Tall, skinny but cumbersome at the arms. Flowing hair of umber, carob brown, twinkling eyes, a pale complexion with light freckles around the upturned nose, a long, thin neck, leading to a bulky body of muscle. Bulging veins and a defined jawline complete him. That man. That man, perfect for me.

Coincidental instances got us talking, his polite, humble personality shone through his good looks, and I longed to see him every moment of every day. Often seeing him around, perhaps at a field or the forest, at a hunt, and each time, I would notice the subtle intricacies in him that defined his character in such depth. The fiery compassion and determination in his eyes astounded me, and regardless of buckets of sweat that trickled down his shoulder blades, he would consistently work harder than ever.

Weeks passed, and as we agreed on moving in, the relationship we now had, bonded us together, closer than ever. A tiny, little house, at the edge of the town, was quite enough to suffice our basic needs and minimal budget. Through the weeks, we got familiar with our neighbors, barely having any, it seemed right to maintain good relations with them. A retriever they had, his luscious golden locks that flared suggested a sweet personality, however, seemingly senseless whines and growls around my new partner would quite often startle me.

About a month later, the calendar remarked a day of a full moon, something relatively important to him; circled with a red marker. Thick, dense clouds began to pillow up over the blackened sky, as a violent patter stomped over our roof, the sound it made, muddled into a single whirring noise that kept us up for a while. Sleep eventually overcame us, and the events outdoors made a pattern of noises that we used to our advantage. I rubbed my hand against the other pillow, a minor dent it had, a hollow sensation. He wasn’t in bed. He was doing it again, that consistent behavior displayed once every thirty. That strange glint in his eye, the short temper and rotten stench he had off, recited a different perspective on the story I was living in. His excuse of terrible hunts seemed too implausible to believe, which pushed me to think that something was wrong, very wrong…

I trod down the stairs when I heard a stir in the passage, which I stopped to listen to. An abrupt halt to the suspicious activity forced me to go investigate, as I inched towards the now visibly radiant light source which directed me to the kitchen. I stopped. It seemed easy, all too easy to be true. I spun around, scared-looking and stiff, my eyes wide, unable to process the horrifying things I saw.

It was the feet that transformed first. Horrible, outward, textured skin with boils, and claws, that sprang towards the ground from its end. Appearing fleshier than ever, it turned a pale white color, the absolute opposite of the rest of the tanned figure. Next was the body. Hair detached itself as if fried in the nearby light, as it became flat. Flatter and whiter, much like a girthier version of a worm. But truly, it was the face that changed the identity completely. The mouth grew wider, the jaws expanded to hold the pointy teeth, adapted to tear the hardest of flesh, dull and dark from ignorance. The ears disappeared, as the eyes turned a disgusting shade of yellow, outlined with a layer of ivory, like a cataract.

I squinted at the unbelievable happenings and noticed a darkened figure that slid across, its shadow perched on the floor and half a stair, to my right. It held abnormal objects, and those, I couldn’t risk being used against me.

Crash. Glass flew overhead and onto a previously invisible surface, leaving shatters of pieces of shard that individually reflected little parts of the scene, with bits of glass that were used to do so. I picked one up and saw the creature in front of me was what was now reflected on the polished surface. I turned to notice the source, a man with a face of trembling fear, as the bulging veins and muscular arms aimed a round object at me, his flowing brown hair that ran to the woods of the shadows and twilight, as I stared at the blessed night sky that exhibited an ethereal glow…

the sun rises

and fate is still sleeping

she’s on west coast time

the plans are all scrap paper

blank slate, carte blanche

the fresh gambit of today

take it in stride

pick up the stragglers along the way

both the innocent and the enemy

and call upon the optimist

lock arms

embrace togetherness

let goodness emanate from you

be a spectacle for the skeptic and the cynic

let them sunbathe in it

because you can

you are the fighter, the winner

the boxer, the tightrope walker

life is a skill you acquire

mistakes exist on the unpaved way

you will trip

and when your shoelace is untied

stop and fix it

then run, catch-up

sometimes we falter

tremble but conquer

Cunning.

Looking not so keen, but perhaps a little mean. If you step around to look at different angles you can see a deadly sheen, not so easily perceived just on looking.

Thoughtful.

Taking stock of all I see, not a tiny thing it seems, can escape the perceptive nature of the rarely noticed beast.

