Now, hold on, hear me out!

They really are splendid. All of them...well, no. Not all of them. But the view is good from where I'm standing now, and that makes them [at least in that way] splendid enough to not want them all dead =0D

Okay, I know you are thinking - what is this chick on about now? *whew* It's simple really. Not complicated.

From Bruce Willis to "Jordan" to Eric "Mark Eleven", they are all so lovely. Talking, dancing, or just enjoying the company of another being that awakens something in you that was dead for over four years; something that slowly was strangled to death because you thought it had to be, something that was murdered because you thought it had to die for you to be whole in someone else's eyes.

But now? Awoken from the depth of despair by forces beyond and outside of yourself, the creature stirs and begins to breathe its sweet breath back into your life. "What is this", you ponder aloud, gasping for air in shock. At first it is utterly fear-filled, riddled with terror. "No. This shouldn't be, shouldn't happen, shouldn't feel so...so alive!" Yet it does. You suddenly realize you cannot quiet it, could not sqander it, don't want to escape it. It is the sheer joy of the thing - the sheer joy of realizing the possibility of the thing again!

So long gone, so long dead, so long quiet. But now? Well, you've gotten your life back. You've finall gotten yourself back, and you aren't about to give that up again - not yet, not for long, not for anyone. Why? Because it's too nice to feel smiles creeping across your lips, too nice to relive memories that don't tear your sole apart, too nice to realize that there's a world out there that you were hiding from all this time.

And its too nice to go back now. Too nice to give it all up, too nice to let it all go. Too nice to not just live - and enjoy it for what it's worth.

PS. A Happy Easter to all, posthence.

-RK

Some of those places I went to

Enjoy these lovely shots of the great north [Scotland, my laddies & lasses]. I know I did while I was there taking the pictures of them. :0)
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And that is all for now folks. I hope these were uplifting (and not just a depressing reminder how you can't or haven't gone where I did). =0D Cheers!

-RK

On the return

I've had a week alone, more or less. I met the strangest, the loveliest, and some of the most entertaining people I can account for in the past few ...maybe even years of my life. People who made me think, made me evaluate my life, made me smile, made me feel perplexed, made me uncomfortable, made me feel appreciated. And of course, always the ever popular - made me fee like crap. But mostly, I met a whole slew of really lovely people and had a really lovely time.

I owe a bit of thanks to Volcom and his bud for part of my good time, allowing me to be dragged about city streets at night on their excavations. 'Twas my pleasure, I'm quite sure of it.

I owe a thanks to a good many great people who intersected my path in the aforementioned week. Those who housed me, who fed me, and in general who just found me interesting enough to strike up conversation with.

In completion of the thing, it went well. No major disasters, save AmEx being a complete ass *rolls eyes*. But I got around their "policies" despite their evil plan to ruin the final few days of fun for me. Ha. They were foiled yet again!

But for now, I'm stone tired and I have a cold. I need to sleep after a night of about 3.5 hours, and I need to get my mind wrapped about around the essentials of living yet again. More shall come - perhaps a few pictures and more comments on the essential points of various amusing stories. But only once I can claim "alive" again. Until then, I must attend to other things...

Oh, and PS. Happy Easter out there to everyone. It's nice to be back "home" for the day - despite how uneventful I'm sure it is going to be. (sigh) Alas, we can't all have perfect lives and perfect Easters, eh? Well, naturally no. But Happy Easter in spite of that truth anyway.

-RK

Planning till I turn blue...

Whew! It has been an endless stream of planning, planning, planning. From the village to the town to the city - from the city to the hotel. From the hotel back to the city, back to the station - out of the country. From the country, to the station to the city. To the hotel...that I've yet to find *sigh*

From the hotel, to the city, to the station, back to the country - and the station and the city and the hotel again.

Then the city and the town and the village and my room...and it's Easter. Find the familiar gang - if they haven't abandoned me yet. Plan something and back to the homework grindstone, as it were.

But for now, its just me and the cities and the stations and other friends that I'm glad I get to see again. Perhaps it will all be less hectic, less confusing - once I'm there. Just maybe *shrug*. Or maybe not.

-RK

Freedoms for a while

Sigh. The first half of the semester is done.

I turned in a terrible paper and wrote an even worse test and had a fairly hellish day - thank God that it is finally over! Now, I am sitting here at 1.23 because I can in my pjs with a cream blanket wrapped about my legs, doing whatever it is that I please to do.

