Fly

I’m a few storeys high, and yes, I’m going to do it.

March 5, 2013

Mom: Francine, get your brother’s jacket. You’re going to be late.

Me: Mom, he’s old enough to get it himself.

Mom: He’s busy right now, reading today’s paper.

Me: Why does he have to be so pampered? He just reads the paper…

Mom: Dear, if only you read the paper, then we’ll treat you and your brother equally.

March 10, 2013

Brother: Hey! Don’t use your laptop. I’m downloading movies.

Me: But I have to finish–

Mom (comes in my room unexpectedly): Francine, it’s important. Your brother has to watch these movies so he can get influenced and do really well on his project.

Me: We have a stack of DVDs downstairs.

Brother: It’s more comfortable inside my room. I’d rather watch in there.

March 15, 2013

Me: Mom, can you please pick me up already? I have a ton of workload to–

Mom: Can’t! Busy watching your brother’s recital. He’s really good with the guitar.

Me: But mom…

Mom: Walk home! It’s good for you.

March 15, 2013

I’m going to do it. Good-bye.

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The Candle Snuffer

Somewhere deep within the woods, deep within a dark room, on a table, was a candle. It was lit, and its glow upset the dark. The candle was solitary and was enjoying solitude. It stayed that way for a few hours; the flame died, for the candle had to rest. The dark was pleased.

The candle never lighted itself again. It tried, once or twice, but it couldn’t, and it did not know why. One day, as the candle was weeping, it seemed — wax beads on pause — the room, from complete blackness, was filled with the morning light. The candle thought it miraculous to have light again, but then again, it did not come from it.

“Dear font of such great light, where do you come from?” it said.

Nothing answered it, of course, for the source was miles and miles away. But the candle waited for an answer until it finally gave in to the assumption that the source believed the little thing, believed the candle, to be terribly insignificant. The candle did not mind, but it did apologize. And once it did, the candle felt something had suddenly been placed over it.

“Whmmmmmmm…” It could no longer speak. It stayed this way forever.

Constance

Constance is a woman who deserves to be chained. She uses a chainsaw for her loaf, a butcher knife for her butter, and lard as her butter. She gets her butter herself. Constance, she must die. But who knows why? She does not bother anyone, but she could. She does not murder — oh, but would she? Yet, anyone could or would, or might. Constance is Johnny and Jane. But not everyone believes this is the truth. But there’s only one truth, they say. Only one truth that exists and remains: Constance must be chained.

The Diorama of an Old Woman (1)

View is the panning of pane of glass, plain and dull, with scratches and slashes. View is already going back, blur is gone, focus now on. View was dull and dead as skulls — as skulls to ash — yet more life in them. View: with elements, with content, with scene; eyes unfold, faces seen. And view is now a gradual clash of red and yellow and blue and black. View begins to make sense.

 

Feigning Importance

Flowers bask in guarantee of their image flashing, image plunging; vases hold flowers — without which, flowers lie. Vases — plain or transparent — bear weight of plants, usually of flowers, without quivering. Weight in vases overflows, but to some: simply brimming with water. Vases stand: interior, burden disregarded; external, presence neglected. Presence acknowledged only when vases have color, yet what does color do? It is there, but it does…

what?

Plants — flowers, usually — question the colors of vases: What do they do? Why are they there? Why are they seen? 

Yet vases divested ask the same thing: What do we do? Why are we here?

for they are not seen.

Writing this Piece on a Glass Table with Books Surrounding

I must do my work, but I can’t, for I am surrounded by summer reads. I have Tolkien, Murakami, Bradbury, Carroll, White, etcetera, etcetera. For the past few minutes, I have been writing a story. Not going to help me academically. Spiritually, indeed, but it will not satisfy the expectations dragooned by the amount of cash my parents surrender to the University. No. So I must begin my work, lest I end up desperately clawing my way out of 3s and 4s and 5s. It’s only the second semester of my freshman year, and I have yet to experience a 2, whose presence I gladly derailed in the first and whose persecution I morosely expect in the second.

I suddenly look at my feet, and turn my attention to the carpet. Now I wish the carpet would consume me, just to end this misery of working for something that gives me nil. If it does not give you happiness, it gives you nil.

Off to work.