Angry.

Built by sorrow and regret, not allowed to err forget, the skullduggerish effect on my being. Taking issue with myself and the way I now reflect, on how I choose to answer when Noone can see me.

Relevant.

Though you try to overlook me with your lofty entitled tude. I shall be one to remind you, of the recourse of what you choose. I sense a bit of pompous air, about your crooked grin. I choose to let that guide you, for I'm all about free men.

Dangerous.

Ah' I see curiosity, all over your halfly embarrassed face. As your nose turns down, back toward the ground, you wonder of the taste. But in my eyes, you surely see, the end as your God chose. And wonder from what man made hell, this devil hath arose.

......

I sat upon the shoulders, of my grandpa proud and true. He told there'd be lot's of men, just like the likes of you. He told me there would come a day that I must make a stand, and spent the last days of his years, to cultivate this man. The stuff that he was made of, I've scant seen across this land. He knew that I'd be tested, by my family and my foes. And just how Papa knew it, I guess I'll never know. He taught me to have compassion for the others that have needs. And taught me that I pay one day, for my wrongful deeds. He knew that I had to be tough, but soft when times need be. For he saw a different future, in the boy that became me. He gave lot's of wisdom, some I've lost throughout the years. I wish that i still had it, so i could share it with my peers. He said always make decisions, after you've thought on them a while. And never pass a chance at love, or to see your loved ones smile. You see, all the best of that great man, lives in me today. And on I'll push to see the end, no matter how far away. I'm only bound by memories, that wish to hold me still. But nothing short of death, will ever crush my will.

-Gentleman Bastard

From this distance, he is perfect, like a little figurine. He swings his rosy-pink arms, tosses his too-large head, turns to speak to the boy behind him. That smile, sweet as tea— it’s wider and kinder than I remember. He’s growing into his limbs, and into his own dear skin; I was worried he never would. As long as he’s nothing like his sister, he’ll be fine.

Just let me reach out and touch him. No, I will only say hello. From far away, he is beautiful, he is so beautiful and for all the world I would not spoil this. His friends and his favorite things, the sunshine and the dew, soccer on the lawn, I must not touch one mite of it. But he needs to know how proud we are, and he needs to know I care. Only one step closer, and I’ll shout his name.

Haven’t I cursed him enough? He was in my shadow since a child. From here, in the street, not in his orbit, he‘s a figurine. He‘s perfect because I can’t reach him. He runs with his odd gait toward the ball, craning forward, grinning at a small blonde girl. All the children laugh, and I laugh with glee because I can watch him, enjoy the brilliant light that is him. From here, I can love him for him and not for what he is to me.

I see this girl-woman

in front of me,

and I ask her

"Who are you?"

She replies

"Who do you want me to

be?"

I see this girl-woman

unharmonized

and anxious.

Her Soul is so restless,

the pacing has left

tread marks on her heart.

I ask her,

"Where, girl-woman,

do you wish to go?"

She replies,

so wearily,

"You know, you have always

known, I want to go to that

place I don't know."

I cry for this girl-woman

in front of me.

Her time is almost up,

Why does she not make a

move?

"My Soul is tired" says she.

"My hope is losing stride;

I can't make this happen,

this dream I must awaken

to."

"Push"

she says,

reflecting back at me.

"Push me, so I fall,

or death will come for me,

and I will never be set free."

The human Will

—that force unseen,

the offspring of a deathless soul—

can hew its way to any goal

though walls of granite

intervene

There is typically a tug of rope strung between two individuals, and they pull on both ends as if there is something gained to drag the other along with when they win the battle of strength. There is typically a group of people on either side, but for me, it is me and there is them.

Impractical, since we both share the same mind, but the body is my own. I feel each one round up as if to assert control for their preference of lifestyle, though it fits my own in some places and does not in most others. We are not... one in the same per se. I am the creator, the God of their realm and they are no more than a compartmentalized personality, boxed within the confines of my mind. A mind that technically has no limit on space, but can maintain spatial awareness of the living realm and a not so perceptually tangible one all the same.

The fact that they even try to assert dominance over me is no different than the will of another book trying to assert its personality onto mine, like velum paper over canvas, obscuring the little bits of me and reassuring all of its onlookers beyond me that it is in fact me.