Started to read Out of the Silent Planet - I'm amused. I burned the rolls, but that was neither the fault of myself or C.S. Lewis. I blame the stove for cooking too fast. But all the rolls sold, so it doesn't matter - really.

I am going into the city on Friday - and I am going to plan on having a wonderful time...if I can manage to avoid all of the silent blackholes that swallow up conversations you don't really know how to have.

I feel the need to state this fact, as irrelevant as it is: something in my soul has awoken today. I will leave it there, only go as far as that. But that which appeared tarnished and ugly for so long - has begun to somehow dance with light again. It's frightening, and at times of great clarity, I wish it only to stop - for in fact, I fear it. Yet, it can no longer lie dormant.

Perhaps that is what scares me most - this stirring I have let to lie dead for so long; the shine I buffed away, the spark I killed - it's alive again, much without my persmission. And that, in and of itself, is enough to terrify me. Much less what that live wire, that spark could mean in the end.

More fire. More destruction. More pain and more death.

I don't want more death. I can't bear much more pain. Just let the spark die, I tell myself - and I throw all the sand and water at it that I can...but it will not die yet. It terrifies and petrifies me - yet it will not die yet.

Foolish fires, lent from foolish sparks, rendered from foolish glimmers from foolish gems in a foolish head. Yet, gems ought not to be rent to pieces nor soiled and hidden - just so they cannot shine or shimmer in the morning light. So what can we do? What can be left to be done? Do we destroy the gem, or do we let it spark its fires until they all burn out?

The question only can I ask. The answer yet elludes me. Yet I should not wish to play the fool in this...

-RK

Half term, and no feasts

I can't believe that we are already at half term. I can't believe that half of my time left here, half of the days that I will spend at school here, half of the time left with friends that will go back to normal lives at the end of it - is over. I can't believe that it has been nearly two months...

I can't believe that we are on the eve of April, and that whence I return from my days of fun and jolliness - that time being spent doing the things I do - April will have sprung itself into being. The seasons are changing - the weather is warming - the sun is actually showing itself. The days are getting longer and longer, preparing for their dances in summer warmth. Yet I still cannot convince myself that it is true.

Three fourths of my year abroad is over. Three-fourths of the time I would spend "becoming someone else", as everyone had told me, is done. Three-fourths of another year from my life - over.

I have to admit that it feels so strange. Time has flown and crawled by at the same instant. I remember sitting here only what feels like days ago, rummaging through books and papers, getting ready for new classes. Now, time has passed itself, and here I sit - talking about half term and break; and still struggling to realize that it is next wednesday.

Next wednesday and I will have two weeks free from burden, free from papers and tests and homework. I will have two weeks from from all of the weight of just being here. And I will return in two weeks hence - to the last fourth of my time in this country. The last fourth of my time in a place that I feel I am just now beginning to know - just now growing accustom to. The last fourth in a strange place - that, stranger than not, actually feels like home.

In another two months - I will be leaving home. I will be leaving to return home. I will be leaving home for home. I will be leaving comfort for uncertainty. I will be leaving uncertainty for comfort. I will be leaving here, and ending up there. Yet leaving far off and returning to near.

And that, all in only one fourth of my time spent here in total. All of that - only in two small months. All of that, after all of the time I have passed trying to feel like I belong...all of that time feeling like I did - feeling like I know this place; feeling like I can come home. All of that, just to take it, pack it, and return home. And all in only one fourth the time. Only barely enough time left to convince myself that I am, really, not home yet.

-RK

I don't understand...

I posted, then I deleted a post. Rightfully - the post should not still be showing up on my site. But it is.

I don't understand.

I wrote a poem about a philosophical idea. It had concrete images that had to be looked for to some extent. It was criticized for being a philosophical poem.

I don't understand.

I told myself that I would do something. In the end, I gave in and only did what I wanted to do - not what I said I would. But I hadn't meant to.

I don't understand.

I feel a piece of me, missing. I thought I had filled it before. But that puzzle piece, that seemed to fit in everyway - ended up falling through. So do all the others that look close. Some don't fit at all - they become obvious when you turn on the light switch. But those that seem to fit, that fall through in the end - there are so many.

I don't understand.

-RK

Is the future so void of light it disappears?

Sometimes, it feels that way.

Shephard's pie is good. It's better with ketchup, made in England...with veggie meat that tastes something like rubber - but still manages to work.

