A Breath of Fresh Air (poem)

You, my friend,

are a breath of fresh air,

which is weird

because I've known you for years.

You're an open field:

you could be centuries old

and still be lively and fresh,

tall verdant woods watching over you.

And I'm the wanderer,

who stumbles into you

after years lost in the grey,

and finds solace in your light.

I lie in your grasses

and feel the breeze rustle them,

at peace and at home

like an ember in a flame.

-Zero

To Bare my Soul (poem)

Four years ago

a friend in a trance said,

“I see the man among you,

hidden behind a facade.”

It's a lovely facade though,

painted with calm passion and witty humor,

built with fictions and stoicism,

its foundations made of fear.

But if you hear closely,

you can hear something banging on it,

a soul crying out for help,

and the ferocious cackling of flames.

You can't see what's happening,

so I'll enlighten you.

The foundations of the facade are burning,

no match for those divine flames.

A life led by fear

is a life of eternal loneliness.

This facade hasn't protected me,

it's destroyed me.

That is why I bang on the facade,

my body engulfed with orange-red flames,

calling out for other to come.

Tonight I bare my soul.

-Zero

Half A Decade Passed (update)

     It's strange for me to think that it has already been half a decade since I first started this blog back when I was in my last year of high school. In the years since, a great deal has changed, both in life and in my writing itself. For example, when I was only first starting the blog, I posted five or so short stories all in one day. On top of that, those earlier works tended towards darkness and chaos, and prominently ended in death. I actually wrote a short story recently following that twisted form named "The Madness of the Scholar", which can be found here. 

     Then came CEGEP, or college, and with that came the study of the obsessions, a predominantly first-hand study if I must say so myself. In the beginning, it was unknown and unrecognized, but around the time when this blog turned two years old, it became a conscious pursuit in an attempt to understand the way in which the mind and body differentiate that which is fictional against what is real. I took an image of a girl roughly my age and created a whole character around it. The experiment, as I've come to call it, was a horrifying success. I learned that even obsessions knowingly based off of fiction can provide the same or perhaps even an intensified feeling as a regular crush or affection would. That's why obsession is so easy to fall into, and why it is so dangerous. 

     The year after was the first year of departure, during which I left my parents' home to go off to university in a different part of the province. The consequence of this was reflections on the nature of home and belonging, as well as increased intellectual curiosity in other subjects such as philosophy. Ultimately what turned out to be my downfall in this year was a careless misunderstanding of obsession, which would come to remind me that the true danger in obsession is ultimately through the fictionalization and idealization of real people that one has real contact with. 

     And then there was the Crash, in which my aunt and uncle were killed. This radically changed the nature of my life and my interaction with the world around me. I have called this particular period the second Fall. There was an attempt to cling to the Flames, to pull myself out of the pit I had fallen into, but it would take many months before that happened. And then from there, there was the guilt and self-loathing that came as a result of some of my actions. But in this time, I was busy working on a three part theory of love, which would really come together this year.

     This past year has been one of hope, love, heartbreak, and grief. Looking up at the lines of poetry from William Blake that I put on my wall this past summer, I can tell I was trying to keep myself in the Flames because it was becoming so easy to give in and give up.

Lines from Blake:

 "Bring me my Bow of burning gold:

Bring me my Arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:"

(From Milton, plate 1, lines 9-14)

     During this time, I more or less finished my general theory of love, splitting it up into three categories, spiritual, sexual, and companionate. A quick summary, companionate is the family/friend form of love, which is usually long term and based on trust and safety. Sexual is essentially physical intimacy, and spiritual is perhaps the worst named of the three, being the more magical form of love that we find in romantic relationships. 

     Anyways, besides just this theory of love, I also began getting more involved in social issues, which seems appropriate due to the nature of my liberal arts education. Just in September, after reading a strange little book called "The Collector" (which is unsettlingly close to my own "Who is the True Monster", and portrays obsession quite well), I finally noticed another key aspect of obsession in Western society that goes all the way back to Petrarch, if not further, being the praising and dependence on beauty. It seems to me that this is a result of taking one's appearance as representative of the whole, which is dehumanizing. Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Grey" criticizes this quite intensely, actually, and I happened to write quite a long paper exploring that some time ago. I just didn't make the link between the 1900 novel and today's society, where beauty is praised so highly (even though it's kind of useless). 