I am here to assert that is not in fact me, but I am in fact it. I am the original, the ocular representation of all the little tidbits of those people smashed into one. The most significant parts of their personalities are but a chip off of the larger piece - of mine - and I am perfectly content splitting myself into the many, like a mosaic solidified by the cement called reason and reality. And for it, that is why I am the creator... The God of their world and their life and death are all but a memory within me, only as significant as I make them worth.

The smoke from my lips rush into the air, billowing around my head. My lung hurt from years of abuse. I cough, I hack, as they try to dispel of the mucus that collects in my lungs. Another drag, knowing the cigarette between my lips do little good for my body.

I argue that it brings me peace, helping me to relax from the nicotine running through my blood.

I tell others that I'll quit when I'm less stressed. I know. I know the lie isn't really a lie because life is always stressful.

There will never be a time when I'm 'less stressed'.

And I know that.

I know that I'm wasting money. Money that could be put so many more beneficial options.

Almost anything is more beneficial.

I know.

Anything that anyone tells me to persuade me to quit.

I know.

But the dopamine. The habit. The small break in the monotone of whatever I'm doing in the moment...

And it isn't like I never tried.

I tried

I tried.

But every time I try, I never fully stop.

I break down and buy a pack, just for one. One to curb the cravings and ease the headache that just will not go away.

Now I have a pack. I cannot waste the money spent, so it will be my last pack then.

And if I'm with friends and they're smoking, it's almost rude not to join, so maybe I can bum just one. Or two. Definitely no more than three!

Did you know that your lungs ache and spasm after a few hours of not smoking. It's similar to when I do.

I failed at quitting, so I quit try and go back to my lies that aren't really lies.

I'll try again. again. and again. But I will quit. When everything is less stressed.

There are moments like these, in the white point of the storm

where the sky and earth kiss behind the mist, form one

and you have to close your eyes to see etched in the darkness

the sparks of sunlight reflected across the snowy peaks

Beauty is in your own hands, and everything touches.

Others when you are between two corners of a table

you slice an apple into quarters, almost perfectly divided

don't hesitate about who you'll give the biggest piece to

and when you do they smile, because things are clear and cut

and you put the block-like core to compost.

you cannot slice through a storm, so when you lose sight of heaven and earth

when the alaskan glaciers pave every street, when the seeds are uprooted

will you stay in the house you love

fix up the peeling wallpaper, cut the remaining apples into cores

or will you go, right into the white point of the storm?

Currents move on with or without you, storms will stop and start,

And as you hesitate, the choice is made for you

So go, stay, slice, choose to close your eyes or open them,

the only error is to falter, and not admit

that you see where the mist starts and the corners begin

Me: "Look. I don't want to lie to you, but I also don't want to scare you off, so you're going to have to read between the lines here a little. I know you have some embers you keep stoking in your soul, tucked away in a corner where you think I won't find it. I know you want to believe that pedantic chorus of platitudes, take off and see if you can make it to the moon. We both know that the "landing among the stars" is the cold, airless, lifeless, expanse of space where you have nothing between you and your failure. We both know the embers you expect to blaze into rocket fuel are more likely to fizzle into vapor once you hit that icy emptiness waiting for you.

Don't give me that look, I'm not the enemy here.

If you wanted it that badly, you would have taken the time to learn how to build f***in rockets, not sit around poking hot coals of envy inside. This was your call. You chose safe. It's safe here. We can breathe here.

We need to breathe.

We need to breathe."

Myself: "Right! We do need to breathe.

And I'm choking to death down here!

Plodding from minute to minute, choking on the dust of every day, feeling heavier with every passing day, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep on just to keep on, it'll kill me. Kill us. I need something more."

Me: "Oh, just 'something' more? What, exactly. Do you even know?

No, you don't, you have no plan, and no back-up plans, because to have a back-up, you need an original. And you've got nothing--not one thing--that is original."

Myself: "I can't find something original when all I have time for is practicing mundanity! And the only reason I'm stuck doing it, is so we can do it again tomorrow!"

Me: "Just... Listen.

Is it worth the risk? The possible failure. The end of what you can be reasonably sure about. The potential of disappointment from people. The finality of realizing you can't actually make it. The loss of the possibility.

Is it worth the end of who you are?

Is it worth dying for?

...well?

Is it?"

Myself:

[the end]