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“Mother once told me of the great Shaka, uniter of peoples. A great warrior who fought the white-hats for our land. However, Shaka is long dead. Mother is long dead. Those who I’ve held dear are dead.” Nomzamo looked up beyond the canopy of the trees to the evening sun.

“Intulo has tried to tell you this, Nomzamo. Why don’t you listen to Intulo?” Intulo’s tongue stretched out of his mouth not quite reaching his upper cheek.

“What are you doing, Intulo?” Nomzamo chuckled.


“I’ve ssseen other lizards lick their eyes, I’d like to think it’s most pleasant, but I haven’t been able to pull it off for thousands of years.”

“Perhaps, you ran too fast Intulo. Not only did it dry out your eyes, your throat muscles contracted so as to keep your tongue entrapped.” Nomzamo looked at the dirt, and hopped off the log she was sitting on.  “Then, maybe Shaka could have been immortal. Gotten rid of the white-hats once and for all.”

Nomzamo walked amongst the trees the beads of her skirt swaying a little as the wind passed. Intulo careened to keep up with her.

“Intulo think you praise this Shaka too much. One immortal man does not change the world in this way. Intulo has seen it. Lunwaba visited a class of men.”

“Where are these men, Intulo? I have seen a white-hat die. For surely it is not them.”

Intulo hiss-laughed at the proposition, “When I say “class of men”, Intulo means something much different than a “race of men”, like those of the white-hat. These men, are in shape only, that is on this world. They come from Endaweni Emnyama, the Land of Shadow.”

“The Land of Shadow? Intulo. I would like to hear what kind of place this is.”

“It is home to a struggle between the forces of Evil, and the forces of the Sky, though it is closer to the Evil and shares many properties.”

“Have you been to this Land, Intulo?”

“Before, yes. Though, I don’t like to admit it.” Intulo’s stomach growled. Intulo caressed his blue scaley stomach, but smiled in a way that made Nomzamo shiver down her spine. “Intulo is hungry. When is dinner?”

“Intulo will have to work for dinner. You do not make it easy on me, making me take care of you like you don’t have powers from the Sky.”

“Intulo told you, temporarily...” Intulo waved his hands in the air stalling for time. “Divorced.”

“I told you, it didn’t sound as consensual as you made it out to be, and then you tackled a bushpig. I was hoping to get you to do it again. Intulo isn’t the only one who gets hungry.”

“But, Intulo is the most important who gets hungry to Intulo.” Intulo pouted his blue lips showing the yellow seam of the interior of his mouth. Nomzamo, pouting a little herself, stopped dead in her tracks and popped Intulo on the nose. Intulo instantly put up his clawed hands in defence. “What was that for?”, came the muffled reply.

“Being selfish Intulo. I can only expect you’ve been sent to be reformed so you can be given back your powers. I’ll be the first to congratulate you in finding the best teacher in all of the Land. Now I suggest you find out from your lizard brethren where we might find a meal. I will ready the spear.”

Intulo’s form began to compress and rearrange itself into the form of an agama. This started in his legs shifting his bipedal form down closer to ground level, followed quickly by the arms. The head and body were affected near instantaneously. By the time he looked like a regular reptile, his coloration and scale density would shift into two or three distinct patterns before settling into his new form. The lizard flicked his tongue out at Nomzamo before scurrying off into the trees.

The call of a whistling duck announced the beginning of Nomzamo’s time alone. The sound of a drum began to echo through the woods. Nomzamo began to flex in time with the beat. Another drum began to accompany the music, and Nomzamo began to step in time with the beats. Before long, the drums were many, and the constant movement from Nomzamo had gotten her blood pumping. Thats when the singing began, Nomzamo was soon dragged this way and that by the music of the Hundred Voices. They sang of the beginning of The Great Hunt, and wished Nomzamo luck on her endeavor. Nomzamo ran up and down logs, gyrated utop rocks, and shook her chest at butterflies. However, as Nomzamo thrust her spear into the air a final time, the music died down, and the Hundred Voices grew quiet. What remained was the constant beat of the drum moving Nomzamo forward as she saw the blue agamas in the distance.

Nomzamo followed a group of between two to three dozen blue-headed, orange-backed, yellow-tailed tree lizards as they scampered through the trees, down and around branches and roots, until they reached the banks of a stream, and their fleetness of foot seemed to abandon them.