     It's also strange to think that five years ago, when I started this blog, I probably would have never thought that I would write a post like this, generalizing ideas that I've had and the direction of my life over the lifespan of the blog. Of course back then everything was so raw for me. But, incidentally, somethings haven't changed. I am still on the same path as I was back then, although perhaps now I cannot see quite as far as I could then. The Flames still burn through my body and soul, guiding and aiding me when I need them. I'm still incredibly suspicious of fear and somehow still think that a life lived out of fear is not a life at all. I have written poems and the like on the overcoming of fears I did not realize I had, but I sent them elsewhere instead of posting them here. 

     Anyways, I think I have gone on long enough. It will suffice to say that the past five years have been a wonderful learning experience with its own horrors and sorrows, and I look forward to the future when I will look back at this time and be glad I continued to learn. God knows there is still so much to learn. Take care. Until next time,

-Zero

Dear Anonymous (poem)

Hey,
how've you been?
It feels like it's been forever
since I saw you last.

Things are good.
Sometimes I have rough patches,
but they're less frequent now
and I'm prepared for them.

My writing's coming along well,
I've avoided writer's block so far.
School's good too,
and I've met someone.

I think you'd like her.
She's got a wit like no other,
and she's constantly amazing me.
I wish you two could meet.

But those days are gone.
You're gone,
which is why I'm writing this.
I can't tell you myself.

Sometimes I feel I'm just wandering aimlessly,
lost in an infinite desert,
dragging my feet through the sand,
as if I'm walking through Hell itself.

And I carry a pen and notebook with me,
but every time I try to write,
the pen spouts ashes,
so I just keep wandering.
I can't help but to miss you,
to scream at the desert sky to give you back,
so I can find my way from this Hell,
so I no longer have to be alone.
But now she's here.
She holds me together as I turn to sand,
she tells me that I'm strong enough,
and reminds me that I'm not alone.

With her help,
I change the barren desert,
turn it into a forest in late spring.
With her help, I find my way home.
I wish you could meet her.
She'd love you as I did.
And we could brave the world together,
just the three of us.

But that will never happen...
Anyways,
I've gone on long enough.
I love you.
Goodbye, old friend.

-Zero

Title inspired by this song

Old Winter is Coming (poem)

Old winter will come soon,

his icy fingers will paint the world white,

his breath will chill the air,

and he will lounge under the grey sky.

I know you'd rather him stay away,

you'd rather not freeze,

snow is only pretty from a distance,

and it's difficult to walk on ice.

I'm sorry, but he's unavoidable,

just like little baby Spring,

burning adolescent Summer,

and adult Autumn.

So instead of hiding, come closer,

I'll hold you through the cold nights,

and share the warmth of the flame within,

the one that taught me to love old Winter.

-Zero

Tempted to Reckless Abandon (poem)

I'm tempted

to engage in reckless abandon,

bold madness,

revealing honesty.

I'm tempted

to put it on the line,

poke the bear,

walk the tight rope.

I'm tempted to act

because I'm sick of waiting

for the right moment,

for certainty that'll never come.

-Zero

How I NaNo (update/discussion)

     This November I participated yet again in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), in which participants attempt to write a novel in a month, roughly 200 pages in total. For those of you who have been following me for a while, you will know that this is actually a common thing for me to do. This month in particular is the 13th time I've participated, including Camp NaNoWriMo and Script Frenzy (100 pages of a screenplay in a month), all of which are hosted online by the Office of Letters and Light, a nonprofit organization that aspires to encourage and nurture creativity around the world.

     I have been asked many times how it is I manage to do NaNoWriMo on top of my usual studies and work, as well as how I consistently win. I thought it would be interesting to write a post explaining my methods that get me through NaNoWriMo, and have done so since I started back in 2011. 

     First, I want to make it clear that writing is a lot like music, it's 1% talent, 99% hard work. There's a tendency to attribute it to an inherent talent, but the truth is that any great writer has spent hours and hours working hard on their craft. This is just to say that you don't have to have a god-given gift in order to do this. This is why I can constantly win NaNo. The skills that I use in order to accomplish it have been internalized from years of practice. 

