Recipient of Reticence



The morning sun rose like a humpbacked cat rising through the thick foliage of torn trees and sloped streets. A man arose as well, as he always had and as he always will. His life has been mundane, monotonous, episodic. The mattress on the floor seems to be the only support in his dormant life. Walls painted with sorrow and sordid quality dresses the atmosphere and toils with the man’s voice. Walls that have an uneven surface; a mirror to the man’s routine. There is little to no furnishing in this small apartment, and about the only noticeable piece is so because of its rotten smell, that of the chair in the corner of the room. The man ruffled his shaggy head of hair and scratched his ribcage, as he arose from the side of the mattress. Air slithered from the overhanging air vent above him and galvanized his senses. But he came back down to Earth with the scorching burn of his abdomen. He looked at the doctor’s business card that is pinned to the wall facing him, and scoffs. It’s been a constant nuisance but there’s been no financial levity in his life to make such an investment. Life trickles down a drowning stream and collapses into a monumental hole that bellows. Demons juristic the man’s subconscious, amd any notion that follows. He stares out the only window in his apartment, that constantly fogs and whistles in the night. Through the window he can see the main road that trails into the downtown plaza, where he can find gullible, vacant minded individuals to pick pocket. In the plaza, theres a center water sprout that superimposes any other financial investment that the small community has put their money towards. He can hear small children playing in the community playground right across from the plaza, and hears the morning song of the birds trickling through. The man dressed himself with his overcoat in his rather empty closet, and some jeans that have seen the worst of times. He walks out the creaky door and down the stairs and out through the front, where he can feel the stinging breeze of the start of Winter and the plastered dew on the knee high grass that dress the yards of the apartment. The plaza to his left, along with the playground, and foreward is the meaningless little road that few drive on. Above his heads the massive trees that are still upright although always seem to be on the verge of tipping over. Osstensibly, there was no auspicious value in notifying a soul, but he was always tempted to do so because of the ominous overganging tree right above his apartment window.


Unraveling a Story





…That’s the silence, that’s the pondering, that’s the hesitation…there it goes again, you desire the words. The story, the plot, it doesn’t come. You write the first chapter, you feel brilliant, as brilliant as you can be. This the best work. Charles Dickens, Hemingway, and Albert Camus all would be jealous of my prose. But the thing is, they wouldn’t be. You wait a day, then a few days, then all of a sudden you’ve spent the last month working on a mere 5,000 words. You jumble some pretext of why you can’t continue on but really the only one  satisfied by your excuses our yourself. Where’s the sophistication? I must’ve left my tea at home. So the boiling entity that is creativity is befuddled by this thing called reality. The grounded culture that negatively pulls down your thoughts, covering the mass ideas with a curtain of blank stares, and obsolete personality. The curtain that drowns rich blood in the cold winter of the mind and the hot summer swelters behind. It’s the cold mess of mishaps that shred to pieces and the mostly wanted calls of hope that get lost in the mess.  Instead of being the captain of your own ship, the captain of your own soul, your humbled by all this, overwhelmed by all the; but that wouldn’t make sense, and what ifs, and the they wouldn’t like that.

I’m realizing that a good story does not go about being written. Rather it has already been wrote. You must unravel the characters, and stir up the thick clay to find the story that they find themselves drenched in. There is no repercussion for letting the story be found in your mind. It would be a tragedy for it not to be found. With that in mind I’ll let my ideas settle, let the characters speak for themselves, and tell me their stories. For there might be carping but that will be no real matter because this story is the one that should’ve been told from the start. It seems like a conundrum at points, the fact that you can’t continue, but it is whispering to you, it breeds deep within your walls. The story is inside you. Just let it breathe.

P.S. This sort of was a self motivating speech to myself, but I am happy that you guys are here with me. Hope this helped 🙂

A DREAM: A story from the heart

I am set on the floorboard of a car, while the others look out the windows, anxious of being caught. Everything is black, the car, our clothing, the sun. The only thing that is illuminated is our faces. I attempt to stay calm, but their anxiousness evokes a troubling spirit within. I begin to breathe heavy and my hands tremble.