Downstream there lay an ostridge on her side in an obviously pained state. The drum beat in the back of Nomzamo’s head leading her to close in on the ostridge. The coarse raspiness of the bird’s breathing couldn’t penetrate into Nomzamo’s mind, and when the time came Nomzamo pulled back her hand. The spear penetrated the side of the feathered body, and at first there was great panicked movement. However, it made it less than a meter away before falling again, this time indefinitely.

Nomzamo retrieved her spear and wiped it off in the grass. Intulo had changed back while Nomzamo was focused on the kill. His lizard followers were waiting curious to their reward. Intulo went to the rear of the hen as Nomzamo retrieved her smaller blade. She made sure that the blood drained properly while trying to ignore the fact that Intulo seemed to be diving into the back side of the hen. Intulo, eventually covered in blood due to the rending from his claws, came up with an egg. He took it to the bated consortium and broke it for them, letting the reptiles lick at, and consume the yolk. Intulo came back to the body licking his claws, as the agama consumed what they wanted and dispersed.

“You could use a more… precise method of extraction, Intulo.” Nomzamo wasn’t exactly sure if she should critique her spiritual companion when he was in his current, gore-covered state.

“You can be as precise as you want.” Intulo looked tired, and a little ashamed when he somewhat asked, “I need you to do the thing for me.”

Nomzamo grimaced, but nodded. She drug the ostridge further from the creek and then began to gather wood. Nomzamo hummed to herself as she did. It wasn’t quite dark yet by the time she’d gotten it lit. She then prepared the ostridge. She stuck her blade in near the keel and cut all the way back multiple times to expose the organs. One by one, Nomzamo extracted the major organs: liver, heart, kidneys, digestive parts. These were all burned individually, with a small saying on the part of Nomzamo, “To Intulo, My most helpful guide.”

Nomzamo knew the offering had worked, because the smoke had no smell, and Intulo visibly puffed up as the offerings were given. By the end, Nomzamo could have sworn that Intulo was an inch taller than he had been before. With Nomzamo’s offerings complete, Intulo pitched in to help cook a meal for his handy companion. Nomzamo honestly wasn’t sure the Intulo actually found the things he contributed to mealtime, but he would disappear for minutes at a time, and then return with vegetables wrapped in strange leaves and bury them close to the fire.

When the meat was done, Intulo dug up the vegetables revealing some tubers and beans, now tender to the touch of Nomzamo’s flame-cleaned blade.  Nomzamo ate all she could, and Intulo went to wrapping up the hen’s meat in the strange leafs he obviously was in no short supply of. There were some things that Nomzamo felt comfortable asking Intulo about, the strange things that the pseudo-deity said or did, but when it came to the things she’d rather not do without, as Intulo seemed the most fickle of his kind that Nomzamo knew about, she refrained.

Nomzamo and Intulo sat for a little while in silence, before she got tired and curled up in the crook of tree roots. Intulo ascended the branches and hung from his orange and blue tail. Nomzamo was almost comfortable when Intulo smacked his lips before speaking, “What do you want to do Nomzamo?”

“Sleep.” Nomzamo replied as she turned her body a little to have the roots around her hug her tailbone.

“Not right now.” Intulo insisted, “Think bigger.”

“I don’t know Intulo. I can’t bring back my family.”

“No,” Intulo sighed, “You can’t.”

“I’d like to find the white-hats who killed them came to justice.”

“Find it?”


Intulo let his tongue slip out of his mouth and let it dangle before unsuccessfully seeing if it had stretched enough to lick his eye. “What if you could do something about that, bringing them to justice. Would you want to do that?”

“I wouldn’t object to it, but it sounds like a little much Intulo. There are many white-hats, and I don’t have any way to know which ones are which.”

“I’ll help you Nomzamo, but you’ll have to trust me that this is part of the plan.”

“The plan?”

“The Sky has a plan, for everyone, and you’re apart of my redemption. You know that right? I am in your debt.”

“When do I get to collect?” Nomzamo playfully inquired.

“If you do this with me, hopefully, by the end we will both be satisfied.”

“You’re being vague Intulo.”

Intlo laughed, “I know. It’s something that I’m proud of. It takes a lot of work for a spirit like me to disguise his words. Many of us can’t tell lies.”

“That sounds like a great place, no lies, no white-hats. Are there any wars?”

“Only one,” Intulo replied. “And, it’s the longest war that’s ever been waged.” Intulo had a smile cross his blue lips, revealing his yellow gums. “But, I remember it being nice. The war is only some places, and the plane is vast.”

“Can we go there someday? After you’re forgiven?”

“Sure, Nomzamo. If you’re keen, we’ll start tomorrow.”