     Writing a novel is a lot like a relationship. At first you have that honeymoon period, where you're loving every moment of it and everything is wonderful. For novel writing, this is usually the initial burst of inspiration that creates the novel. But then you have what we call the second week slump in NaNo, where that inspiration dies down and the magic feels like it's gone. Sometimes getting over this slump is the hardest part, although in long term commitments it will occasionally come back in the form of writer's block or other fun things like that. It's at times like these when you have to put the work in, even though you might not want to. If we quit on our relationships the moment they got hard, we would never know a meaningful long term relationship. Likewise with a novel, if you give up when it's hard, you will never finish it.

     That being said, it's about time I introduce the things that carry me to the finish line during NaNo. First of all, it's a sense of ability, or more simply, the belief in myself. I have always believed that I could do it. I constantly refer to this as pride, saying I have too much pride to fail. What this does is that it abolishes the doubt that often holds people back when they engage in activities. It's important to believe in yourself, most especially when you're facing incredible challenges. Doubt can be very self-fulfilling. 

     Drawing off of this pride comes the determination that is necessary in order to get any novel written, like I mentioned before. Honestly, as my recent stats for NaNo suggest, I have been having trouble with this on a day to day basis. This is a common problem among writers and people who participate in NaNo. When you're not overflowing with inspiration, it can be very hard to sit down and start writing. This gets harder and harder the less you find you're liking the novel you're writing. I felt this way throughout the month, as the novel ended up going into a direction I found wasn't in line with how I conceived it before. The aforementioned pride is what gave me the determination to finish the word count. I may never look at that novel again, but at least I didn't let it beat me.

     Now, one thing I've only mentioned briefly is the whole issue of inspiration. This is what traps most people when they write, or want to write, often referred to as writer's block. I've been asked how I find the inspiration for all these stories. The truth is that I find a dependence on inspiration (or traditionally referred to as the Muses) to be often counter-productive. The issue here is usually people not knowing where to go next in their novel. In times like these, I find it helpful to think about what necessarily has to happen, or what the next logical step in the story is. I usually figure this out by looking at the general plot of the story, asking myself where the characters are and what needs to happen in order to get to that end point. From there, I look at was happened between characters, and who they are. From there I can usually make up character drama between them, conflicts that are brought by the necessary steps in the plot. This often opens up sideplots and so on, which helps incredibly for writing the story because it gives you a lot more material to work with. 

     This leads me to my next method. I try my best to internalize the story and the characters. This way the story works itself out in my head without me having to consciously and constantly think about it. A way I do this is by establishing the general plot, setting, and mood of the novel, as well as doing some brief character sketches. For things like NaNo, it's really not necessary to have incredibly developed characters at the start. That sort of thing comes later. Having a general idea of the personalities and the beliefs of the characters will usually help inform their actions. That being said, sometimes I'm surprised at their actions. This is a normal thing for writers. It's often referred to as the characters coming to life. When doing editing and revision, this opens up possibilities for further character development. 

     Speaking of editing, it's crucial to leave this until after the first draft is done. For challenges like NaNo, which are already incredibly limited on time, there's no time to edit what you write. The NaNo community often says to kill your inner-editor, that voice in your head that says that this sentence or that sentence isn't good enough, or that your characters aren't developed enough, or that your plot makes no sense. What this generally means is either you learn to trust in your abilities to be coherent at a fast rate, or you stop caring entirely about it, leaving that worry to the future. I tend towards both, although I always fix spelling errors, even though I would be quicker if I didn't. 

     Anyways, with all that being said, I think it's about time that I wrap up this post. But before I do that, I just want to point out that there are a couple other big factors in my NaNo that are less methods and just general things about myself. First of all, because I grew up with computers, going between gaming and writing, I learned to type at a young age and am an incredibly fast typer now, which, combined with the above methods, becomes incredibly useful for NaNo. On top of that, writing is my life, as opposed to a side thing. Because of that, it receives the utmost importance and increases my determination far higher than the average person in NaNo. 

     And with that, I think it's about time I actually end this post. Ironically, it's taken me some time to write this post. I do tend towards a dry spell after NaNo ends. Anyways, take care, and until next time,

-Zero 

The End of the Dreams (poem)

I used to see your face

every time I shut my eyes.

