he acts like he knows everything.
but in reality, he knows he doesn't, and so he shoots off his mouth every time
in order to cushion the fact that
he's actually a bloody idiot.
5/25/09
5/19/09
i hate it when
you can't do shit.
rather, you can, but you don't because you're too lazy.
and then you feel useless.
i can admit i'm a fucking horrible person.
but that doesn't mean i can accept it just as easily.
rather, you can, but you don't because you're too lazy.
and then you feel useless.
i can admit i'm a fucking horrible person.
but that doesn't mean i can accept it just as easily.
5/18/09
its bad.
people always say, "it's okay, let it out."
and when you do, it feels good. kinda helps you sleep easier at night.
and then you get used to it.
and then you start letting it out every time.
and then you start letting it out at the wrong time.
wrong place.
wrong people.
shit, there shouldn't even be people some of the times when you let it out.
so it gets bad.
too much of anything gets bad.
now this time, we keep it bottled up.
what mama dont know wont hurt her right?
what nobody knows wont hurt them.
but in the end, you blow up.
its not even the fact that you blow up that hurts the ones around you.
its the fact that they weren't expecting it.
so what to do? what to do?
find middle ground, of course.
but easier said than done.
much easier, you fuckers.
and when you do, it feels good. kinda helps you sleep easier at night.
and then you get used to it.
and then you start letting it out every time.
and then you start letting it out at the wrong time.
wrong place.
wrong people.
shit, there shouldn't even be people some of the times when you let it out.
so it gets bad.
too much of anything gets bad.
now this time, we keep it bottled up.
what mama dont know wont hurt her right?
what nobody knows wont hurt them.
but in the end, you blow up.
its not even the fact that you blow up that hurts the ones around you.
its the fact that they weren't expecting it.
so what to do? what to do?
find middle ground, of course.
but easier said than done.
much easier, you fuckers.
5/13/09
Hanna's Departure
The family members have tears in their eyes when they
welcome him back to the inn from his long journey.
"Thank you so much for coming."
He understands the situation immediately.
The time for departure is drawing near.
Too soon, too soon. But still, he knows, this day would have to come sometime,
and not in the distant future.
"I might never see you again," she said to him with a sad smile when he left on this
journey, her smiling face almost transparent in its whiteness, so fragile - and therefore
indescribably beautiful - as she lay in bed.
"May I see Hanna now?" he asks.
The innkeeper gives him a tiny nod and says,
"I don't think she'll know who you are, though."
She hasn't opened her eyes since last night, he warns him. You can tell from the slight
movement of her chest that she is clinging to a frail thread of life, but it could snap at
any moment.
"It's such a shame. I know you made a special point to come here for her..."
Another tear glides down the wife's cheek.
"Never mind, it's fine," he says.
He has been present at innumerable deaths, and his experience has taught him much.
Death takes away the power of speech first of all. Then the ability to see. What remains
alive to the very end, however, is the power ot hear. Even though the person has lost
consciousness, it is by no means unusual for the voices of the family to bring forth smiles or tears.
He puts his arm around the woman's shoulder and says,
"I have lots of travel stories to tell her. I've been looking forward to this my whole time
on the road."
Instead of smiling, the woman releases another large tear and nods to him.
"And Hanna was so looking forward to hearing your stories."
Her sobs almost drown out her words.
The innkeeper says, "I wish I could urge you to rest up
from your travels before you see her, but..."
He interrupts his apologies,
"Of course I'll see her right away."
There is very little time left.
Hanna, the only daughter of the innkeeper and his wife,
will probably breathe her last before the sun comes up.
He lowers his pack to the floor and quietly opens
the door to Hanna's room.
Hanna was frail from birth. Far from enjoying the opportunity to travel, she rarely left
the town or even the neighborhood in which she was born and raised.
This child will probably not live to adulthood, the doctor told her parents.
To this tiny girl with extraordinarily beautiful, doll-like features, the gods had dealt an
all-too-sad destiny.
That they had allowed her to be born the only daughter of the keepers of a small inn
by the highway was perhaps one small act of atonement for such iniquity.
Hanna was unable to go anywhere, but the guests who stayed at her parents' inn
would tell her stories of the countries and towns and landscapes and people that she
would never know.
Whenever new guests arrived at the inn, Hanna would ask them,
"Where are you from? "Where are you going?"
