"like showing a cathedral to a tired Mason"
like showing a book of poetry
to an author
working in a garden of unintentional authors
trying to convince other authors of their authorship
that new Thrice song should be good, if only they were back together as a band
and bitterness dividing the punished
end up headless, end up seamless
have eaten us all
how your eyes fool you into living a life that you never expected to live but you cannot avoid
Put on this monocle
see it disappear
put on a spectacle
see you disappear
put on a happy face
see you go
one finger toward the sky
one minded voyage
one with no sense
supposed to shatter
in this ancient game
and sharing it with the population
be the best book you can read
I’m gonna be leaving now. While knowing what I did, there is no chance in hell that she would ever listen to anything other than the voices in her head. I panted those voices, the seeds being the careless tongue rolls that have always left a poison taste in my mouth. Infecting her psyche. I apologise.
Boring old men, it was only succumbing to part of the real world, which is a world that she does not choose to live in but chastises me for not doing so if I wasn’t. It was shared with a cup of tea and a box of our favourite bisucuits, sharing old habits. Laughing, then the toungue, then the tears. Then the embraces, the gifts, the soft hands and the lightning that struck each time rain poured on her face.
At a crossroads, she stands armed with a loaded rifle, pointing in both directions, begging me to cross the tracks. But to cross the tracks, one must have legs, and due to the savageness of the real world and the stupidity of my own world, I am now but an armful stump. And she never cared. Or at least, she no longer did.
To quell her blackmail, and for an impulsive person to do so, one can fear the reprecussions. Acting on a higher plane than the previous journey, the previous education. The difference is only when they were constructed by the engineers that authorized their lives.
In the real world, disappointment makes up about 80 percent of the sky you live under. The 20 percent sunlight we experience during the day provides only a meager shelter, but we make the best out of every particle. Nobody likes it.
Fervering her own hype, one could only say yes to blackmail. Especially if you are (voluntarily) bound to their hands, becoming one with their skin. It seems that the brains do not compute. Is this a sign? Or do we merely just have different worlds, victims of our environment?
To say so would be ignorant, ignorant of our own actions. Emotions tend to bring out the worst in us, sometimes t points where inly regret is felt. People remember bad memories more vividly than they do good ones, and that’s a fact. Vivid enough though, to blind the body of any sunlight, making the body void and pale, hollow and black.
All of this should be effortless, and it may be, but escaping your own escape? Where do you go from there?
The ultimate forgery, the carried away by fire, the seeds of the voices in your head showing no mercy upon your fragile body and naïve mind. I apologise.
Its times like these that you say to yourself, are they worth it? Or have you shown your worth to them? If it is the latter then, you have nothing and everything to think about. Words are influence, and as slong as youre under the radar, the people’s minds will act as the shallow transmitters.
Flying at gunpoint, or at least being shot by invisible bullets once you do step on the tracks. The train wont come for you instantly, but the bullets are coming slowly too. Leaving the tracks, you either realize the time you wasted, the regrets you felt or the contentness that it happened and it became another lesson. Would you learn from it?
There are 6 billion books on this Earth, each with a story, and a background, on how they were written and assembled by themselves. Open an interesting book, sometimes you may find tht you cannot put it down. But one may also find that it becomes your life and once it ends, you are unsure about what to do with your story. Their stories are theirs to write, in any way they want. Only the interesting is written and once another book reads their story, they read it as presented.
Youre about to literally fly, at gunpoint, to a place where once you arrive, you are most certainly getting shot. I do not have the ability to soar yet, maybe in about a few months or so, but will the figure in the coat, holding the rifle mind? Of course not.
The seeds of the voices in their head always win.
I apologise for planting them.
But apologies are empty
In another book’s story and in that story’s universe, they are god.
I apologise, to you.
Dawn Stares press release?
Rising from the collective conscious of five musical minds comes Dawn Stares, essentially a place where freedom is guaranteed and everyone is able to move in their own comfortable spaces.
In a primitive sense, yes we can be referred to as a label, but we at DS like to think of it as a shared space where our introverted musical ideas could be more accessible to the outside world. The space we create encompasses a unique variety of sounds. No idea is too extreme, because the human mind flows naturally and in directions we could never imagine.
Experimentation is key to DS’s artists’ music, and they have plenty of it.
Inspired by similar collectives such as the Trash Talk Collective, Tsefula/Tsefuelha, A$AP Mob and Odd Future, all current artists in Dawn Stares shine through each of their projects, and sometimes come together as separate units to unite their ideas.
all in all, the music we create cannot sit idly in our heads. Sharing expressions is the way that the world could come together. We hope you enjoy Dawn Stares.
