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

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Let The Rain Run Its Course

They let the rain run its course around their intertwined fingers. It soaked them, their clothes, their hair, her glasses, and his goatee. He wore a pair of torn cargo pants and simple t-shirt top that referred to an obscure band name and she wore a doctor’s uniform. He smiled as he listened to her stories, and incessant blabbering. At some point, he would laugh and say something vaguely interesting to relate to her story before she’d switch the topic again. Fickle… It wasn’t derogatory, it was bubbly; charming, really… At least they wouldn’t run out of things to discuss. Not that the world has a limit to that, though. The interest didn’t wane, to say the least. He’d wait for her to smile, whenever she’d figured something new to discuss. Sometimes he’d wait for her to slow herself down to a halt, noticing his lack of words. Then he would smile, and she would mouth the words “I love you.” Winking to him at times had his grin grow wider. He would reply, in turn, saying the same thing, this time with added vocals, to break his silence. They were slightly amused by the ironic reciprocity of actions.

 

They never let go, throughout their walk. Their hands were firmly held, apart from the rare times when she’d use a little action to help elaborate her idea. She would always shift around, though their hands were locked. Her fingers would often times extend, as if revealing her palm, and then return to their original hold. Other times, she would squeeze his fingers, which seemed to move only because of her hands actions. His entire arm seemed lifeless once he’d clamped on to her fingers. Wherever she moved her arm, his arm followed. His figure depicted contentment, as if he’d been doing it for a while now. His body movements did not reveal any anxiety to the situation. Hers on the other hand, seemed hyperactive. Their and bodies still synchronized well.

 

I watched them as they walked along the road, from distance to distance, talking and walking. They did not seem to see anybody else, but they seemed to see everything. I walked towards them, and soon enough, passed them, my eyes never leaving the sight. The gray clouds matched the colour of my smoke, and I finished my cigarette, finding some solace in the distraction that was the two lovers. I was walking towards the bus stop, heading home to meet my own sweet lover. Flicking a little ash off of the stick, I took in another drag from my slightly wet cigarette, looking back and eyeing them still, as they left my field of vision; heading towards the main road. I turned and flowed away. Let the rain run its course.

 

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

Lost in This World (Project Song)

I’ve been stuck on this same old road,
For more than I can remember,
For more than I can tell.
I’ve been going around in circles,
And I think that I just fell,
Into a deeper part of hell.

But I know. Yes I know. Oh I know, you’ll find me. (x2)

Coz I am lost in this world without you,
There are things that I just can’t defeat.
I am lost in this world without you,
So please don’t leave me be.
Just please stay here with me, with me.

I’ve already been ’round here.
These roads look the same.
But you come up from behind me,
And I’ll never be the same again,
No I’ll never be the same again.

Coz I am lost in this world without you,
There are things that I just can’t defeat.
I am lost in this world without you,
So please don’t leave me be.
Just please stay here with me, with me.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

A Toast to The Titanic and to My Dear Ex-Lover

Back when I was a kid, during my days in Canada, I watched the Titanic for the first time, with my cousins Michelle and Steffi, my sister, my Mom, and my Auntie Roenna. It was pretty dreary and the concept was not easily grasped by my mind although I thought I’d already had. With this, I would always wonder to myself why girls in general would cry at movies, especially the romantic ones which were, in my opinion utterly dreary and quite the un-moving and unattractive type, as compared with movies about war and brotherly love combined. Those, and several other insanely awesome sci-fi movies, that I still enjoy and love to this day, to me were worth more than most drama films. With utter nonchalance I dared not disturb them other than to laugh or become annoyed at such a disturbingly silly display of affection towards a simplistic concept that rarely even varied.

I was a regular guy, who was more into fighting, action, sports films and what-nots. I’d never really felt anything for anyone during those early days. With the exception of my first love, Sarah, from my life I would have been the most utterly passive towards drama movies. Luckily, my life did have her, and by the time she had to move away to another country, my expectations and shunning of drama movies had stooped to a negative low. I was beguiled by drama, music, art, culture, dance, paintings, drawings, books, comics, movies, videos, plays. I had joined the glee club back in school (No relation to the Glee Series whatsoever). The moment that I saw her last, reminded me of a movie scene, somewhere in my vast memory of all the movies I’ve watched, in which case I do not recall the title. I was astounded as how real the movies could become if one were to portray it in their everyday lives. If one were to simply walk, talk, and view like the movies, then one would be living a movie everyday without paying a single penny/centavo. It is worth it, if you think about it. You may be caste-d out as weird or odd, but it will make life a bit more vibrant. Some of you would say that this is impossible and that movies are a fictitious shadow of real life, a reflection as some may say, where left is right and right is left. I say however, there is an extent to the fragmented truth that exists within movies, and it is rather large, and more or less appealing to many people, from shallow to deep thinkers alike.

Going back to the movie, I just re-watched it not an hour ago, and I am completely honest about this when I say I cried. A lot, and it always reminded me of a spark which I had carried all throughout my life. When I’d met Sarah, I was an average guy, very strong about things and very numb towards feelings, only capable of expressing it at home or through the pen, unless it was of physical pain with which I would cry at some point of intensity. There were of course, some emotional pains that made me cry to be honest, and my skin is kinda thick. But when we were together, every movie made sense. I had gotten involved with the movies each time I’d watched them, taking the scenes seriously, whether or not they were action or drama. I’d taken things to a whole new level, learning more about life and more about art than I’d ever did. All thanks to her, I’d become creative with my speech, my voice, my music, my mind. I would often times be inspired to create fictional worlds of entertainment and story lines for my action figures when I would play with them, and I would often times act out along with them, running around in my shorts with whatever toys I had at hand. Other times I would simply walk around in a circle, thinking and practically obsessing with story concepts, validations of life, and other godforsaken agendas that older people do not wish to re-live or at some times do not wish to fully comprehend. All because of her, and her ways. I loved her, and I’d cried for months after she’d left. It was a simple case of moving to another country, where I would not see her again, and yet it felt so complex and it dampened my mind long enough to stain my works with thoughts of despair all throughout my high-shool life and up to now. Indeed I’d thought of the many times and the many things I’d done, even those I find foolish and those I regret doing. Well, I realized a lot, thanks to her. I owe her my artistry.

For those of you who are wondering, no, I am not in touch with Sarah, and why is because we had agreed not to, and even though I want to break all form of rank and file in life, and all sorts of agreements we’d made, I still can’t find her on Facebook, nor on Tumblr, nor on various websites. I guess it’s just like Jack and Rose, with the minimal time we’d spent together, it had one of the most maximized effects on my life and how I lived it from then until today. I am drowning in sorrow, bliss, and love, all together and I hope you can bear with me for one last short paragraph.

As I realize it now, I laugh at myself, from years ago, for not pondering enough on this issue and chose to rather let go of it and forget. This turning point in my life signified something great, and I simply wish to raise a glass to the Titanic, and to my dear Ex-Lover, who is out there somewhere. Let’s all raise a glass. A toast! To my dear Sarah, and to the Titanic; may our love never falter, like that of Jack and Rose, and always know, you will always be in my heart and in my works. Indeed I love the both of you dearly, and to you, my dear Sarah, I owe my works.