Feeling this way...this, this...feeling. It isn't good at all. It seems as though it ought to feel like something else: like rage or bitterness or pain to the point of crying. But it isn't. It just...just is. But it doesn't feel good - or right. It doens't feel...right at all. (sigh)

It's wearing. All of it. Really wearing. But none of it can be helped. So it goes on...

(sigh) Thanks Vonnegut: So it goes. (sigh)

-RK

writing in the garden and other things

So I got a virus yesterday. It didn't do too much. Installed annoying amounts of spywear onto my computer - some of it that I can't delete, or don't know how to. But I guess it doesn't matter. The paper I thought was due yesterday at noon turns out its due Thursday in April. So for once, I'm ahead of the game I guess you could say.

I decided, after walking home from the BP yet again - that I'd go and sit in the garden and write. Came up with a fairly amusing snippet of something that could be a look at myself in the future. Who knows.

Was up last night - not doing homework like I should have been doing. I was talking to a friend. It was better that way. Homework can always wait.

So, this is pretty much on the opposite end of blogs I hate. Last time we had the angst-ridden rant. Now we have the chonological listing of what I've done. Pretty boring, eh?

Well to be honest - I'm too tired to write much else. Just a list of the things I've managed to do while still feeling half human. I don't always - but while doing these things, I guess you could say I did.

And I realized why we don't save conversations in our mind; why it isn't like a saved document of the thing on a computer; why we don't write everything we ever say or were ever told on the inside of our skulls. I realized why we don't do that - I may stop my computer from doing that too...

*sigh* It's been a long week, and it's just getting going. Tomorrow is wednesday. That means breakfast. That means food before I'm really alive...

I forgot to get everything done, again. But then again, I often forget the things I shouldn't. My biggest problem is that I can't forget the things I should...

sigh- ...

-RK

Warning! Unintelligible drivel of a bitter, insolent university bibliophile conscious well past midnight

You are being forewarned. If you still read on from here, consider it your own folly and an acid test of your insanity.

...I'm angry. Not just about the fact that I can't access any research for an essay I have due tomorrow at noon, nor just about the fact that I have a headache and feel sick and would rather be in bed. I'm angry about ... life.

Whenever I get to thinking, I always think about the way that things were and how I thought they would be now and how I wanted them to be in the future. Somehow, none of those ever end up lining up. This could be considered a good thing - but at this stage in my life, it makes me angry.

I'm angry that I've gotten thrown around so much. I'm angry that so many so-called "friends" have left scars in my back from the wounds they made stabbing me there. I'm angry about all of the issues I have thanks to enemies that proved better friends than the people I let into my safe places. I'm angry about goals that I feel I will never achieve - and achieved goals that I can't say are good enough. I'm angry about the current state of the term "university", and I'm angry at the current state of my being.

There are certain goals, certain guidelines that ought to be followed in one's life. I'm angry that I can't seem to get those straight enough to follow them. And there ought to be a sort of pattern that one follows throughout the years - a sort of map leading through all of the different terrains of ones experiences. I'm angry that I haven't found that map, and if I did that I would have no real ability to follow or even read it.

I'm angry about what I have become and what it means to look back on what I was before. I'm angry that I've made so many mistakes - and that the present isn't the future that I'd laid out so carefully.

I'm angry that I am supposed to be all grown up - and yet how much of a child I still feel at times. I'm angry that people still think I'm a teenager, just because I don't look like what an adult ought to look like or I don't think like an adult ought to think like.

And I'm angry that everyone finds it so easy to critize. I'm angry that people find life so easy to pick apart - and find something wrong with it. And I'm angry that I'm not as good as I thought I was, or wanted to be at the things I thought I ought to be.

Oh, and I'm angry that - after the end told itself, I was wrong about pretty much everything.

In short, I'm frustrated and angry. I realize this is a pointless, boring, and annoying ranting of a very angry college brat. But you must realize that basically - my night is going down hill quicker than a bobsledder on a bobsled run. And my head is pounding worse than a jackhammer on concrete. And my work is piling up higher than the walls of the Grand Canyon, and my mood is depreciating faster than the US dollar against the English Pound.

So at any rate, I'm in a terrible mood and I'm all done with wit. So, I'm not in a mood to worry about how drivelly or snivelling or annoying and teen-ish this entry sounds. I'm frankly just sick and tired of being stressed and annoyed - and yet still procastinating in spite of how terrible it all ends up being in the end.

