth knowing.

Where sinuous vines blight to ashen gray,

A story is still yet growing.

When her eyes first lit upon the evening star,

Charcoal gripped a fallen tear.

The lines that caressed her defeated gaze spoke,

“Death, I am here.”

A butterfly crept along her silver tresses,

Drinking cups of sunshine from the sill.

Shadows fed upon my wary soul,

Bringing sorrow without the pain.

Where youth once scampered with an ignorant laugh,

Age now smiles in vain.

Where vivacious red once seized her hue,

Violet now fades by day.

Behind the visage blackened by fate,

A crimson rose is still a-bloom.

A vibrant leaf of timeless light

Still lives in the heart of you.