Like an unending nightmare,

you haunted me day and night.

I yearned for release,

for the peace of oblivion.

Then, in a dream, we walked together

through a small Italian town on the sea.

The wind kicked up your dark locks

as we spoke.

But madness ran around with a gun,

frightening us and the locals.

He held us at gunpoint,

but we stood defiant.

The shots he fired still ring in my memory,

the shots that carried me to oblivion.

I awoke terrified and in pain,

the warmth of my blood covering my chest,

but I never saw you again.

-Zero

To the Monster Within (poem)

Come in,

have a cup of tea,

enjoy yourself

before we fight.

You are the voices in my head

that whisper, whisper, whisper.

You are the monster under my bed

that holds me incapable of getting up.

You are the fear,

the hopelessness,

the doubt,

the self-loathing I know too well.

I may be weak,

but I can promise you this:

when we do battle,

I will emerge victorious.

I will crush your hope,

I will fill you with doubt,

I will leave you in self-loathing.

You will fear me.

I am not a puppet

for you to play with.

I am a tempest of flame

for you to run from.

Are you done your tea?

I'd love to begin.

-Zero

The Consuming Sickness (poem)

I am sick.
This sickness shakes my heart,
makes my legs tremble, 
and tries to keep me bedridden.

It is all I see,
its voice all I hear,
its stench all I smell,
its grip all I feel.

I know what I did,
the action that sickens me,
but what god did I anger
to invoke this curse?

-Zero

Finding the Inferno (poem)

“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

mi ritrovai per uni selva oscura”

In the middle of the road of our life,

I found myself in a dark wood.

- L'Inferno, Dante

Darkness surrounded me on all sides,

all I could make out were vague shapes,

like shadows strung across a black wall,

nightmares brewing in my mind.

I called out, for someone, anyone, for help,

No one answered.

But eyes of flame opened

in the shadows above my head.

The icy chill of fear crept over my heart,

petrifying the blood in my veins.

I thought it was the end,

oh, but it was only just beginning.

The flame-eyed being jumped down at me,

and I thought “what giant beast have I angered?”

But when it landed before me,

I realized it was no larger than a cat.

It cocked its head at me,

its flames searching my very soul.

There was unending silence,

the darkness only broken by the glow of its eyes.

I got the urge to speak,

“where am I?

And what are you?”

It responded with silence.

Then flames burst forth from its body,

illuminating its black fur and the trees around.

For a moment I was blind,

and then I recognized my oldest friend.

He ran off into the woods,

his fiery tail swishing through the air.

I followed after him,

chasing a candle through darkness infinite.

It took everything in me to keep up,

and I was often tempted to rest,

but I didn't want to risk losing him,

or getting distracted.

So I followed that cat of flame,

through the dark wood,

over mountains of impossible height,

and across empty deserts of ice and snow.

I followed him to the edge of a cliff,

whose bottom was far beyond knowable.

His eyes met mind and then glanced downward.

I saw and I knew.

I stood at the edge of absolute darkness,

and asked him “will you come with me?”

He didn't answer,

but I knew it would always be “yes”.

I lept,

down into the uncertain darkness,

despite the fear chaining my heart,

trying to bind it to icy loneliness.

I fell for longer than I thought possible,

and the darkness was complete,

but then, below me, light broke through,

and it reached up like a friend's helping hand.

I flew into it like a great raven,

in an instant, I was enveloped by light,

the light of the flames I call home,

welcoming me home like a college student's mother.

My old friend appeared before me,

the black cat with eyes of orange fire,

a certain satisfaction in the flicking of his tail,

“I have been waiting for you, old friend.”

-Zero

Dreaming of Your Clone (poem)

I see you in my dreams,

or rather I see your clone,

perfectly you in every way,

except it's still not you.

I can sit with you again,

but with the burning memory of your death

tearing me up on the inside,

reminding me that it's all a dream.

I want to visit your grave

and hold in my hand your picture,

so I can remind myself how gone you are,

so I can stop seeing you in my sleep.

But I can't.

I can cling to memories,

and that's it.

I'm all alone.

