sibarbs
What are you building? Or even, WHY are you building?
I spend my days reading and working and learning and growing but the outcomes are ever more unclear, the blueprints are fading and the engineers are gone and I find myself building just for the sake of building. Building because I feel into construction and it's all I know, not because there's a vision or a dream or a plan. And what is it worth? These tools - the books and the machines and the hours invested - they could be better deployed,by a labourer more skilled or a structure more worthy than me,
Don't tell the scientists - or the entomologists - but there's really only one difference between moths and butterflies: beauty.
The world is becoming increasingly mothy; society is dark and our hearts are ugly. We swarm, frenzied, around whichever light shines brightest now, fighting for its attention, achieving nothing. Musicians, athletes, actors - all the wrong types of star.
My only hope is that this darkness is our cocoon, and we will emerge more beautiful in unforeseeable times.
"I'm afraid to say he isn't really very... involved." Her eyes bore deep into mine as if to drive her meaning telepathically. I knew what she meant, regardless of her steely gaze. What she means to say, of course, is that young Alfie doesn't have a lot of friends. She means to say that the teachers have 'tried everything' but he just doesn't want to play. She means to say that she doesn't see a very bright future for a little bot who is more interested in reading than playing football.
She means to say that her own imagination is stunted by prejudice, but she doesn't know that that's what she means.
Soft and precious, like the beautiful silk weavings of ancient women worlds away, no less mysterious to me than the stars in the night sky, her hand brushed against mine; the poignant breath and the whisper in her eye cried into our shared moment of silence, and then was gone.
The screens between us weren't sufficiently robust - still the light glared through from the setting sun behind, silhouetting the blood as it splattered upon the waxen sheets which hung loosely from their rusted frames; still the anguished screams pierced these pathetic curtains as the work began before the anesthetic had made its heroic race to his shattered bones; still the buzz of the un-stopped machinery chuntered and chomped.
We walked on, pallid.
Like bonfires in deep November they burned across the city, these pockets of broken humanity. The bats would flit between them, known but unseen, and chatter their secret speech across the skies. The last of our schools and hospitals burning to the ground, their forgotten value just embers on the scorched politic.
You see them in the street or in the park, parading their greedy opulence without shame or penitence. And their indulgence is not merely physical - it's the mind that's sick that makes the wallet spill over with its decadent obscenity. Selfishness is the sickness of the 21st century.
Just one theory disproving another, out-dated theory, that's all it ever is. It's progress, and it's good, but it's the infinite elimination until all that's left will be that which was always unprovable.
Maybe we should have acknowledged from the start that it can be true without being proved. Take faith.
Halloween is a bust, just an excuse for people to take off their masks and be themselves for the night.
The candle flickers in the porch, the jagged teeth of the pumpkin spitting shadows across the walls.
Nobody even comes to my house. More treats for me.
There were stress marks in the folds of the knees and the seat was wearing thin. The coarse weight of the wet denim clung to his thighs like a leech, and the buckle of his belt was rusty and scarred and the cuff gathered over his boot. He poked two weathered thumbs through the loops of the waist and clung to them like he clings to this image of his aging youth. There's a sparsity to his facial hair and his cheeks are gaunt and grey; there's a wistfulness in his sunken eyes that speaks of better times, and his slouch is that of a man who has worked outdoors for longer than he means.
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writing since 2012 · 46 entries · 45 days shown up
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