How sweet the sound of silence found. Finding seclusion within ourselves. We strive for quiet pines that sway with the sound of thoughts. Thoughts, they pepper me like rain drops. I fling my arms back and hug the want. The want to express, the will to write.
We met upon electric wire. Two users using what everyone else does for fun. Instead we found an addiction in each other and a constant want. I want now. I kill day dreams to concentrate during work. Dreams of you and me, things that may come to be. I fantasize about you still. The thought of your touch, touches we have had. We met and two users found love. An Asian story of course.
They touch with thought. The desire is felt physically through their eyes. Music is in the background… something soft and unobtrusive. Nothing matters but the present.
He raises his hand and touches her cheek. He does not caress her, he is afraid he might mar her beauty. Instead he lightly touches her and whispers in her ear.
A hint of a blush, a small nervous giggle, those are the rewards for the right words. That is what he is given.
Their eyes meet once more. Desire has been replaced by passion and fear. The passion is for the emotion; the fear is that the moment might slip away. They embrace it.
As their lips touch they do not lose eye contact, they do not lose the present. There are no fireworks, no magical lightning bolts that come from their kiss. The effects are internally felt though, a slow throbbing of need, and want, has replaced given heartbeats. Their hearts seem to be one.
He leads her through the door. She hesitates… but only for a moment. She is already there. As she takes her first willing step she sheds her doubts like a robe, placed upon the floor next to her clothes.
And above the moon closes his eyes and wishes for the sun.
Have a good weekend everyone.
The screams can be heard from outside the home. Not surprising in this small village of straw huts and tin garages that serve as humble abodes. Strangely, despite the poverty, the place feels like home.
Soft voices whispering comforting words rise from the small window from the bedroom. He looks in quickly so as not to be noticed. Men are not allowed during these times of… trial.
He sees his wife, glowing as the sun. Her face is full of pain, such pain. He desires only to go to her, but knows that he should not. His outstretched hand falls limply to his side. He can only serve as the spectator that he is.
The village “doctor” murmurs and shakes her head. She turns and whispers something to a waiting girl who quickly darts out the door for some necessary object. On the bed his wife pants for breath as if she has run miles and still has further to go.
A shriek pierces the night and torments his ears. He will never forget that sound. Missing is the commotion of joy or happiness. Only terror at what might be happening, at what is to come.
And as the doctor bends down she can be seen to remove a body. A small body that does not move, and yet still it glows as his wife does. A piece of heaven, a piece of perfection, untouched by the hate and the fear of the world. The baby will forever sleep in peace.
In this knowledge, in giving birth to death, a father can find some comfort.
I am just a blogger. No different really from any other blogger here on WordPress, besides being a sexy Korean man with a really white name of course.
I think that is the hardest thing for people to handle actually. I don’t think I’m important because I know I’m not important. It really is that simple. You know I’ve had bloggers email me saying how disappointed they were to find out I was just another blogger. They thought they had won something from my “follow.” Suddenly now that I was “just another blogger,” my following of their blog was seen as disingenuous. See that makes no fucking sense to me, but what do I know. I’m just another blogger.
I admire other bloggers. There are some great writers out there and of course I look up to anyone that has written, edited, and published a book. Since I myself never have I admire those that do. I feel I have one book in me, but I’m not sure yet what that book will be. It isn’t the word length or work. There are personal blocks I think, but time will tell. To those grinding it out on their novels and projects I wish you the best. I hope you accomplish your goal.
People ask me for blogging tips and I half heartedly refer them to my link that says blogging tips I think. I have written everything I know about gathering an audience on a WordPress there. The thing that makes me different from other “powerbloggers” is that I never expect anyone to come back. They teach you in business to always seek the return sale. Nowhere is that more true then online where you hope for return visitors. I don’t operate under that assumption or hope which is why I’ll never consider myself a purist blogger. I hope instead that you never come back to my blog. I hope you take the knowledge I share and you go on to do your own thing. I hope I never have to talk to or answer emails from some of you ever again. Because that means you are succeeding and I am happy for you.
You take away a color and all rainbows cry. They cry colorful tears of realization that life has a beginning and an end. How easily is the cycle broken by dashing unicorns that fall. They fall so slowly so the earth realizes what is happening and the stars blink in pain. A scene of tragic death and yet framed by human presence it seems appropriate. We destroy beauty with ease.
I dance beneath a perfect rainbow and break its perfection with my fingers for my pleasure. I dance among the bodies of unicorns and broken dreams. My dreams.