There it all is. Take it or leave it for what it is worth. I am in a ravingly terrible mood and am in no state to be wise or witty or comical in any sense. Thus, I have ranted like a thirteen-year-old teeny-bopper with Bubble Yum and pig tails and a backstreet boys poster in the front of my three-ring binder.

If you don't like it, come back again later when I am more apt to write something well-versed and intuitive. Because, really - until then, all you are getting is college-student angst-ridden midnight-crazed drivel.

Deal with it.

-RK

Direct Denigration

A cold wind rustled through a room where only an empty rocking chair sat unmoving. A candle on the mantelpiece threw its little flaméd arms across the room, but the dim light it carried was not enough to light up the world around it. It managed, though, to light the harsh angles of the rocking chair. Across the room, however, a form stood that was not graced at all by the candle's thin light.

"Won't you answer me," came a deep melancholy voice from a form in the corner across the room. To this, nothing stirred - not the rocking chair, not the light, not the candle's flame. Again, the voice came, this time deeper and soaked in the reveries of a darkened soul. "I know you heard me," the voice said firmly, the sound of bitterness hidden under every word. Then, from the floor came a thin, airy voice.

"I can't," the voice trembled softly, almost inaudible. "I don't know how to."

To this, the form of the man made no answer, made no motion. Only, the darkness seemed to expand and make the space between the form and the high voice even greater, even darker than before.

Then, a breath was drawn slowly as if it pained the breather to draw it. "Please, I..." the thin, quiet voice began hesitantly, "...I'm trying to pray."

To this, the man in the corner moved slowly toward the rocking chair. As he did, a form contrasting his own became apparent at the rocking chair's base. It was the form of a ghost-like girl with long charcoal hair covering her face and arms. She was curled up on the ground around the base of the rocking chair, preventing it from rocking at all. Around her head was a small pool of silvery liquid that reflected the quavering light of the candle above her.

As if trapped somewhere between a dream and reality, the footsteps from the corner could be heard only as soft echoes throughout the room. But in spite of their dulled sound, the girl knew that the form was coming closer and closer to the place she had curled herself. It was the last thing she wanted - that form coming any closer to her, seeing the silvery pool at her head, looking on her form twisted around the base of the empty rocking chair. As the muted footfalls fell closer and closer, dread filled the girl's tiny frame, until it infected her very bones. She made to reach her hand up into the air, to try and stop him from drawing any nearer her. Instead, she felt the hem of his cape. She gasped and withdrew herself even more into the fetal position around the rocker.

"Please," she gasped breathlessly.

The dull footfalls stopped. "You can't," her trembling voice continued breathlessly in a state of terror. "...can't come any closer..."

The footfalls now fell backward, but only a single pace. A hopeful welling of emotion filled the small fragile frame, and she allowed her head to raise from the silvery puddle - allowed her eyes to meet the form. There, cloaked in the blackness of the small space with slivers of yellow-gold light dancing from the edges of his cape, the man stood motionless. She could hardly make out his full stance beyond the darkness, but her mind made the image that she easily would have recognized. Her very soul seemed to lurch as she stared at the hollow image.

It would have been just as her mind had painted, save the stone expression upon his once fair edifice. There, her mind wanted to paint sparkling emerald gems and golden strands - but the night would not allow her. The darkness, instead, painted ghastly images of dark mixed with shadow. Blinking against the slivers of light that seemed to recede from his shape, the girl again allowed her head to fall. "You have to go now," she managed, but it was almost more of a question.

He did not answer, but turned away from her - the hem of his cape brushing her arm as he did so. A slight wind disturbed the frail light of the candle, and suddenly, he was gone. The girl, feeling the cold as a door opened into the night and closed again, shivered and pulled her legs in tighter toward her torso. Tiny tremors echoed throughout her form as new silver streams trickled into the pool below her, where she someday hoped to drown herself.

Somewhere outside, the form of a tall man with a deep voice that had last touched a slowly fading girl moved out of sight. Somewhere in the world, it moved amongst an addled forest of trees and harsh light. Somewhere, it went on living, forgetting the dark room, and the candle's frail light, and the girl whose tears made silver puddles to drown in.

*******
-RK

Even if I Told You

The answers seemed so simple, staring down at the road in front of me. Like I should be able to reach my hand out in front of myself, and grab them one by one from the air. And it seemed like the right thing to think - the right thing to do, as I sat there, just staring at that picture of you. And the more I looked, the easier it became to recall the memories of the past...