-Zero

The Madness of the Scholar

     It had been a year since Carolina rejected Wyatt when he invited her over for dinner at his apartment. He lived at the top of a hill and could see the distant countryside from his balcony. The two of them had shared the view many times after sleepless nights turned to sleepless mornings. They had stayed friends despite his feelings for her, even when she got together with her boyfriend, Fred, two weeks later.

     It was late autumn. Halloween had passed two weeks prior, yet the smell of rotting pumpkins still filled the small university town. The leaves had already been sacrificed by the trees to the gods of ice and snow, leaving nothing but the bare grey branches to hold the sky up.

     The creeping chill of winter made its way through Carolina's clothes as she walked up the hill, bundled up in her dark grey jacket with a dandelion yellow scarf wrapped around her neck, half covering her long black hair. Her eyes and nose were red, in part because of the cold, in part because of the crying.

     Wyatt answered the door the moment Carolina's knuckles hit the cheap wood.

     “You look like you're made of ice! Hurry, come in, I'll make you some tea. What kind would you like? I have pumpkin chai, earl grey, orange pekoe, some mint teas, and this random green tea my mother got me this summer.” The scraggy young man said with one quick breath.

     “It's fine.” She replied as she removed her jacket. “Are you okay? You seem more jittery than usual.”

     He froze and smiled faintly at her. “It's just that a project I've been working on for a while now is almost done. I'm a mix of excitement and fear right now.” He shook his head. “But we'll talk about that later, during dinner. Come in, come in.”

     He motioned towards his little living room. Carolina followed his instructions, but the first thing she saw was a sturdy metal chair with handcuffs on it. But before she could say anything, everything went black.

     When she awoke, she was in the chair. She was bound and gagged. Before her, the dinner table had been placed and set up. Wyatt was tending to the dishes in the kitchen, whistling to himself a cheery tune. The first thing Carolina tried to do is get out of the handcuffs and talk, causing her captor to glance over and smile at her.

     He bounded over. “Oh, good, you're awake. How's your head? I was worried I had hit you too hard. I wouldn't want you to miss dinner.”

     She made some muffled sounds.

     “Oh, yes, I should say now that there's no point screaming. My neighbours are gone tonight, and,” he said as he lifted a large kitchen knife from the table, “if you start, I may have to forcibly stop you. And neither of us want that, now do we? Do what I say and you can get out of this alive. Understand?”

     She nodded in fear. Wyatt, knife in hand, came closer, walked behind her, and slipped the blade between her head and the rag. He slowly sliced it off, taking locks of her hair with it.

The first words out of Carolina's mouth were, “what the fuck, Wyatt? What are you doing?”

He stepped away and put the knife back down on the table. “That will become quite clear soon enough. Have you heard from Fred today?” He chuckled.

     “No... why?” Her voice trembled as she remembered the night before. She wondered if Fred had put him up to it.

     “We're having him for dinner. He didn't tell you? Here, let me go get him.”

     Wyatt headed down the hall and out of sight. When he returned, he was holding Fred's decapitated head in front of his own. The face was cut and blood dripped from the emptying neck arteries. The cut was fresh and Fred's face almost seemed to still move like he was conscious.

     “Fred?” She cried out before digressing into intense sobbing, repeating to herself “no” as if it could change things. She wanted to undo the fight they had the night before. She wanted him back.

     As she sobbed, Wyatt carefully placed the head on the table and went to check on the food in the oven.

     “You know,” he said as he shoved a meat thermometer into the aluminum covered roast, “you should really be thanking me for this. Fred's idea of a well-cooked meal was microwave pasta. I, on the other hand, can cook you a meal you'll never forget...” He chuckled to himself as he pulled the thermometer out and shut off the oven.

     Carolina glanced up at him and shook her head. Between her sobs, only a faint whisper could be heard. “Why?”

     “Now that, my love, is a better question.” Wyatt replied with a knowing wink. “But you'll have to wait for that one too.”

     He peeled back the aluminum foil. Carolina tried to see what was revealed between her tears, but the identity of her dinner was kept a mystery to her. Her eyes drifted back down to the decapitated head of the man she loved. Sorrow, fear, and confusion moved her to sobs again, much to the pleasure of her cruel captor.