“Hey.” one of them whispers down to me


I look up and I find him. His face is blurry but his voice very clear.


“You have to calm down. They are coming for us.”


I abide and attempt to calm myself. I lie on my back looking up at the blank skin of the car. I close my eyes but I still hear the mumblings around me. I am polarized by the chaotic melancholy thriving in this atmosphere. I can see an abstruse light emerging under my eyelids, and I hear a hard pounding near my feet. I feel it is elusive as I feel my way around it, and very deceiving, as I can’t judge its purpose. I presume its danger. I settle myself in the dread, the abyss. I know its over for me, it is just a matter of time. Then the whispering around me digressed. They diminished as the pounding became more apparent. I was extremely overwhelmed. I heard a whistle and a quick bang. It was over. I opened my eyes. Whatever had threatened me, or whatever had been looking for something, had been lost. The darkness crept away. A amber light executed the absence of upbeat notion with its own tune. The outer coating of the floorboard a dark purple. The car lights above me now opened their occult eyes. It seems an onslaught ensued while I was dormant in my mind. I looked around and had found the liquid of life roaming over the car seats and covering over the floor board more and more. The windows that seemed tinted now open themselves up as more clear frames to the outer world. I pan over to the back window, as I lift myself up. The window was too graphic for my eyes. I was paralyzed. I was jarred. Their was the thick yolk of life trailing down the window. A bloody handprint had pressed its emotion at the time, so aggressively in the very center of the frame. I felt a thick lump in my throat. There was a profusion of thoughts, an immense collection of choices to select from. I was too overwhelmed to do so. I heard the whispers again. I closed my eyes and found myself in this dystopian lab of misfit culture. Mohawks and long hair were the choice of fashion around these parts. I stand close to a large window. Inside the large window is flowing water that begins to rise to the top. I step forward and see people swimming. They all float so elegantly. Their hair slithers through the water. Around me I see empty picture frames and I notice there are no doors. Vibrant colors paint the walls. A clown stands beside me.


“Beautiful isn’t it?”

I agree and begin to step closer to the window. Then in an abrupt manner I am thrown into that world. The water engulfs me. The rushing water pounds my ear drums and my eyes fog for a split second. I feel like an outsider. They all have so much rhythm and poise in this vast, ever so moving world. I smile though, because I see the beauty of it. I hear a clangor behind me. I swivel around to face it. It is that odd clown. He is smiling and waving in my direction. I do the same. He turns his back on me and walks away. Slowly his image diminishes. I am left to figure it all out on my own. The world around me sang a subtle tune that I enjoyed. It soothed my soul. I prayed to the Deity and he congratulated me for stepping out. I smiled. He told me to follow the tune. I explain that my communication is at times uncouth, and he reasons with me that, is just a small glitch. I am humbled by the scale of the land I am in but I am not afraid. I swim out.


I stood below the surface. I stood as a diminishing character under the scope of the environment. I felt I was instigating an irritable force. Observing the surroundings I was in awe. Sparse is understanding. A shadow commences but it profoundly furnishes the walls and decides to bewilder its subject. A prison among prisons. Tumbling beneath the surface is a voice. It talks of failure and cherishes victory. I constitute the walls as a dangerous venture, so I limit my steps. I toil with the numerous possibilities. They eat away at my hunger and leave me content. Content with the rushing waves. An orthodox face details the ceiling. It begins to ponder life but interrupts its inquisition with a violent out reach. The action completely flips the room. Tell me stars, where have you gone? Where is the light of day? I begin to miss the hunger. Instilled in me is an apologist that profoundly vouches for my disability. Reasoning the contentment. Its a meter that never comes into use. I gargle in the flooding waters. I have lost the ability to walk on the water. In reality I’ve lived in a microcosm. A believable culture that I had created for reasonability. I’ve found it to be more detrimental now. More than ever am I questioning, the foundation for which I stand. Am I looking at the right signs? I’m stuck in the ordinary, longing for something new. I was told that when I am older, I can do anything I set my mind to. Well, I am older. My mind stresses on the invisible walls that constrict me. I can’t identify exactly the notion. I can’t exactly decipher the coding of the boundary, or the magnitude of it, nor the location. It’s a mystery gone dead yet somberly lives and without hesitation will awaken within me an anger and irritation. The feelings of solitude. I pretend there not there. That the voices are going to go away. That maybe, they are placed within me for a reason.