I walked away from the rest of my life to realize my dreams. The dreams that I just one day dreamt up of you - of life - of the way things were going to be. And one day, I decided that it was time - time for me to get going. So I packed up everything I thought you and I might need, and I put it all in a big backpack - and I up and left.

While I was out on the road, I started thinking. The further I got from home, the more I thought. I started thinking how strange it was that I was walking out here, by myself, on this quest - this search to find the answers. Then, when I thought about you standing there, walking beside me, it all seemed to get a little clearer. Or maybe it just got a little darker. I can't tell now. But from there, we went on anyway.

And so, we walked. We walked for what felt like days, for what looked like miles. And when we would get tired, we would just keep on walking. And when we were hungry? We'd walk. Sometimes, when we were just enough used to the silences between us, we'd talk. We'd pass the time with metaphors for our lives and for jokes about the past and for the fears we still had. But other times, we wouldn't say anything. We'd start to talk about nothin - and we'd just end that way. But it didn't always really matter. What mattered was that we were walking.

Then, one day, we actually ended up somewhere. It was a place unlike the home I'd left. It looked strange, felt strange, even smelled strange. But something about it made me like it, made me want to stay in it, made me love it despite how much I hated how cold it was there. I think, now looking back at it, it must have been the mystery. It must have been being somewhere, anywhere, with you there standing beside me. Or, sometimes I think, maybe it was just the air.

Either way, I took a liking to it - and I didn't want to go back home anymore. I wanted to sit down and stay here - here in this place that was so unlike anything I knew. You kept trying to tell me that it was home; kept trying to point out how it was just the same. I didn't like it when you'd do that. It made me angry because it tried to explain the place. It tried to take away the reason that I'd started to love it at all.

Eventually, I think you realized that you couldn't explain it all away. You couldn't make this jungle, this desert, this oasis in a world we didn't like - home. You couldn't make me admit that it was the same. And I couldn't make you see that it wasn't.

I still remember the day you left. You had all of your little bags full of coconuts and bamboo sticks with you, held up over your right shoulder. I remember looking at you, thinking of the times you'd pick me up like that sack and throw me over your shoulder. And, as I stared at you, I started to actually feel something - like I would miss you when you were gone. Like this place had been home, but now it never could be.

You took with you the door to the shelter we'd built. I'm not sure still why you did that. I guess you thought you'd need it where you were going. I let you take it. I figured I might not need it, what with you being gone. I thought that I'd just pack my sack as well; that I'd go on and find a different place that smelled different and felt different - and I'd find a place that I wouldn't want to call home.

But since you left, I still sit here, staring at the place where the door to the shelter used to sit. Sometimes, I weave the grass into long necklaces or thin bracelets - and I wear it. Sometimes, I even climb the palm tree behind the caves and I pick the coconuts - and I try to break them open and eat them. But it's hard. It's hard to do without you there.

I manage, in the end of the day. Mostly, I gather up my things and I put them in the shelter - the one without a door now - and I curl up in the corner and I try to fall alseep. Sometimes, the wind keeps me awake or the cold wakes me up after a few minutes with my eyes shut against the night. Sometimes, I don't even try to sleep. I just lay there with my eyes open and my mind spinning - remembering the first time I looked at this place, and I thought about how I'd be happy, even if you left it. Then sometimes, I don't do anything. I just sit outside the shelter, out in the dark and the cold, and I wonder where the stars would be if I took the time to look at them; and I wonder about the man on the moon - if he's still alive, or if he too has died of the loneliness.

When the morning comes, I usually get up and go about the things I usually go about. I don't think about the shelter, or the door that's missing, or the way that things are starting to just look the same. I don't think about my sack, or the one slung over your shoulder - or if it'd still be there the way that I remember it. I don't think about the coconuts in the palm trees behind the caves that I can't really break open or eat. I don't think about the ocean that you left on, or the boat that you left me here with. I try not to - anyway.

Sometimes, I use the boat. I go out on the sea and I catch a few fish. I don't fry them up, though. I just let them sit in the sand for a while, until I get tired of their smell. Then I throw them back into the tide, and I watch them drift away - dead. It reminds me of things, or at least of something. But I tell myself not to think about it.

