You and I (Poem)

Bound by suffering,

When hearts reach out,

Ours find each other,

As if to amplify it.

The escape once sought

Now looms over us.

What we wanted

Will be our undoing.

You and I

Are not so alien.

The bond we share,

Not so easily broken.

I promise you

Nothing but difficulty.

Our relationship

Is a dreadful burden.

But I know

One day it will lighten.

Maybe that day,

We will share it again.

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    It is rare that so much inspiration will find me in a short period. Perhaps I have mentioned that I am doing Camp NaNoWriMo this month, just as I did in April of this year. It seems that I am commonly drawn to simply work on the novel at hand during the various NaNoWriMo's that I have done. And yet, I have written so many poems and some short stories over the past couple weeks. It is astounding! But I cannot simply say that this inspiration has been the result of nothing at all.

     I have been drawn to write more because I have been experiencing emotions. Often I feel that I am in a state of neutrality. Happiness comes and goes, as well as the other emotions that one may feel in a day. But their temporal nature does not come to inspire my pen. It is a prolonged emotion that truly captures me. Love comes to mind, although I am well aware that it is the emotions that it sprouts forth that I truly enjoy. 

     There is something beautiful in the struggle against the inevitable. Whether it is the battle against death, or a race against time, it is the impossible that is sought to be conquered, if only for a moment. Every moment has an incredible significance, if only one bothers to notice. I, for example, have forgotten many times the first time that I had gazed upon someone who would later occupy my mind as a noisy tenant. With that lost to the abyss of the past, I am left to remember the few moments I may share with them. Alas, I have gone on long enough. Take care, dear reader.

     Until next time,

-Zero

These Dreary Afternoons (Poem)

These dreary afternoons

Are my favorite.

The sun has left me,

And no one is around.

I am alone,

And pleasantly so.

My mind goes

Where it please,

On days like these

There is no pressure

To think of only one.

These are my times,

My moments of liberty

From social expectations.

These dreary afternoons

Allow me to be.

It is a gentle bliss,

Not of ignorance,

But distance,

And perseverance.

My pen screams

With unbridled joy,

As it comes to the paper

With honest abandon.

No need to deceive,

Or create a facade,

When none are near.

Emotions become real,

And expressed vividly.

Perhaps only

To go into hiding,

To disappear.

These dreary afternoons

Bear many secrets.

The hurt of years past

Becomes real,

The bleeding,

Unstoppable.

The love of here and now,

Hidden out of fear,

Comes to sing.

Its lullaby

Drifts my into

Sincere happiness.

These dreary afternoons

Cannot realize my wishes.

They are restrained,

Slaves,

Vastly outnumbered.

They are powerless.

That is,

So long as I

Do not bring my wishes

Into everyday.

So long as my

Cowardice rules.

These dreary afternoons

Will feed my courage,

Until the time comes

To retake my life.

-Zero

The Defeat of the Ice (poem)

Imagine now,

The Arctic,

A frozen wasteland,

Cold and desolate,

Like some hearts.

Little lives,

But there is life.

Blood stains the snow

As the struggle is lost,

And won.

Temperatures that bite

With teeth of frost,

A flesh-eating parasite. 

Those who are not native,

Will be chewed to the bone.

But there is sanctuary,

For the lucky few,

That stirred the great land's heart. 

It would appear within,

Before taking form.

 It is powerful,

The gift of a titan.

Its arms wide,

Long tentacles lashing the air,

As if to strike the gods.

It battles the Arctic,

Challenges its very nature.

It soaks the snow and ice

With their blood,

As it defeats them.

It is the essence

Of a star.

Its light shatters

The winter's darkness.

It is the passion

From one heart to another,

That bonding element,

That spark turned flame,

Dissipating the ice,

Ending its cruel rule.

And with that,

The few find sanctuary.

The Arctic's cold is melted,

Allowing those who belong to remain,

Even if they were once alien.

It is passionate,

Welcoming,

Beautiful,

And warm.

It is the legendary Arctic Fire.

-Zero

The Jumpers (Short Story)

      Doom was our nature. Only in suffering were we one, so we sought it. We were fools, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. But times were good. She was intelligent and quite capable at maintaining the most eerie of conversations. We shared many questions, but no answers.

      At times it was the very bond that we put under interrogation. We wondered if we were rushing into a trap set by ourselves. I would say she was beautiful, but that says nothing. It is a subjective truth. By calling her beautiful, I subject her to the ideal in my head. The closer to it that she is, the more beautiful she is. But that is meaningless. Her appearance caught my eye, but it was her words that drew me in.

      She always asked me why it was I was being so serious, but she very well knew the reason. It was a game, playful banter that we would reflect upon in times apart. In times of the inevitable, we would come together, our suffering amplified by the feeling of always being an inch away. It saved our lives. It destroyed our livers. For her, I jumped away from certainty and fell into that cliche falling. She did the same. It was impulse, but not satisfying. With every fall came the impending inch. All we could do was wait for it to end. All we could do was hit rock bottom.

      Our relationship was as such. It was the pleasant horror of jumping to one's doom. We called the reaper, but he just watched. We ran away, only to trip and begin again. The pain was dreadful, but she was fascinating. Each time we fell farther and farther, getting lost within each other. But the shadows above never left us to be. We were haunted by the past, the present, and the future.