I can’t eat without them yelling within. I can’t watch a show without them interpreting every scene. I can’t write without it analyzing every word I put down, every possible outcome possible and the account from the audience for which it is directed towards. If there is even an audience. Sometimes, I feel like I am talking to thin air. Like, I am only doing this to calm down the voices. As a deed, a promise for which I had made years ago to keep. A frenzied, disparaged figure stands before me. Come a little closer and you can see a glaring hole within his chest. I see a web that reflects an image towards me. It brings me joy but breaks my promise to keep quiet. I decide to break that promise and call out to the figure. He stands alone. His eyes filled with greed and jealousy. He stares through me. I am upset. He raises his hand to the sky. He points towards the moon. I set my eyes upon it. He gives me a little nudge and directs my vision back towards the web. I can see a group of people within the reflection. They are laughing. They are doing something terrible. A glob of water builds on the web and I can see the figure grimacing in pain. I begin to cry. A tear falls to the surface. The tear hits the ground with force. It sizzles with disappointment. The figure whispers his name. I couldn’t hear him. He could tell and recollects his courage and spouts his name. “It’s Reality.” I become dizzy. The weight of the moment was much too great. I breath in life and exhale fear. I call out for help. The web that is attached to that glaring hole, is pushed to its limit. It breaks in agony and I fall on my back. I thought this was the end. I sought stability.

Factitious lights flash muddling my understanding even more. I slumber in deep thought. A brisk wind constricts my movements. All of a sudden, I wished I could go back to the moment I broke the promise. I wish I hadn’t. A groom spoke to the walls whitewashing the visions of a young boy. Creativity was no more. Was it hidden? Can I still find a promising treasure within the lies? Society is so crude. Society is so nice. Society is too complex with its artificiality to notice the wolf in sheep’s skin. Another day. Another fallen soldier.

The Book of Incoherence

Section 2- The Book of Incoherence


Chapter 1:


A spasmodic bubble of feelings. I stumble on the incoherence and irradiance. I have no idea why. It becomes so catastrophically detrimental, that it begins to dry out the falling water falls within my head. It begins to tear away at my sanity. I fall. I fall from the tallest building. I feel the weight of the world. The weight of the world’s laws, the law of motion, the law of commotion, the law of limitations, the law of progression, oppress. I hear yelling, I hear bullying, I hear the complaints. I scream for guidance. It’s too late.

This is what I don’t get. I don’t understand why I must fall in this hole. Why I must feel this weight stab me in my back. The crushing blade violates my heart into a drowning mechanism. A machine that pumps irritable fluid through my capillaries and exposes my invisible soul into a searing umbrella of a light that surrounds it. A light that looks simple and elegant but profoundly misunderstood. An exaggerative and misinterpretive artistic deliverance that forwards a message of doubt into our internal inboxes. I sulk in misery. I catapult into a different gullible creature, that believes in anything he sees. I believe I find it easy, and tempting to follow this path because I’m afraid of the unknown.


Then I have moments of courage. Moments that I can firmly step into the unknown with a sensibility of affirmative strength. I can bound with stronger character. An artificial mask to express my sense of inner self. A mask that stretches my chin and sculpts my cheek bones. I am to live with it on until I can grow older. I look in the reflective sculptures built around me. The sky showing its true spirit through the abundance of windows, but then there’s me. My reflection is blurry. The only thing visible is that sculpted mask set over my face.