- B/M/A/D/D, 2014
APP: Current Artists in Dawn Stares:
- The Colour Mellow
- Logic Lost
- Rang De
- Green of Life
The pro-Russian cause in Ukraine has just shot itself in its own dick.
What were once active mounds of flesh have been reduced to ash, over the ancient ideals of territorialism.
the world is small, and the plume of smoke is poisoning the lungs around the world.
IF MH17 was shot down..
The crash could not have occurred in the worst possible place, and could not have involved the worst possible characters: a country torn by civil war, and an airliner whose name has not been fished out of the depths of the Indian Ocean.
Pro-Russia rebels in Ukraine are denying they had anything to do with the crash of MH17 from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur, citing that their machinery is not sophisticated enough to shoot down a Boeing 777 flying 10,000 feet in the air.
Ukraine’s new government is releasing media reports that it was shot down by rebels.
This incident will serve as an opportunity for both sides to escalate their actions against each other, maybe with the help of the international community. No side will ever take responsibility, if it was shot down, and the case will eventually be thrown into the conspiracy theory bin.
Even if the real reason is found, or if investigators have found who was responsible for the crash, the report will either be heavily censored or not be released at all.
In other words, we may never know what really happened to this Malaysian Airlines plane either.
i’m not asking for your pity
or some warm riches to fill my hat
but i desperately need to free my tongue
from the word “I”
and my body
from the word “me”.
The Narrator Fights Himself, part 1
a story about anxiety.
“I’m wide awake in a fake empire, I built myself out of feelings of self entitlement, self doubt and inconfidence. All I can talk about is how I feel and my opinions, and while people clamor for it, for now I am growing sick of the sight in the mirror.
I am being constantly lied to about how my actions were right or wrong, I have a partner, whom I love to the depths of hell and the highs of heaven, but her actions and judgment are confusing my own, am I a bad person or a good person? It shouldn’t matter, I have my own judgments, but it would help for those who are at the receiving end of my actions, to not fool me with their emotions.
As he trembled while punching one key at a time on his typewriter, the narrator suddenly burst into anger and tried to smash his beloved thinking machine to pieces, frustrated at the ungrateful tone of the character he is trying to create.
“Why doesn’t he see the good in his peers and his loved ones? Why is he only thinking about himself?” the narrator wondered. Deep down, he feared that he was not writing a work of fiction, but a subconscious autobiography.
The narrator wondered, “I need to write, because if I don’t, I will lose my talent forever,” and continued on creating the personality of his dark protagonist on paper.
“I feel sympathy..” he typed as he began to formulate the character’s mindset on their surroundings.
“I feel sympathy for all people, but I do not have the courage to show it, for it is hidden behind my veil of humiliation and awkwardness. All I can say is a brief there there, or a you’ll do fine, but never really understand the heart of the others’ situation.”
The narrator tore off the page from the typewriter, completing the second page of his character’s rant on self loathing. He read it with absolute disdain at what he had created, and started the next.
“My talents are going to waste due to my cynicism and my lethargy. I do not bother to pick up a pen and when I do it is mostly nonsense poetry that most of the time does not make sense, mostly about how it feels to be someone like myself: an individual desperately building ungrateful walls around them, living in their own dreams and their own world without making a move in the outside world, where the dreams can come true.
I have downplayed my opinions on everything, so far down to the point where it manifests as a shrug, and nothing more. In other words, i am a hollow, breakable shell at the tender age of 25. And I blame myself.”
The narrator wonders why such negativity could naturally come out of his fingers so easily, as if it is something that has happened to him in the past before, recalling it in the most vivid of detail.
“I am the other form of artist. My art has no meaning, and when it does, it comes sporadically. There is no creativity, mostly only imitation. What fuels my colorful personality is mostly a charade played to give the impression that i am an enlightened person. Now i am old and grey, and my twilight years are supposed to be hundreds of light years away,” he typed. But as the narrator put the words into his character’s mouth, it felt like a relief, a huge burden lifted from his shoulders, and despite the frustration at the character he gave birth to, he started smiling as he wrote.
“Oh I am tired of talking. I’d rather loathe in bed,” he typed, realizing seconds later that he just typed his own thoughts into the mouth of his fictional character.
He became uneasy, again, worried that his anxiety would make him pick up the $400,000 bag of Kazakhstan heroin that he just threw away hours ago, from the dumpster outside.
“B-but..” the narrator muttered as he stared into the half-completed page of his book.
Realizing the emotional strain of the three page-rant he wrote, he lifted himself out of his seat and called it a day, knowing that the story would most likely remain unfinished any time soon.
"Once again, i achieved nothing. Not even closure," the narrator muttered again.
The atmosphere around his tree house glowed black, obscuring the full moon for those deserving its beauty.