Bits of the Day #9

Who knew graphic design assignments could be SO FUCKING TEDIOUS?

I sure didnt.

*sigh*

Oh well. Back to work.

The Fog

The dizziness goes away and  a fog takes its place. A calming fog. The kind that falls over your consciousness pre-sleep. Pre-sleep. A state you have been in for a while now. Shades of gray, you read somewhere. People like you are in shades of gray, pre-sleep, post-wakefulness. Metaphors. What would one do without them? And you cant decide between the maybe’s and must’s and have-to’s anymore. Judgment is impaired pre-sleep. Impaired judgment is what brought you here in the first place, though. Or was that distorted perception. Memory is gone. The fog. It’s the fog, don’t worry about it.

There are so many screaming for someone to save them. Fools. Fools they are. No one saves anyone anymore. No one can save anyone. Its those darn metaphors again. And the fog. No one understands the metaphors…because of the fog. It’s a world in grayscale. How close to ten are you?

How close to ten are you?

Baseball. You’ve got three strikes. But you play like a gymnast. You do it with skill, finesse, tact. You’ve been training since…how long now? It’s the Olympics of life. Or death, in this case. How close to ten are you?

The sun set a while back. Skyscrapers aren’t your thing but the city is beautiful. People in grayscale, diffused yellow against deep blue sky.

The fog has set in like pre-sleep loss of consciousness. Maybe this time it’ll last.

Ruins of War (part 1)

The stench of week-old blood and dirty bandages makes the air thick, unbreathable. A man coughs and a child cries out, awoken by the sound. Her mother, shuffling around in bed, uncovers her breast and gives it to the child, now comforted. Both fall into unrestful sleep. The man coughs again. Nothing stirs.

We are the ruins of war. I the nurse, they the unwanted war booty, the sick, injured, disheartened; men who cannot labor and women who cannot be labored upon. They took the children, lead them to a gas-room and gassed them all. Outside this make-shift tent, ash falls from the sky like rain. It is the ash of our children. Our future in ashes.

We thought they would come to free us. Our soldiers. People. The rest of civilization. Many a day have passed, I have lost count. The sick have not been counting down to freedom. They have been counting down to death. That is their freedom now. And the disheartened? Some sit on the dirt floor, limbs wet with urine, feaces and blood. Indifferent. Others go on like the world as we know it has not been attacked, incinerated and forgotten. They speak of their businesses (that have been burnt), their families (that have been burnt) and memories from yesterday (that have been burnt).

“Be thankful,” they told us, “that we are letting you go. We could keep your women and make you work as slaves, even in ill health. But our hearts are merciful.”

And they then scoffed, turned and left us with no food, water, shelter or ground. And we were thankful. In that moment, we were thankful. The old women say now we are unrepentant again. This war is punishment for our sins. The sins are ours. Mine. Yours. We are comrades in sin. Our sin is life. And their rosaries protect them from a merciful, benevolent god.

(to be continued when I have less homework)

Distorted Truths

You hide as if your existence means much but the truth is you could walk down the road for a mile unscathed as cars simply pass through what you think is real. You hide as if it matters what you are and who you are. You hide because they want to hurt you but they don’t. You’re not important enough. You’re merely the cardboard man hanging at the end of a shooting range – practice. You hide as though you believe you should be hidden, like a diamond in a safe. And you never could be more mistaken. You’re nothing but the cheap replica on display at some dusty museum, groped by dirty hands that want a piece of your, albeit fake, brilliance. But when the lights go out, you sit there like the worthless lump of glass you are – unglimmering. Where is your brilliance now, dear one? Where are the truths that brought you to this place? Now you glow red, seething like the crimson velvet cushion you were placed on. Now you shatter. Now you break to shards that spill all over; the blood you draw is mine.

Recently Acquired Habits:

Staring at a book

staring at the floor

staring into space

hiding in a bathroom stall

sketching things and then erasing them, then sketching them again

discarding perfectly good ideas

battling with my will on various insignificant things

lying in bed, for the sake of it

writing a lot of blog posts and not posting them

wishing I was somewhere else..like the beach, on a rainy day with a wide angle view lense camera

making lists, like this one, so I feel i’m accomplishing shit

wondering why the hell I’m wasting time

rushing to class, arriving early

staring out windows till the teacher comes.

Disappointments

So the pictures turned out like shit. Utter, utter shit. Theres nothing wrong with focus or exposure (mostly), they’re just badly snapped, framed, angled etc, thanks to me.

The assigment is graded, as is the one I handed in today, which turned out to look like shit as well. So there goes my GPA.

It feels easier to accept defeat and say “fuck it” rather than tell myself I’m not supposed to be good at this stuff because I’m a beginner. But that is SO wrong to say. I AM supposed to be good at this stuff. I’m supposed to be among the best because I’m this creative artistic…failure. I guess it goes like my mom said: You cant become creative by holding a camera.

Thank you for that mom.

I wonder if I’d be better off studying Nursing.

I wonder if this is what’ll happen to my writing once I begin studying it.

I wonder if it even matters. I can just go “back” to being “normal” and (pretend to) forget anything ever existed before. Pretend to not be a failure, pretend to not give a fuck, pretend like I didnt screw myself over.

Pretend, pretend, pretend. Wonderful ideas are just pouring forth now.

(I am okay. This is just one of those self-pittying moments I should kick myself in the head for.)