I tell myself not to think about a good lot of things. I tell myself to just go about my day, like I always did. And, I tell myself not to look at the road that I could come and go on. It's just too simple, you know. All this coming and going. It's too simple to just pack up my sack, and do what you did. It would be too easy to get in that boat and sail out into the wide ocean, and drill a hole in the bottom; and drown. It'd be too easy to knock down the shelter and to pretend that I wasn't living here anymore - even if I can't admit to myself that I am.

It'd be too easy too easy to just leave; too easy to disappear.

*******
-RK

There has to be a better explanation...

This cannot be it. This cannot be what I have spent my life doing. This cannot be all there is - the end of the road and a cliff looking down and a sunset to let you know the day is really over. That cannot be all I gained. How can that be all I get?

There has got to be something here that I am just not seeing. Something that seems hidden, something that feels like it isn't there - but is. There has to be some secret passage way, some avenue into the truth that I just haven't uncovered yet. Some way for all of this pain - this hurt - these feelings to make some sense.

I know what it is. I know it isn't me and it isn't the past and it isn't the end that makes me feel like this. It's the intangibility of it all. It's the fact that I made a mistake - that I misperceived. That I was wrong.

I tell myself I have to find a better reason than that - because how could I, for so long, have only been wrong? And there has to be a better explanation because why would I be allowed to go on for so long, being wrong? And there has to be some reason that I can't find because why would I have been wrong for so long - only to grow? Only to change? Only to see now what I couldn't have seen then?

Why yes, of course. That does make sense.

But part of me doesn't want to admit it. Part of me doesn't want to chalk it up to the sorts of lessons you can't learn in school. Part of me doesn't want to say that it's all okay because I'm stronger or wiser or better off now. Part of me wants to say to myself and the cosmos, 'Now wait a second. That isn't right. That isn't fair. One should not have to suffer such things just to grow! There must be some mistake. You must have overlooked something. I must have missed some element of the story. There just HAS to be more to this!' When in fact, there isn't.

Life is this way. Things do happen like this. Mistakes are allowed to be make - just for the end result of growth. Sadly, that is the way things go. Agonizing, yet true.

And sometimes, you can't find that better explanation - you can't see the grander purpose only because it is what it is - and you cannot accept it. But try to, and you will see how much you have grown and how much more you know now than you used to.

And on some level, you will be able to count it as good. One day.

-RK

Examined.

Inner levels of emotable essence: of anger, of hatred, of rage - all rising, rising, re-rising. How could someone - but how can someone. Better, why would someone.

Called a friend. Called some-when, maybe a companion. Even said-goal aimed at called fair, just, right - or all of the above. But it's all wrong.

Malicious. Self absorbed. Brainless, foolish - a mockery of the house you hail from. A simple, self-centered trite idiom for humanity's sake that maybe was once a good-meant person...long ago, if from the beginning.

Now, a rotten tree with rotten branches and rotten blooms and rotten roots. A spoiled harvest made from cold ice covering the crop where once, I think, a few tender shoots might have grown - given the right amount of chance. But since, nothing but a barren wasteland. Nothing but a desert full of vulturs and rats' tails. Nothing but an overheated engine in the middle of the Sahara.

Spiteful, bitter markings from a poisoned soul and an abandoned heart. Nothing but chill wind and desolate stone steps leading up to a broken-down ruin of a castle that once was.

Photographs in black and white, brown around the edges - with all the rememberable faces burned out. Hollow images with nothing to offer but the blackened age that bears them up.

Bitterness under feigned foolishness. Selfishness hidden under acts of random senselessness. And a mission to only find what next will make life feel less and less like itself. The folly of a fool who seeks to numb away the pain of his own existence. Broken down ways of a self-seeking rabbler with nothing more to gain.

In the end, it doesn't take too much to see. Count up the losses, weight out the costs. See if the marker balances - and if it doesn't, do it all over again until trace after trace after trace of the better you is gone to the wind, until all of it is utterly spent. Then find a place in the darkness to lie down your head, groping around for a place to find the wisdom or the solace that you long pretended not to know.

Honesty or no honesty- still an incomplete creation. Kind or unkind - still depraved, delusional, and deceitful. A malicious maelstrom wreaking despair in all the souls found to touch with despicible claws that tear the centres out of innocent hearts. Foul fool of folly mixed with intentional destruction of others that don't seem significant.

Yet come one day - the wheel will turn against you; the days will wane shorter - the stone cold winter will come. And the wheel will turn against you.

-RK