Pieces of me (Shattered glass and ego)
Personal Inquiries, Public Injuries
Letters that lead to words
Ripples and babbles in the stream of unconsciousness
Words like grains of sand (At a clam bake)
Words from the sole, Steppin' ovr me
Like drops of rain my words fall on the picnic of life
Words unspoken, but unfortunately written
Bogus Lies (and) Ordinary Greatness
I started, what I call, articlulate writing years and years ago. Some of it was free associate writing, automatic writing, or what ever you chose to call it. It was, and still is, a fun outlet for me. Some of it, no one has ever read before. A lot of it .... maybe nobody should...
Funny Things: Like Rain, or Writing Mistakes (Like Too Long of Titles Which Take Up Two Lines, Instead of the Usual One Line, For Most Titles.) P.S: Three lines for a title are okay.
Rain is a funny thing.
What is rain? Be it beast, person, or mineral. Surely it is not living, but if this is so then why do we say “It’s raining cats and dogs,” and not ‘it’s raining like cats and dogs?” Of course these cats and dogs could be dead, and even if they were alive before their descent, I’m sure that would no longer be the case for long after a fall from a cloud to the impact with the ground. It’s a long fall… Yet, winter seems to come quick, and last long, but spring, unlike fall, or, I should say autumn…
Rain? Oh right, back to the subject…
Is rain good? Is it bad? Is it indifferent? Is it necessary? Is it wet?
If you faithfully answered, “Who cares” to the above questions, chances are that you won’t read on. So now all that I have to do is figure how many people are going to express that universally common, valid feeling, so that I can determine if I should go on writing. Read on. Right on. Write?
Well, let’s see. A quick review… I started off by saying that rain is a funny thing. That is a pretty catchy thing to start off with, but does it make sense? (I would rather make dollars than sense any day!) I mean, is rain really funny? Have you ever seen anyone looking out a window on a rainy afternoon and laughing hysterically? Has anyone even chuckled politely at rain? Has rain ever been a punch line? Well, actually I can picture a line for punch, especially if it’s spiked! But who would wait in line for rain? Would even being caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella make anyone giggle?
I bet not.
No, maybe I didn’t get off to such a good start… It isn’t good policy to start off and article with a false statement. It works much better if you slip them in somewhere in the middle. This isn’t political writing but I would at least like it to have the same semblance of deception.
So change the first sentence to “Rain isn’t a funny thing.” There! That’s true enough and still catchy enough to satisfy for an opening. It may not be brilliant, but remember that there aren’t too many who can squeeze water from rocks, and I would rather have rocks upstairs that a totally empty belfry. That would drive me bats!
Then I ended the first paragraph. Should have I have ended it? Yes, I think so; it’s complete by itself. Also I don’t want this article to be run down by long, tiring paragraphs, and especially long sentences which seem to drag on and on and on with no end in sight, making the reader’s eyes water, and wearing down, his or her, which ever the case may be, brain to a point where he or she, again – which ever the case may be – doesn’t feel like reading on, and the whole point is lost and the readers begin to wonder if maybe the keyboards period key is broken, or some possibility such as that, if they are tenacious enough to make it this far, which most people today have the attention span of a teensy-fly, so they probably baled out long ago and are now watching funny videos on You Tube of people falling down, which all tends to draw from the whole message the writer, me, is trying to make, even if it is a worthwhile cause. So I’ll try to stay away from that.
There are many writing problems. I come across them often enough. Because I write them down when I see other writers make them, I totally avoid them.
The worst mistake that I can think of is not necessarily the run-on sentence. The incomplete sentence can also very often get on a person’s nerves, and don’t think that for one minute, or maybe even two, that just because a sentence happens to be extremely long, seeming to run on and on forever with a deluge of words, like standing under a waterfall looking for a drink of water, turning the trusting reader blue without a chance to take a breath (which may actually be the most healthy thing for you). I promise to avoid them, too.
Another thing I try to do is to keep my printer heads clean so that the e’s and o’s are not all colored in. That can also be a great strain of the reader’s eyes. Yes sir, I really try to keep up with my e’s and o’s.
But I guess that as long as the article is interesting and makes sense with a strong ring of truth to it, that either warms his heart or conversely chills his soul, the reader can put up with a few extra long sentences, along with some extra short ones, and maybe even a few colored in spaces. As long as the piece in question draws a solid conclusion and doesn’t just sort of ramble on at the end as if the writer doesn’t exactly know how to end the article. Possibly because there was never any purpose to the whole mess and no final conclusion could be drawn from his work on a day when he really had nothing to say, you may know that I’m a fanfaron, but I don’t like to boast about it. You may feel embarrassed spending your time with no form of remuneration, trying to grasp the meanings of niggling prose scattered throughout. You feel especially obtuse if you went through the trouble of looking up some unmomentous words that he tossed about, because you felt left out in not knowing their meaning. You find no punch line at the end because the writer really had little to say throughout the whole mess of words except a few fragments of thoughts that he never really tied together. Tying ideas together is sometimes like tying your shoes, if the stings are weak, nothing’s going to hold. By the end it becomes obviously clear that these random thoughts could never possibly be joined in a conclusion understandable to anybody, especially the writer.