     He turned around and rubbed his hands together in nervous anticipation. Had she been looking, she might have witnessed his murdering of his last shreds of humanity, the parts which had allowed him to develop attachments to other people. All it took was one glance at the woman who had trusted him. Her image had become the symbol of his pain, of his insane hatred of her.

     “I hope you're hungry. Dinner's ready. I think you'll like what I made. You've shown such a fondness for it in the past year.” Wyatt said as he moved Fred's head out of the center of the table. Carolina's stomach was churning and trying to escape, whether it brought her with it or not.

     “Please, Wyatt, no...” She pleaded, clinging onto her hopeful belief in his humanity. “Please don't. Let me go. I won't tell anyone, I promise...”

     “I'm not worried about getting caught.” He replied, shaking his head. “I've already lost everything worth having. Today marks the one year anniversary.”

Carolina searched her memory for anything, any tragedy, that could be the cause of it all, but nothing came to mind. As she tried to figure it out in hopes of finding an escape, Wyatt took her dinner out of the stone and placed it on a plate. Then, as he whistled a cheery tune, he spun around and put it before her. Her eyes drifted down towards it.

     “Is that..?” She quietly exclaimed, barely able to breathe.

     “A heart?” He chuckled as he picked up the knife again. “It is. Human too.” He ran the blade across the roasted heart's surface. “Fred's, even.”

     The shock and disbelief kept her voice quiet and trembling. “Why..? Wyatt, why..?” Tears silently ran down her cheeks.

     “I've been waiting for this for a long time now. I've meticulously planned every detail and it's all going according to plan.” He stabbed the heart and lunged at her, his face stopping mere centimeters from hers.

     “Why..?” She breathed faintly.

     “You want to know why?” His voice grew angry. “See, I'm just making things right again, making you pay for your crimes.” He pulled away and slammed his hand down on the table.

“A year ago I offered you my heart. You ripped it right out of my chest and threw it away. You took so much pleasure in my pain that you wanted to stick around and watch me suffer.” He was on the verge of screaming.

     All Carolina could manage in reply was unintelligible tear-filled whispers of terror. She couldn't think of anything to say. She knew that he was lost. She could see it in his eyes. Entitlement and obsession possessed him so totally that he had lost the rest of himself in it.

     “This is the law of contrapasso. You will suffer the opposite and equal of what you did to me.” He grinned and grabbed the knife sticking out of Fred's heart. “You tore my heart out, so I'm going to force a heart into you.”

     He picked up a fork from the table and cut a piece off of the heart. He held onto the knife as he moved towards her.

     “Now open up. If you don't cooperate, I'll have to be more... forceful.”

     She hesitantly opened her mouth, still clinging to the hope that she might survive his insanity. He placed the heart-piece into her mouth and told her to chew and swallow. She chewed. It was like a juicy pork chop, but the knowledge of what it was made her body reject it outright. Every bite into the chewy heart sent thoughts of what Wyatt had done, what he was doing, through her mind.

     She tried to swallow, but it got stuck in her throat, trapped between her attempt to push it down and her stomach's attempt to escape. She lost that battle. Her vomit burst out and covered her.

     Wyatt shook his head. “You're supposed to keep it in you.” He paused. “Oh well, I guess we're going the alternative route.” He twirled the knife in his hand. “We'll cut open your chest and I'll put it in there myself. Unless you want to try again...”

     “Please, Wyatt, stop. I'll do anything. Please...” She pleaded.

     “Eat the heart. Then you'll go free.” He replied with an eerie calmness as he cut her another piece.

     The incredible ability of humanity to overcome seemingly impossible obstacles came out in her as her captor fed her again, piece by piece ,the heart of her beloved. Carolina succeeded in stomaching it all, but she was still trapped in the metal chair.

     “Impressive.” Wyatt said as he sat down across from her.

     “I did it. Now let me go. We had a deal.” She replied, her voice beaten and worn, but strong.

     He chuckled in reply as he pulled a rag out of his back pocket.

     “Oh, hun, you made the mistake of trusting me. Did you really think I would let you walk away from this so easily? No, you're going to stay right there until you die from dehydration or worse. Every day I'll wake up and watch you slowly wither away. You can struggle all you want, but this is the end.”

-Zero