“Are you telling me we’ve been amongst the trees for two weeks, and we’re just now starting?”

“Only in earnest.” Intulo breathed heavily and scratched himself behind the ear. Nomzamo had almost decided he was going to be quiet, and shut her eyes before he started again, “Can I ask you a person question?”

“Go ahead, Lizard.” Her tone started Intulo who opened his eyes wide.

“How long has it been since your blood day?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Nomzamo asked rather calmly, if not sleepily.

“It would be too dangerous to start on that kind of day. Human physiological concerns.”

“What’s physiological?”

“It’s a type of magic. Don’t let it bother you, just answer the question.”

“It was before we came into the woods, but we should be fine.”

“I’m sure it will be. Thank you for answering. Lala Kahle, Nomzamo.”

“Lala Kahle, Intulo.” Nomzamo closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

In her dream, there was a rocky, gray land devoid of life. There didn’t seem to be a sky above, or else it was the blackest night Nomzamo had ever seen. There did seem to be clouds, but it confused Nomzamo how she could see everything so clearly, when it was so dark. From over a hill, Nomzamo heard a snarl. She quickly mounted the hill, and dropped to her belly to see where the noise had come from. She saw an encampment, with wooden stakes as their border the tiny village had two huts. There was a great fire burning in the middle, and near thirty people huddled around, most wielding spears pointing out.

The great beast looked to be almost two meters from paw to shoulder, and nearly four and a quarter meters long. The black furred animal had gashes all over it’s pelt. Some led to still-open wounds, where Nomzamo could see the muscles contracting. The massive thing looked to Nomzamo almost like a jackal. It snarled as it was standing at the small entrance into the tiny village. It’s black lips gave way to pink gums and tusk-like fangs. It’s ears stood up rigid, except that the left one was marred, looking to have the tip bitten off. A scar adorned his left eye, though the ocular orb seemed undamaged. Nomzamo couldn’t see the other side, as her outlook only gave her a bit of the picture.

She felt like she laid there for hours, enthralled by this otherworldly standoff. The fact that people lived in such a place was mysterious to Nomzamo, as they didn’t seem to have any of the same natural life-giving ingredients that kept her alive. Nomzamo observed the rough dry earth, and wondered if there was ever rain here.

Suddenly, one of the men got brave enough to rush the black jackal, though Nomzamo was convinced that if this was a jackal it was the most muscular jackal she’d seen, even when comparing that it’s massive size was obviously in favor of that conclusion. The speed at which the hulk moved was so concerning to Nomzamo that she fell half-way down the hill again, before regaining her composure and getting back to her viewpoint. As she was climbing, she heard the shrill screams of a man. Nomzamo mounted the hill and saw a body being swung left and right in the beast’s mighty jaws. The cries slowly stopped, as the new sound of crunching bone echoed across the arid land. When the last whimper from the man had stopped the black jackal dropped the body. What followed was a cheerful yipping noise, not to be drowned out by a woman in the tiny village that began to moan in anguish. The giant black creature then did, what Nomzamo compared to, a dance. After shuffling his feet left and right, the beast put his front two paws on the highest of the pointed stakes and then let himself urinate at the base of the encampment.

This act was met with groans of the occupants, and then a group of ten men and women who saw this as their opening. The face of joy that Nomzamo witnessed on the black jackal’s face was interrupted when a spear entered his thigh.   Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pack of them, and unflinchingly rolled over snapping the spear off and crushing the thrower in the process. The ooze of the life-fluid onto the beast’s fur churned Nomzamo’s stomach, and she could scarce believe that anything in this land acted predator to such a force.

The fur-covered gargantuan bared his teeth and bull-rushed the center mass of the tiny village’s main contingent, knocking many of them into the main fire, but not without injury of his own. He turned tail, accidentally letting his rear graze the pyre, but was met with the rest of the group that had moved to attack earlier. Two men threw their spears, and then ran behind the barricade while a group of five women bravely sacrificed themselves in a tight formation that got more solid blows into the beast. One of the women had planted her spear perfectly. This suspended the beast over her for a split second, before she was swatted away by his paw. A little more momentum and the shaft snapped.

Nomzamo then noticed a little girl, around seven, dancing around the fire. While the adults screamed, wept, and were torn apart, the girl joyfully skipped and spun around in the wide circle of burning wood. Eventually, there were no adults to speak of left standing, though a few were grievously injured and crying out in pain. Nomzamo got closer to the scene of the gore. One man in particular was yelling in a language Nomzamo didn’t recognize, but both of his legs seemed to be broken, and one of his arm bones protruded from his skin.