So as not to do any of the above mentioned I will end this article right here and now and leave you in awe of it.
P.S. Next time I won’t try to write about rain on a sunny day...
Alone. I fight my way through the crowd. Loneliness engulfs my soul. Like a grain of sand that blows in the breeze, I, a speck of dust that blows amidst snowflakes. A star, buried in the soil. Fallen.
From the heavens to the sewer. From being free, to drowning in the muck of pity and self-loathing.
I, once a king of love, now watch my castles crumble – ginger bread, all. My heart eaten by the wicked tongue of deceit. Treachery ate at my bones like a cancer, weakening my resolve, distancing me from my feelings. I am the tree in the forest, strong and true, the one always expected to stand, plummeting to the ground with the most fury when I do fall. Crashing to the forest floor for all to hear.
I look at my surroundings, glancing through the crowd. All gathered to see my disgrace, coming here to jeer at me and mock me in my shame. But no, around me I only see a general contempt as I shove past unsuspecting ants, each in their own world with their own worries, and fears. . . and shames. No one has taken notice of my collapse from grace. At least not here. Here they only know me as another face in the crowd. A rude hand in the back as I push my way past. Rushing, always hurrying. Fast to the top, and fast down. Elevator down. Basement? I never knew there was a place so low. At my height I was only held up by a string, and now the cable has broke.
But no one here cares about my fall -- they're only worried about keeping their own lives level. Still... there is one who cares. If only she didn't love me, even after I have taken all her reasons to love me away. I ripped my love away from her, I tore her in half. Now she hates me. I can understand her hate, for I no longer see the thing in me for her to love. I think that all along I must have been fooling her, for there is nothing in me to love -- I doubt that there ever was. My insides are hollow, filled only with air. Breath can only be held for so long. I exhaled, collapsing -- my world fallen in on me, my insides, or lack there of, are exposed. It has been a trick of mine, pretending to be descent. I think that maybe she stills loves the memory of that trick.
I even imagine she would take me back. She loves scum, and I love a fool.
How can I go home to face her when I can't even look myself in the mirror? How can we act as if nothing's happened? How can I put her through the torture of seeing me day after day, knowing of my evilness? How can I face those eyes that will drill holes through my skull with a look of humiliation and betrayal?
I wish she could live without me, I know she would be better off, but I don't think that she's strong enough to turn me away. And God knows that I'm not resilient enough to walk away and have to start allover again. What would be the use? When a seed is rotten, it doesn't help to replant it in new soil. Its only salvation is to be thrown out.
I wish to be strong enough to face her, one last time, to tell her that I love her and that my errors are no reflection on her, but I know I am weak. Much too weak to face myself morning after morning. Much too fragile to take the pain.
But as my elevator of the inside has crashed to the basement of my soul, the "ding" tells me that I have reached the top floor in the "real" elevator.
From the elevator it's a quick exit out to where I can feel the wind at my face. I look down from the rooftop to see the ants below, the ants that I had, just minutes ago, fought my way through, the ones that looked at me indifferently, that didn't know my sins, that wouldn't have cared anyway. I long to make them recognize my pain by landing before their uncaring eyes, but I know that even as I lay at their feet, they will merely step over me, hurrying through their insignificant lives.
There is only one who will care.
There is only one who has cared. Only one who can be hurt by my erroneous ways. Only one brave enough to face the truth, still look me in the eye, and accept me for what I am. I know she careingly waits for me now. Patiently awaiting my return, even after she had every right to throw me out. My reaction to her discovery and confrontation only further proved my cowardice as I walked away without an explanation or apology. She never imagines the hurt that comes from loving me; she never sees it corning. For my truth is a horrible truth of lies and deceit. She gave me her heart, and I thoughtlessly broke it, and now on the edge of reality, the ledge of life, with the wind at my back, I plan to throw it away. Forever.
So to save pain, I will hurt her again. I know it will destroy her. She doesn't deserve to be hurt, and I don't deserve an easy release. The path of least resistance has always been the preferable way for me, and even now, as the wind coaxes me out over the ledge, it is the toughest thing I have ever done to step back.
"I'm home." I know that my shaky voice can be heard by one who was been waiting.
She enters the room after a moment. "So where have you been?" She looks at me with accusing eyes.