"Can you tell me a story?"
She would sit and listen to their stories with sparkling eyes, urging them on to new
episodes with "And then? And then?" When they left the inn, she would beg them,
"Please come back, and tell me lots and lots of stories about faraway countries!"
She would stand there waving until the person disappeared far down the highway,
give one lonely sigh, and go back to bed.
Hanna is sound asleep.
No one else is in the room, perhaps and indication that she has long since passed
the stage when the doctors can do anything for her.
He sits down in the chair next to the bed and says with a smile,
"Hello, Hanna, I'm back."
She does not respond. Her little chest, still without the swelling of a grown woman,
rises and falls almost imperceptibly.
"I went far across the ocean this time," he tells her. "The ocean on the side where the sun
comes up. I took a boat from the harbor way way way far beyond the mountains you
can see from this window, and I was on the sea from the time was perfectly
round till it got smaller and smaller and then bigger and bigger until it was full again.
There was nothing but ocean as far as the eye could see. Just the sea and the sky. Can
you imagine it, Hanna? You've never seen the ocean, but I'm sure people have told you
about it. It's like a huge, big endless puddle."
He chuckles to himself, and it seems to him that Hanna's pale white cheek moves
slightly.
She can hear him. Even if she cannot speak or see, her ears are still alive.
Believing and hoping this to be true, he continues with the stories of his travels.
He speaks no words of parting.
As always with Hanna, he smiles with a special gentleness he has never
shown to anyone else, and he goes on telling his tales with a bright voice,
sometimes even accompanying his story with exaggerated gestures.
He tells her about the blue ocean.
He tells her about the blue sky.
He says nothing about the violent sea battle that stained the ocean red.
He never tells her about those things.
Hanna was still a tiny girl when he first visited the inn.
When she asked him "Where are you from?" and "Will you tell me some stories?"
with her childish pronunciation and innocent smile, he felt a soft glow in his chest.
At the time, he was returning from a battle.
More precisely, he had ended one battle and was on his way to the next.
His life consisted of traveling from one battlefield to another,
and nothing about that has changed to this day.
He has taken the lives of countless enemy troops, and witnessed the deaths of countless
comrades on the battlefield. Moreover, the only thing separating enemies from comrades
is the slightest stroke of fortune. Had the gears of destiny turned in a slightly different
way, his enemies would have been comrades and his comrades enemies. This is the fate
of the mercenary.
He was spiritually worn down back then and feeling unbearably lonely.
As a possessor of eternal life, he had no fear of death, which was precisely why each
of the soldiers' faces distorted in fear, and why each face of a man who died in agony
was burn permanently into his brain.
Ordinarily, he would spend nights on the road drinking. Immersing himself in an
alcoholic stupor - or pretending to be - he was trying to make himself forget the unforgettable.
When, however, he saw Hanna's smile as she begged him for stories about his long
journey, he felt a far warmer and deeper comfort than he could ever obtain from liquor.
He told her many things...
About a beautiful flower he discovered on the battlefield.
About the bewitching beauty of the mist filling the forest the night before the final battle.
About the marvelous taste of the spring water in a ravine where he and his men had fled
after a losing battle.
About a vast, bottomless blue sky he saw after a battle.
He never told her anything sad. He kept his mouth shut about the human ugliness and
stupidity he witnessed endlessly on the battlefield. He concealed his position as a mercenary
for her, kept silent regarding his reasons for traveling constantly, and spoke only of things
that were beautiful and sweet and lovely. He sees now that he told Hanna only beautiful
stories of the road like this not so much out of concern for her purity, but for his own sake.
Staying in the inn where Hanna waited to see him turned out to be one of his small
pleasures in life. Telling her about the memories he brought back from his journeys, he
felt some degree of salvation, however slight.
Five years, ten years, his friendship with the girl continued. Little by little, she neared
adulthood, which mean that, as the doctors had predicted, each day brought her that
much closer to death.
And now, he ends the last travel story he will share with her.
He can never see her again, can never tell her stories again.
Before dawn, when the darkness of night is at its deepest,
long pauses enter into Hanna's breathing.
The frail thread of her life is about to snap as he and her parents watch over her.
The tiny light that has lodged in his breast will now be extinguished.
His long travels will begin again tomorrow -
his long, long travels without end.