I fill my nose full with the sporadic fragrance of promises and fear. My ears pick up the voices that partake in detailing my curious passions and giving strange looks. I somber in this. I find it miserable that the only people I know, don’t understand me. It’s an unspoken heart that whispers through my thoughts and settles by the sea and pursues the edge of the world. I will wait for the moment I can cry for the misunderstood. I can narrate their lives through their feelings. I can support their stories through a couple words and a compassionate thought. A tangled cord is undone to feel a sense of relief.




Chapter 9:

I want it so bad sometimes. Sometimes I yearn it so extreme that I dry all compassion, I pulp all the creativity away, I limit my potential to plead for an audience. I find it difficult to limit these feelings. The composition of passion demands all attention, all the passion, all interest. The back bone to success is passion, without it, the heart of innovation stops beating. Tormenting these thoughts can be, these impulses. I find myself creating another being to coincide with these feelings. A being that can solve the mystery. This being is a white flag though, a dying attempt to create a composite that is desirable for attention. I live in a fortitude within myself. I let go of my true self. I create this to find contentment. What’s ironic about it, is that this contentment isn’t worth fighting for, because it’s artificial. It lacks the necessary materials to last a lifetime.

I understand that God is the one I should be fulfilling this hollow shell with. I read passages like John 5:44 which says: “How can you believe, when you receive glory from one another and you do not seek the glory that is from the one and only God?” I realize after reading this that Earthly, human passions don’t fulfill ourselves properly. They are futile in the end. What strikes me is that it is phrased in a question. “How?” This hits me to the core. This makes me ponder and when I’ve realized I’ve found no light at the end of the tunnel, I take into account the message.

This verse though; Matthew 6:1-4 I think can be read more clearly because of it’s specific objective. It reads:”Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven. “So when you give to the poor, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be honored by men Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full. “But when you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing,” One can get so caught up in showing compassion that they fail to maintain the memory of the roots of love. The roots of love call for unselfishness yet it can be so tempting to fall into the trap of self-absorption. This is for the naive but we are all a tad naive at our weakest, and when we gain a ton of attention we can greatly diminish the strong foundation we once had. It is so tempting to show off your accomplishments, your gratefulness, your willingness to act, but the temptations have to be withheld. How do we do this though? The fact that we are all human. We were all born in sin. Conquered by the dread of shortcomings, the weariness of feeling alone, the turbulence of trailing away from the path most traveled by. The terrorizing fact of the matter is we can never crawl out. WE can never shine a path by our lonesome self. We can never appeal to our own self image, or own aspirations that rely on attention. We can only hope to last long enough to see a glimpse of this happen. The success. The overcoming, not the shortcoming.

You can travel your mind for decades, distributing your “charismatic self,” your self made portrait. You can ask for companionship. You can debunk all of your former forbidden laws, to cast out a spell on society. You can go through trail and error, continuously for the rest of your life. You can attempt, but there is simply no success in it. You must stay true to yourself and to God. Some people are afraid to look over their own walls. They hide, hoping to escape reality. The bask in it. They follow the motionless path. They forbid themselves from wondering. They coward away from fear, yet live in it. They’ll look through a tiny hole in the fence, to find jealousy. They want it so bad. I’ve been this person and sometimes still am. The mindset is easy to obtain but I don’t recommend it. The enemy becomes yourself. To this person, who I can relate to, as I can relate to the individual who is the opposite, I ask, I plead of you to build courage. Take a step. Obtain true passion. Follow the dreams you once had. The dreams that you murdered. The dreams that you hid for the fear of judgement. Find your direction and follow the path. Don’t worry about the people. If people enjoy your true self, they will follow and accompany you on this expedition. These are your true friends. The once you can trust. The casted spell will drift away and you can live comfortably in knowing that you can walk, you can see, you can feel a glimpse of hope. The fertile grounds of your mind can begin to sprout ideas. You can express ambitions, you can reveal unvarnished tales. You can begin to understand the past, the present and the future. Escape from the mess you created. Become the person you were meant to be. I know it won’t happen right away, but fight. Continue to grow everyday. And that’s all I have to say about that.