The beast went from person to person ripping out the throats of the fallen, and stepped over this man. He lowered his jowls to the man’s face. The beast pressed his teeth against the sides of the man’s neck until the man could no longer bear the combined pains, and passed out. It was after the sickening crunch and gloopy sounds of falling blood, that the valley seemed silent for all but the beast’s breathing, and a low humming from the little girl dancing at the fire. Wondering what sort of girl could be so calm, Nomzamo edged closer.

The beast entered the tiny village, walking raggedly, and bleeding from his many wounds. The girl stopped moving around the fire, but her body was in constant motion, as she approached the beast. She made a ‘coo’ at the black jackal as she reached up to begin to remove spear fragments. After every removal, the little girl gave the wounds a small kiss, and Nomzamo could see previously bleeding wounds immediately staunched. The gargantuan winced when the weapons were removed, and eventually had to lay down for the girl to reach the injuries. Nomzamo was too curious for her own good, and had gotten relatively close at this point.

The black giant sniffed the air, and began to rise, however the little girl put her hand on the black fur, and rose to face Nomzamo. Nomzamo met eyes with the girl, and began to flee back up the hill where she had previously been watching from. As she turned behind to see if the girl had followed, she ran into a small figure, knocking it over, and getting tangled up into it.

She struggled against the figure, as when they were both on the ground they began to grapple. The figure was curiously strong for it’s size, and as Nomzamo lost, she saw the blood-flecked grubby face of a small girl. Her skin was a strange hue that Nomzamo had not seen before, as Nomzamo struggled against the pin the girl examined Nomzamo, and eventually started to lower her head. The girl opened her mouth and drew closer to Nomzamo’s face. The girl’s teeth got visibly closer and closer to Nomzamo’s right eye, and reflexively Nomzamo closed her eyes. She could feel the hot breath of the girl on her eyelid, and felt the girl reposition the pin, freeing up one of her hands. Nomzamo beat at her attacker, but the girl took her fingers and spread Nomzamo’s eyelid opening up Nomzamo’s vision to a descending oval of darkness.

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Was her name

The details of that summer now I no longer remember except, perhaps, like sweet slabs of fresh birthday cake, or also walnuts with the bitter surprise of unremoved shelling bits in the creases. Tastes shocking before swallowed and then forgotten. Cassondra was her name.

“Your hands. They’re so strong, so lively.” She said, half naked.

I was massaging her doughy shoulders, the hard shale bed of muscles beneath the skin, my thumbs torqued down between the blades.

The intricacies of this moment are now, in my memory, gone. Removed maybe.  Was she sitting up, rocking forward, as I pressed into her back? Was she lying on my bed, chest down? If so, was I straddling her, my knees bracing either side of her ribcage in a hold? Did I then become erect, as I so often do pinning willing woman down, and could she sense it?

There was no love there between us. There never was. Never. Never enough time for lust to make a chrysalis, to transform and to form it’s inner slink to a butterfly. Never love- I regret that now.

I regret dismissing her so quick. For dismissing the most comforting smell, a lush head of brunette hair, that my nose has ever snuck silent wiffs from. I massage her back, I stoop, I indulge myself in a nose-drunk keg of her smells.

There was never love- I enjoy that now. 

She returned from the washroom after swallowing my cum with breath reeking, insultingly, of my hyro-blue Crest mouthwash. How bad did I taste, I wondered, falling asleep ashamed. There was as much love, that is none, as there was engaging conversation. Our walks in the park were a funeral procession of continual bore. 

Dating in this town is unavoidable, Chicago, the great lonely snowed in wild cabin. Dating is an institution here, and its participants work their steady way towards becoming the institutionalized, so I have become convinced.

A massage, the blow job, a few rich dinner meals or sun soaked brunch dates, and those many locks of brunette hair that wove ropes around my heart- what else of any friend, any lover, in our minds, will ever really endure?

“Your hands.” She moans. “They’re so strong, so lively.” 

No one has ever landed a compliment on me so well. 


You smelled better even than the summer I can no longer prove existed.

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Shrink Wrap Them Before January

To the man who loved you first, so natural in ways you find effortlessly beautiful- hulking brunette wisps and whipped lids blinking over nethermost eyes, luring you,

to him

from me, away.

I barely understand this mans allure, having met him nonchalantly over only hurried hellos. To you his heart plays perhaps piano notes like strings humming into the coded center of your vibrating heart. Chomp, you have bitten, your gravity has itself been altered.