"You'll be leaving on travels of your own soon, Hanna," he tells her gently.
"You'll be leaving for a world that no one knows, a world that has never entered into
any of the stories you have heard so far. Finally, you will be able to leave your bed and
walk anywhere you want to go. You'll be free."
He wants her to know that death is not sorrow but a joy mixed with tears.
"It's your turn now. Be sure and tell everyone about the memories of your journey."
Her parents will make that same journey someday. And someday Hanna will be able to
meet all the guests she has known at the inn, far beyond the sky.
I, however, can never go there.
I can never escape this world
I can never see you again.
"This is not goodbye. It's just the start of your journey."
He speaks his final words to her.
"We'll meet again."
His final lie to her.
Hanna makes her departure.
Her face is transfused with a tranquil smile as if she has just said,
"See you soon."
Her eyes will never open again. A single tear glides slowly down her cheek.
-A Thousand Years of Dreams.
... i dont know, it kind of struck me, this story. hahaha.
welcome him back to the inn from his long journey.
"Thank you so much for coming."
He understands the situation immediately.
The time for departure is drawing near.
Too soon, too soon. But still, he knows, this day would have to come sometime,
and not in the distant future.
"I might never see you again," she said to him with a sad smile when he left on this
journey, her smiling face almost transparent in its whiteness, so fragile - and therefore
indescribably beautiful - as she lay in bed.
"May I see Hanna now?" he asks.
The innkeeper gives him a tiny nod and says,
"I don't think she'll know who you are, though."
She hasn't opened her eyes since last night, he warns him. You can tell from the slight
movement of her chest that she is clinging to a frail thread of life, but it could snap at
any moment.
"It's such a shame. I know you made a special point to come here for her..."
Another tear glides down the wife's cheek.
"Never mind, it's fine," he says.
He has been present at innumerable deaths, and his experience has taught him much.
Death takes away the power of speech first of all. Then the ability to see. What remains
alive to the very end, however, is the power ot hear. Even though the person has lost
consciousness, it is by no means unusual for the voices of the family to bring forth smiles or tears.
He puts his arm around the woman's shoulder and says,
"I have lots of travel stories to tell her. I've been looking forward to this my whole time
on the road."
Instead of smiling, the woman releases another large tear and nods to him.
"And Hanna was so looking forward to hearing your stories."
Her sobs almost drown out her words.
The innkeeper says, "I wish I could urge you to rest up
from your travels before you see her, but..."
He interrupts his apologies,
"Of course I'll see her right away."
There is very little time left.
Hanna, the only daughter of the innkeeper and his wife,
will probably breathe her last before the sun comes up.
He lowers his pack to the floor and quietly opens
the door to Hanna's room.
Hanna was frail from birth. Far from enjoying the opportunity to travel, she rarely left
the town or even the neighborhood in which she was born and raised.
This child will probably not live to adulthood, the doctor told her parents.
To this tiny girl with extraordinarily beautiful, doll-like features, the gods had dealt an
all-too-sad destiny.
That they had allowed her to be born the only daughter of the keepers of a small inn
by the highway was perhaps one small act of atonement for such iniquity.
Hanna was unable to go anywhere, but the guests who stayed at her parents' inn
would tell her stories of the countries and towns and landscapes and people that she
would never know.
Whenever new guests arrived at the inn, Hanna would ask them,
"Where are you from? "Where are you going?"
"Can you tell me a story?"
She would sit and listen to their stories with sparkling eyes, urging them on to new
episodes with "And then? And then?" When they left the inn, she would beg them,
"Please come back, and tell me lots and lots of stories about faraway countries!"
She would stand there waving until the person disappeared far down the highway,
give one lonely sigh, and go back to bed.
Hanna is sound asleep.
No one else is in the room, perhaps and indication that she has long since passed
the stage when the doctors can do anything for her.
He sits down in the chair next to the bed and says with a smile,
"Hello, Hanna, I'm back."
She does not respond. Her little chest, still without the swelling of a grown woman,
rises and falls almost imperceptibly.
"I went far across the ocean this time," he tells her. "The ocean on the side where the sun
comes up. I took a boat from the harbor way way way far beyond the mountains you
can see from this window, and I was on the sea from the time was perfectly
round till it got smaller and smaller and then bigger and bigger until it was full again.
