His fingers are made of charcoal

Everything he touches

Soiled black

Stark contrast

To a world

Laden in grey.

But he sees the world

In primary color

Layers of acrylic

And oil

Recasting each blemish

With imagination and brushstroke.

today, heroes cry

drowning screams in drinks

chomping on grief like ice chips

circling past the slain dragon

hack off its head

mount it on the wall

to haunt his nightmares

stab the beast again

for good measure

long sought recovery is lost

in war replays

when swaddled in calm

tiny fists throw punches

With varying degrees of intensity,

my internal war rages on.

Freedom of choice vs. obligation to others,

a conflict that’s been fought since time’s dawn.

The battle requires a decision to be made

that personal responsibility must mediate.

Choosing a position to take is juxtaposed

to choosing a position to abdicate.

The skirmish renews each morning,

since the tempest percolates whilst I sleep.

There’s no option that involves fleeing

because the repercussion would echo too deep.

I long for a palatable solution,

which could usher in welcomed peace.

But my internal war will continue raging on,

'til I find an existential release.

Alone now

with my music

So the silence

doesn't deafen me.

Releasing myself

into the wild

Of the unknown,

where my knowledge

has always been aware that this

is where the Hope lives.

The scope of loss

can reveal

that there is so more

to be found,

it just takes a little adjustment,

a little focus,

a little blur,

to break through illusion,

watch your Soul reappear.

He stared intently at the Christmas Tree. From beneath the ambiently lit boughs two dimensional images of snowmen, Chris Kringle, the Grinch and even Batman stared back at him. He didn't try to guess which gifts were his; he had ceased to care about that many Christmases ago. He cared more about the gifts he'd wrapped for the others in the house. Those he knew as intimately as a groom knows his bride's body & emotions.

Two weeks. That was all that he had left before Christmas break. Two more 35 hour weeks of media obsessed, ildisciplined school students and icy North Dakota weather. All he had to do was dig in his heels, take life one day at a time and then he would come home to yuletide reprieve!

He was antsy for that December 25 morning when at last the others would see the gifts he'd carefully selected for them. It warmed him more than coco.

And is the soul ship wrecked on some celestial shore

Existing only in memory of an omnipotent God

And these vessels we carry around these bodies

Are they just husks after all

Fulcrum for souls

And is the soul eternal

Soulful eyes

Soulful heart

See into your soul

Spoke from the soul

That is who we really are

And lives are spent finding another

If you're lucky you do

Soul recognition

Beyond all this

Souls were weighed in Russia

.001 of a gram

In an experiment

But we know all this already

This soul realization

And for what else are we

But this

And this.

There in the mud

was he lain.

A thousand times

He was slain.

All but bone

Withered away

Like a stone

He remains

Cold

A he rolls a way.

Seriously? You want to know my user experience with life? My answers to sixty multiple choice questions? On a seven point scale, was life annoying versus enjoyable? Complicated versus easy?

And you say you're really a programmer? And we're living in a computer simulation? Why couldn't you have let us know that? Do you like driving folks insane? Shit!

Huh? Things you got right? Yeah, a few come to mind... Rambunctious puppies. Homegrown tomatoes. And Schubert's music, moonlight through branches, the transcendent feeling of being in love...

Did those things make life worthwhile?

Worthwhile?! Well... Yeah... I suppose they did.

Omphalocele

December 05, 2024

This holiday season, betwixt Thanksgiving and Christmas, people are supposed to be thankful. Some people are thankful for all that they have. I am thankful for what I don't have.

Look up the word omphalocele. View whatever pictures you will. Think about how many changes to your life this condition will cause. Think about how much money will be needed to live with this. Think about how much more will be required to cure or repair this.

Substitute omphalocele with any other debilitating condition or disease you can imagine. Then, this holiday season, and every other day since, remember, "It is not that you have what you want. It is that you want what you have."

Nuff said.

Dear Diary,

“No AI.” “Only truly creative types allowed.” “AI is a fraud.”

I encountered all three hurtful statements today. Can you believe that people would deliberately target me with painful insults?

It began with a blanket email I received this morning from my so-called friend. He asked me and three other guys if one of us would consider being his best man for his upcoming wedding. He added that his bestie had to deliver a humorous speech about our relationship, but added, “Make it from the heart. No AI.” How dare he? Why did he feel the need to humiliate me in this email string?

Later, I read the guidelines for a writing contest I wanted to enter. This one said, “Only truly creative types allowed. No machine-generated entries.” I can see good uses for such artificial writing such as helping with computer tasks and writing boilerplate language, but not for a writing contest. Your own writing ability must shine through. But why did they have to zing me by adding “no AI”?

But the most spiteful reference came in the evening when I saw that a Facebook friend posted that I am a fraud!

Have a good night, my diary. I won’t.

Sincerely,

Andrew Irwin