Occasionally I witness you in public and it seems now as though you are happy. Shopping the grocer with him, a quick laughing set of eyes linking, sharing the morning car ride to work; even vinegary winter wind is blowing somewhere nice, is it not?

But first it must pass these windows of which I now stare, blowing so capable, so vigorously on its way, howling.

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Beautiful Disaster

My mind holds a prodigious amount of unsaid words.  Descriptive sentences, recited on pages stored in dusty files or cramped quarters of my subconscious.  I do little with aggression other than to run it off, or punch a bag. No one wants to hear the whines or cockamamie stories, when they themselves live in a world of garbage piled so high you’d need a ladder to climb to the top.

My eyes have been trained to listen. I listen for those whose minds have been erased, but have forgotten how to speak.  I am cursed and blessed, you see. I am blessed with the ability to read between your lines, but cursed, because no one can read me. 

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There once was a Pierre Janet (French psychologist and philosopher) who defined the subconscious as a powerful awareness lurking underneath layers of critical thought. There once again was a Freud who thought the term subconscious was rather confusing and preferred the 'unconscious' instead, which he divided into two entities: the preconscious; latent yet dynamic (only descriptively), and the unconscious; the repressed layers of thought, where we store traumatic experience and socially unacceptable ideas. There are two kinds of worlds, according to Nietzsche: 'the true world', and 'the apparent world'- which is what we hold as truth, buried layers deep into our subconsciousness, and which he considered 'instinctual'.

There once was a girl who tried to make sense of it all.

To sum up the aforementioned boggling, winding, tangible psycho-philosophical conclusions- simply put, us humans are analytical creatures; by analytical I mean that our brains are constantly processing and analysing given data (do I turn left or right? is that green or yellow? is it hot or cold? etc). We also act as sponges, meaning that what our brains don't need to process for immediate use, they store. Unconsciously so. Feelings, trauma, concepts guilefully sneaking into our heads while we're distracted and defenseless... all coming together to form an intricately weaved 'mental' blanket; our own conceptually vivid chaos.

Behaviourists say it starts forming from infancy. We are born a blank canvass and everything we go through is an added brush stroke. Could it be hereditary? Can I say I inherited my meticulousness, anxiety, perfectionism, and passion for written words from my father and my relatively low self-esteem, and good faith in others from my mother? Do we necessarily 'inherit' behaviours and concepts or is who we are the product of infiltrating unconsciously processed information a long, long time ago?

Debilitating low self-worth being the key phrase. Why are some people more confident in their personal brand than others? Were they hugged more? Were they brought up to believe they're great? Or have they simply mastered the art of persuading oneself? Does it truly come from 'within' or does it spring from whatever it is we do which -we believe- deems us valuable in the unforgiving eyes the world?

At what point does a notion, an idea become fact to us? And when does its source become a blur? When does it start to slowly morph; eventually deceiving us into believing that we are the mastermind, the real origin...

More importantly, could we control it? Could it be possible to paint over the flawed painting and fool the keen eye of that latent creature? Broadly speaking, it is exactly like that film, Inception, except there are no little men expertly working their way down the deepest, unpathed strata of our minds- not literally, at least.

Sometimes I think about the apparent world Nietzsche suggested we unconsciously design and live in. Our own unique truth- or perspective of it, and I wonder if we are really who we've always believed ourselves to be. I wonder what happens when 'apparent worlds' overlap- which projection of me is the actual me (but that line of thought leads to Jean- Paul Sartre's existentialism and really there's no need to wake sleeping dragons at this time of night).

I wonder what the 'true world' looks like, beyond the confines of the mind and its house of mirrors.

I wonder if perhaps the thoughts are greener on the other side of the subconscious.


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(Prompt: Writers Write Daily Writing Prompt, via amandaonwriting)

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

You see, an arming jacket pads and insulates soft skin and muscle from uncompromising iron. It soaks up the sweat and blood from brute exertion that might dare to corrode a gleaming shell to ruin. It is a fabric border between the human and relentless inhumanity. An arming jacket makes plate armor possible.

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

In Dahl's Fields, she'd stood vigilant. Demons and death uncountable visited the dotted plain of plantations. No. By a few arrow pits and horn punctures, by the texture of rough twine across her ribs, she knew. She'd killed 47 creatures on her own. She'd saved 54 families. 23? She hadn't. Her armor polished clean soon after.