There was nothing but ocean as far as the eye could see. Just the sea and the sky. Can
you imagine it, Hanna? You've never seen the ocean, but I'm sure people have told you
about it. It's like a huge, big endless puddle."
He chuckles to himself, and it seems to him that Hanna's pale white cheek moves
slightly.
She can hear him. Even if she cannot speak or see, her ears are still alive.
Believing and hoping this to be true, he continues with the stories of his travels.
He speaks no words of parting.
As always with Hanna, he smiles with a special gentleness he has never
shown to anyone else, and he goes on telling his tales with a bright voice,
sometimes even accompanying his story with exaggerated gestures.
He tells her about the blue ocean.
He tells her about the blue sky.
He says nothing about the violent sea battle that stained the ocean red.
He never tells her about those things.
Hanna was still a tiny girl when he first visited the inn.
When she asked him "Where are you from?" and "Will you tell me some stories?"
with her childish pronunciation and innocent smile, he felt a soft glow in his chest.
At the time, he was returning from a battle.
More precisely, he had ended one battle and was on his way to the next.
His life consisted of traveling from one battlefield to another,
and nothing about that has changed to this day.
He has taken the lives of countless enemy troops, and witnessed the deaths of countless
comrades on the battlefield. Moreover, the only thing separating enemies from comrades
is the slightest stroke of fortune. Had the gears of destiny turned in a slightly different
way, his enemies would have been comrades and his comrades enemies. This is the fate
of the mercenary.
He was spiritually worn down back then and feeling unbearably lonely.
As a possessor of eternal life, he had no fear of death, which was precisely why each
of the soldiers' faces distorted in fear, and why each face of a man who died in agony
was burn permanently into his brain.
Ordinarily, he would spend nights on the road drinking. Immersing himself in an
alcoholic stupor - or pretending to be - he was trying to make himself forget the unforgettable.
When, however, he saw Hanna's smile as she begged him for stories about his long
journey, he felt a far warmer and deeper comfort than he could ever obtain from liquor.
He told her many things...
About a beautiful flower he discovered on the battlefield.
About the bewitching beauty of the mist filling the forest the night before the final battle.
About the marvelous taste of the spring water in a ravine where he and his men had fled
after a losing battle.
About a vast, bottomless blue sky he saw after a battle.
He never told her anything sad. He kept his mouth shut about the human ugliness and
stupidity he witnessed endlessly on the battlefield. He concealed his position as a mercenary
for her, kept silent regarding his reasons for traveling constantly, and spoke only of things
that were beautiful and sweet and lovely. He sees now that he told Hanna only beautiful
stories of the road like this not so much out of concern for her purity, but for his own sake.
Staying in the inn where Hanna waited to see him turned out to be one of his small
pleasures in life. Telling her about the memories he brought back from his journeys, he
felt some degree of salvation, however slight.
Five years, ten years, his friendship with the girl continued. Little by little, she neared
adulthood, which mean that, as the doctors had predicted, each day brought her that
much closer to death.
And now, he ends the last travel story he will share with her.
He can never see her again, can never tell her stories again.
Before dawn, when the darkness of night is at its deepest,
long pauses enter into Hanna's breathing.
The frail thread of her life is about to snap as he and her parents watch over her.
The tiny light that has lodged in his breast will now be extinguished.
His long travels will begin again tomorrow -
his long, long travels without end.
"You'll be leaving on travels of your own soon, Hanna," he tells her gently.
"You'll be leaving for a world that no one knows, a world that has never entered into
any of the stories you have heard so far. Finally, you will be able to leave your bed and
walk anywhere you want to go. You'll be free."
He wants her to know that death is not sorrow but a joy mixed with tears.
"It's your turn now. Be sure and tell everyone about the memories of your journey."
Her parents will make that same journey someday. And someday Hanna will be able to
meet all the guests she has known at the inn, far beyond the sky.
I, however, can never go there.
I can never escape this world
I can never see you again.
"This is not goodbye. It's just the start of your journey."
He speaks his final words to her.
"We'll meet again."
His final lie to her.
Hanna makes her departure.
Her face is transfused with a tranquil smile as if she has just said,
"See you soon."
Her eyes will never open again. A single tear glides slowly down her cheek.
-A Thousand Years of Dreams.
... i dont know, it kind of struck me, this story. hahaha.
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