The Days of The New

                The advent of sleep hung on his head. The lack of stimulants stumbled across his tired body. Illness plagued his chest and back. The pain of suffocating slowly lingered. It was not the night of nights and he was sitting across his blank screen. He was waiting for something to emerge from the mesh of words that crisscrossed his thoughts ever so quickly. Mumbling musings of an old tale, he could keep himself in this state for eternity. There was nothing to attend to.

She came up to him sleepily from the bed. Taking the time to give him a loving embrace from the warmth of her bodice, she kissed him on the cheek as the cigarettes burned endlessly on the ashtray beside him. Once more, she whispered in his ear the words that would always convince him to leave the illustrious state of dullness. The gray walls echoed the flawed words of the music that emerged from the speakers of the computer.

“It’s all the same. Once again.”

He kissed her back, slowly taking the time to lock lips with her. There was no tongue for it was sweet and not passionate. It was bleak but not meaningless. It was soft. She understood his state, so close to an epiphany of sorts that would eventually cause him to write another masterpiece. Disturbed by the physical realm of reality, his link to the alternative mental truth was severed.

It was another day, another musing, another mindless run of the mill scenario, another empty passing of time and life. Breaking from a habit that emerged every year, taking up the three months of the hottest of the season, it was never quite the same each time. Each time, a longing progressed into his soul, and yet, he wanted the new. He wanted the new, but never stopped wanting the old.

How did she know him so well? He never wondered past the question. He just enjoyed it. He just loved her, regardless. It was not strong, nor was it too timid. The perfection of it all waned reality such that he believed that he did love and at the same time forgot how to. Such was the perfection of the situation.

Another change of music, another change of scene, another change of life’s lessons, another change of dreams. A fling of jealously for comrades who progressed far into the future, while his being was of the past, rendered in the present, and only developing slowly into the near future, kept him at bay. He wanted to move up the ladder; fast. It was impossible due to the constraints of certainty, but nothing was impossible when done out of love. He did it for love.

Fingers poised at the keys, he typed out his work, his heart, his passion. He brewed it from the depths of the empty nothingness that kept him awake at night. He mixed it in with the slight sweetness of life’s little joys. All held together by the porcelain walls of text, the recipe was just right. There was no creamer to soften the strength of the piece. There was nothing to soften the blow of the veracity of existence. Verily, the facade was no more a veneer of human narcissism. Emerged in the black mixture was the visage of life. It was all quite real to the taste however perpetually false to the flavour. Bitter.

“Welcome back.”

She whispered as he joined her upon their bed. The chamber of thoughts locked away once more. He kept it safe, hidden, and would only expose silhouettes in the form of words. The sun was nearing its incumbent return to geographical vision, and he closed his eyes. His arms wrapped themselves peacefully and lovingly around her warm body. She huddled in, savouring the vibrant act of love. It was a good night for her, as it always was, being loved by him. It was never a good night for the writer, kept awake endlessly. He laid himself there, eyes open, in thought. There was no sleep for his mind, yet there was peace in his heart. It was a good night for his soul.

Good for change. The guitars sung them a song that granted him a well earned, and hard pressed moment of sleep. The fresh daylight hours had finally arrived, bringing about the false promises of productivity. He could scream out in a frenzied calm, alas he did not. He slept peacefully in the hopes that tomorrow was a fulfilled promise of beauty. Never was it so hollow.
*Inspired by the band “Days of The New”

(c) Anachronic Works 2013

A Book and A Country

  • Dan Brown wrote fiction. A lot of writers do. It should be taken as fiction, and not offensive. In several notable movies, books, and videogames, America has put some heat on Russia, as well as other countries. You don’t see the other countries complain. They do something about it, or at least be the “bigger man” and not retaliate towards a senseless notion. Think about that, Philippine Government.Complaining is a sign of immaturity, it shows that the person (who complains) is lazy, and simply wants things changed to suit his/her preferences. Doing something about what a person dislikes is more mature, simply because that person becomes the change he/she wants to see. I have learned that the hard way myself. Think about that, Mr. MMDA Chairman.

    If the Philippines does not want an image of negativity to be portrayed, ever, then MMDA better start cleaning up the rest of the country, because I’m sure that a lot of other novels (several of them, I have in my collection of books) have mentioned the Philippines as a rather shabby place. Again, do not complain. Do something about it. Think about that, Filipino populace.

    We can’t all be good guys forever; someone has to be the bad guy for the greater good. I hope Dan Brown is laughing at the Philippine people who are hurt over his novel. I hope he laughs heartily, because I know that I am a Filipino and I will be laughing heartily with him. For this, I write a limerick:

    I write this so they’d understand,
    I curse to not make this so bland,
    You get what you give, and they gave him no rib.
    So there’s nothing for them to demand.

    A book is a true work of fiction,
    But for people with quite little diction,
    They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
    Cause’ they feel that they’re being picked on.

    The truth is that they are such assholes,
    Who complain about being called assholes,
    They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
    ‘Cause they do what’s expected of assholes.

    I write this because I’m afraid,
    For a country that’s been so depraved.
    With leaders like shit, and a faith that sucks dick,
    We’re the prostitute that never gets paid.

    I know that my limerick sucks,
    For many who do give a fuck.
    Wait till you see, there’s nothing wrong with me.
    Even you’ll be afraid to cluck.

    A good man had written a rhyme,
    It hurts your pride, even mine.
    I come from a place, that even I can disgrace,
    The proud country that’s dragging behind.

    A good man had written a book,
    The Filipino people it shook,
    I hope that with me, he is smiling with glee.
    For the offenses that everyone took.

     

    * ALL COMMENTS ARE NOT MEANT TO INSULT, THEY ARE JUST COMMENTS.