      Yet, we always returned. If I had any reason to climb back up, it was to fall with her again. We were so beautifully drawn to the plummet, our sacred union. Through the fast moving darkness, I learned to say goodbye while concealing my heavy heart. But without it lightened, the climb was impossible. So I yelled it all, expressed it from the bottom of my heart up. At first she did not hear me. My words fell on empty ears. With time, she grew to listen and eventually she paid attention. She would call back and answer from time to time. I always thought she knew I had bee thinking about her.

      Once she asked me why I chose her.

      “Because you will jump with me.”

-Zero

A Portrait For You (poem)

Allow me,

A simple artist,

To paint you a portrait,

My friend.

No, I insist!

Consider this farewell,

A parting gift,

And one day,

A candle in the dark.

My friend,

sit, sit!

This will not take long,

Although the content

Is overwhelming.

Pose?

Do not be silly!

I am not painting you!

What?

You thought I was?

No, I am painting

A portrait for you.

It will be of

Your loved ones.

No need to retrieve them,

I see them clearly.

Where, you ask?

Why,

In your eyes

They reside.

Sit and wait,

I only need a moment.

It is finished!

And I do think

It captures them nicely.

All you see is stars?

Is that not what they are?

Do they not guide you

Through the darkest night?

Ah, so now you see,

That love is light,

And stars bright.

Keep it,

But do not forget it.

The night ahead

Is a path of rocks.

You will have nothing,

But the stars in your heart.

My friend,

Take care,

And remember,

No star shines

As bright as you.

-Zero

Dear Desk (letter)

Dear desk,

     My faithful and loyal companion who has yet to fail me once. You have been there for me when the nights have been long, as well as when the days are spent hiding from the sun. Many words have been scribbled upon your sleek oak wood. Stories have taken form and characters have come to life. Surely this may have happened without your presence, but as my departure draws close, I see nothing but how useful you have been. You are a place of serenity and peace. You are a retreat from the everyday struggle with myself. When I sit in your chair, I can truly become myself through abstract ideas and words. Too many times I have spilled tea on your head, but I rarely left it there to burn you any more than it already had.

     It is difficult to say why I am writing this. Surely you are an inanimate object with no conscious thought process, and no way to care about the words that I use. But I am a man of fiction, and that brings you to life much just as much as my characters are alive. Right now you are littered with the papers for my newest novel. Each paper was scribbled on your wood surface with my pen. Most of it is character planning, with some locations being built through words that would find their way into the story somehow. Even now, as I write this letter to you, I am sitting on your chair with my laptop on your head. My shade-less lamp is lit like usual.

     But soon this will change. It will be left off for four months, until I return for no more than two weeks. I will have to dust you off to use you, and your contents will be known even less to me than they are now. I arranged the contents of the drawers just the other day, but I did not have the time to read each and every piece. Maybe one day someone will. The stories rest within you, awaiting for their time to come to light and be editing on your surface. But that will not happen for some time. I will be at a different desk, a foreign desk, in a foreign place with foreign people. Only the few possessions I will be allowed to bring with me will be familiar. You will remain and wait to be used again. There is much to be discovered amongst the thousands of papers that you hold within you. I have written most of it, but I always learn something new when I look back. I wonder if my new desk will have as much storage space in it. I hope to find out soon. If not, I will have to figure out what to do with all my papers that I will surely be writing at university. Consider the surge of inspiration that I received when I attended college. Now consider how much more intensified that will be when I am in Lennoxville and out of my element.

     The way in which I will write very well may change as well. I will have a roommate and my desk will be beneath my bed. I will not have as much room as I do here. I will be dealing with a sudden change, far from everything I grew up with. I will be able to contact this place and all the people I have left behind, but that which has served me use often has no method of communication, such as yourself. I have become comfortable right here in your chair for some time. I barely write anywhere else. It is my location, my workplace, where all else falls into nothing and I may do what matters to me most. But when I am living with a roommate, I wonder how often I will be dragged away from my work. I wonder what he will think my writing as. Will he believe it to be something I do for fun, or out of necessity? Will he see it as a joke, or take it seriously? Will it be a profession, or recreation? I await the answer with great anxiety. But for now, I suppose I should be writing yet another novel with you. Whether it has been handwriting "The Beginning of the End", "Kuna Zero: A Wanderer's Tale", "Who is the True Monster?" or typing "The Knife In Admeta's Back", "Love: A Chaotic Insanity", "The Tunnels", "A Plead to Iris", "The Return of Hope", and all the other various short stories and poems, you have served as the base for my work, despite the time of day or season. So with that, I finish this strange letter.

     Until I return,

-Zero

Reluctance to Leave (poem)

Sitting here,

At my desk.

Tired and weary.

Working through the night,

Whispering in the morning.

The bed calls to me,

But I dare not come,

Or else my dreams

Will be of the empty chair,

Waiting for me to fill.

Could I not sleep here?

It may be physically burdening,

But my mind will flourish.

This workstation of mine

Deserves my attention.

Within it lie

Years of work,

Both of mine,

And of others.

Lessons scribbled on paper,

And retold in prose.

Stories brought to life,

Once,

And twice,

And thrice.

Why might I want to leave them?

To rest and procrastinate my duty?

It is here I belong,

In this chair,

With all I have done and learned.

I would rather write,

With reckless abandon,

Than sleep,

With pointless abandon.

I would rather write this.

Word after word may form,

On the paper below my pen,

Expressing a new world,

That some may only dream of.

But I am not asleep.

-Zero