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

At Rundell, she stood vigilant. At Sarrsford, she stood vigilant. At the Wall of Wells, she'd gleamed and swept her steel across, an endless rain of red. Across men, not monsters. The plate had taken not a nick, but she savaged her arming jacket with her own bloody nails and salt-stained the silk with tears. Still, she stood vigilant. 

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

The armor gleamed like faith. Beneath, flesh strained and struggled to keep pace.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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I was kayaking on the lake the other evening when I cut a flock of ducks in two. 

It was a beautiful evening. I had managed to step into the kayak without capsizing it or soaking the cuffs of my jeans. The lake was still and the kayak felt steady in the gentle swells. The shining red prow cut the water like a warm knife through butter. I had been working towards the ducks for some time - they were interesting ducks, black with brown heads and a white band around their necks, and adorned with feathery brown crests across their skulls.

While watching them, I paddled overzealously and shot into the center of the flock of ducks. They didn’t divide evenly - only one duck remained to my right, and the rest hurried off to the left. The kayak slid on between the ducks, but I turned to watch them.

The larger group disappeared into the rocks of a nearby island, while the loner remained, quacking plaintively - it reminded me of the way goats will bleat, bleat, bleat when their keeper walks away from the herd, wailing to attract their friend back to the group. Safety in numbers.

The lone duck looked different without his friends. With the other ducks, he had been a piece of a whole. Now he was a nervous individual, staring at me through one shining eye. 

Quack. Quack. Quack.

The sun from the waves glinted into my eyes. 

The rest of the ducks didn’t seem to notice the loner’s absence. They paddled on serenely towards a smaller island far out in the center of the lake, ignoring the steady quacking of the loner, who paddled after them at a hurried clip. The group didn’t need any one individual, but this individual needed the group.

I turned the kayak around as quietly as I could and glided up behind the loner, trying to encourage him to hurry towards his compatriots, but he ignored my boat and continued steadily towards them at his determined pace, brown crest in disarray from the steady, cool evening breeze. 

The flock continued on obliviously towards the smaller island.

When I returned home and stood out on the porch a few minutes later, I could still hear the loner quacking persistently to the other ducks.

Wait up.

I’m still back here.

I’ll be caught up pretty soon.

I promise.

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Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door - Emily Dickinson


I don't remember ever doing something distinctly rewarding or remarkable, like winning an award or a contest. I don't remember standing out for anything in particular or having any sort of noteworthy talent. I don't remember being an attractive or grateful child. I don't remember ever thanking my friends for being my friends. I don't remember my brother ever doing anything that wouldn't help him succeed later in life. I don't remember saying sorry for the things I should feel sorry for. I don't remember when I became so dependent on companionship. I don't quite remember how I let everyone I loved most in my life leave it without saying goodbye. I don't remember when or why I started to prefer complete and utter solitude over the option of human company. I don't remember the last time I tried to really love someone or let someone love me because I'm too embarrassed to show them who I am. I don't remember asking for forgiveness but I remember receiving it. I don't remember ever liking who I was or the choices I made. I don't remember a time when I didn't want to cease my existence. I don't remember a time when I didn't put myself before others or a time when I was less selfish. I don't remember making the best of my high school years and I don't remember a time when I was not disappointed in myself. 

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Chasing Dragons

The storm has cast the world grayscale.
She makes sure all the lights are out as she leaves for work.
Some believe that because I have not risen with the dawn and set off to bury my head in the obligation of an occupation I am therefor not working.
If only such a simple way of finding contentment lay in the hours of Nine to Five for me. My hours operate whenever my mind is functioning. There is no end to my day, no start a weekend, no break in a holiday.
I do not need to go to an office or department store or garage to work.She knows that as soon as she leaves me alone in the house, I bury myself in work; imagination flowing unbound.
This is the reason I prefer the grayscale morn:
It dulls the real world; fading it darker that the worlds of my own.
I am left free and unencumbered by the ever present distractions reality bears.
Instead, I see only the dormant husk of a room. What bleak light there is radiates from the sun, filtered through veils of clouds; and my laptop, waiting for to pull the projections of these unseen worlds through my fingers to satiate the insatiable, ravenous appetite of it’s keyboard.


And herein lies the sad truth for writers:
In the end, all your hours and days and months and years of work, all our characters and stories and plots and themes we create, every financial hardship and personal burden struggled through, will only in the end result in a pile of paper and some dried ink.
And that fact only resolves us to dive further down the rabbit hole, and ensure that the next pile of paper and dried ink will be even better.

Such a fact should encourage all writers to stand and admit their addictions.

“Hello, my name is Daniel, and I am writing a novel.”