A Day in the Life

I've got someone that's truly close to my heart. She's wonderful to me, sustains me, feeds me, spends time with me. She's all I've known, and frankly, all I want to know. We've gotten life down to pretty much a routine. She leaves early in the morning for work, and generally doesn't return until dinner time. I stay home, take care of some housekeeping issues, get some exercise on the treadmill, perhaps toss in a nap in on my more lethargic days.

I haven't heard from my family in a while, ever since my brothers and sisters and I grew up of age, we all chased love and before you knew it, we were all separated. The last sibling I saw was my dear youngest sister, she went home with a cute freckled red-headed boy. I could tell she was somewhat reserved at first, but I'm sure she's warmed up to him by now. After all, it's been nearly 2-3 years now since I've seen any of them. I wonder how they're doing sometimes. I sometimes miss them, but all in all I can't complain: I live a simple life, and I have her.

Oftentimes she'll just sit next to me, and speak to me. Whenever I feel like I have her attention, I try to showcase something special that I did that day. Maybe I finally ran a new record distance on the treadmill, maybe I cleaned up the mess around the house, maybe I just act cute so that she'll gush over me. At times like these she'll smile at me sweetly, hold and caress me ever so gently, and when I'm really lucky, she'll sing for me. That feeling of security, that warmth, that touch. I find myself curling up and falling into a blissful sleep with her smiling at me. It's unforgettable.

Things have never always been peachy, though. At times when she is sad, I feel helpless and minuscule. I am never good at talking about these difficult times, and I sometimes feel that she thinks that I never understand her. It gets particularly bad when she gets busy. She'll look at me sadly, and then turn to her computer or her large stack of papers, all covered with unreadable (to me anyway) scribbles of all sorts of colors. She had a period where she'd pick at her own hair, another time just sleep and not wake up, like her only method of escape from all of her stress and problems was to sleep.

Tonight, however, she seems at peace, smiling as she falls asleep. If only I could ever snuggle next to her. Alas, I will never know this feeling, as I sit peering longingly at her...

...from behind my glass hamster cage.

The Big Triple Digits

Hello all!  It's been a blessing, really, blogging and sharing the crazy things that are floating inside my head.  Some of you have been following me since I first started, others, joining as my blogging has progressed and grown with me.  There have been ups and downs, periods where I would blog pretty much every day, and periods of where months would go by, and I wouldn't even know what to write.

I feel obliged to give a longer, more thought out post, when it comes to my 100th post, so it was fitting that it came during a time when my other obligations have been taken care of already.  So enjoy, this one took quite a bit of time of revising and revisiting, so hopefully it turned out okay.  Cheers.

Angels and Demons

It’s sometimes lonely thinking about what I am, or rather, what I’ve become.  Perhaps I’ve been like this for a while.  It was a weird realization of who I am, but when I got a chance to actually look at a true mirror, I saw what I most feared.  My name?  Stromnikos.  They say my name came from the word for electricity, for the violent nature of my temper, the power of my anger and wrath.  But isn’t that how they name all demons?  The very nature that dictates why people who wrong me, well, people tend to avoid that.  But I digress.

It’s not hard to see why people find it difficult to get close to me; fear of being shocked and hurt would deter even the bravest and most stubborn of souls.  But, I find comfort in the few people that I value, for them, it seems like the thunderclouds only make life that much more exciting…like some sick version of Stormchasers.  At any rate, my life is at a more or less standstill.  I hang out with the people who enjoy my company, I don’t go out of my way to mess with people, and we’re all good.  Living the demon life.  Until, that is, I met her.

It’s been said hundreds and thousands of times that Love makes people do stupid things.  But that’s “people”.  Not demons.  Others say that Love is, in actuality, a demon that corrupts and overwhelms a person’s otherwise rational judgment.  That couldn’t be true, since demons don’t mess with other demons; whose side is Love on anyway?  She’s beautiful, I tell myself.  The way she talks makes even this icy heart of mine melt just a little.  The way she smiles warms up everyone else in the room.  The way she cares, well, almost raises a sense of guilt when I turn around and mess with a helpless soul.  But only people do stupid things, right?

One day I found myself talking to this angel.  She smiles sweetly at me, staring straight to my core, through the spiky exterior, through the intimidating glares, and through the defensive thunderclouds that used to be so reliable.  My name’s Castella, what’s yours?  As if the Earth stood still and Father Time decided to take a lunch break, I found myself, surprisingly, at a loss for words. 

I prided myself in demonic wit, in biting satire (literally), and in silly parody humor that would probably offend anyone who wasn’t in on the actual joke.  So why can’t I seem to talk back?  Stro…m…niiikosss.  It literally took forever to get those words out of my mouth.

Stromneeekos?  Cute! Maybe we can spend more time together later?  Bye!  And just like that, she blew open my world.

As the time went on, we spent more time together, my demonic friends gave me grief that I was totally losing my reputation, that I wasn’t worthy of my name anymore…but strangely, I didn’t care.  If Castella thought I was fine the way I was, then I was fine the way I was.  I found myself caring.  I found myself being nice, I found myself restraining every urge to using those thunderclouds.  It was as if…dare I say, trying to impress this angel?  What have I become?

Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.  I mean, angels and demons are about as different as black and white.  There couldn’t have been a closer match of polar opposites.  But somewhere deep inside me, I don’t feel like a demon, but rather…a person.

Is it worth pursuing?  Humanity, that is.  I feel like a frog on the bottom off a well, looking upward at the possibilities above, unable to reach it on my own power, unwilling to leave the comforts of the depths.  It’s been an incredible journey…and now that I’ve gotten a taste, I can never truly go back.

The Sailor

The night is long, and the day is rough. It would seem that the waves have calmed down a little. The man, mature-looking but still well in his youth, pulls out his telescope and looks around; it's all clear, he can relax for the time being. It's been almost a year since he embarked on his last voyage, the smell of adventure out there entices him to come back. He feels like he found his calling, the amazing beauty of the great horizon drew him back out to sea. He is no inexperienced sailor; his last voyage had more than its fair share of hardships and storms rocking his little boat. He was skillful, and navigated the seas for almost two years, before one storm ended the journey.

* * * * *

That fateful night, he had taken his usual preparations for the night, as it didn't seem unusual in any way. As he was slowly ready to call it a night, he spots the unbelievable; the little vessel was headed into one of the worst storms that he had ever witnessed. He had heard tales of such turbulence, but it's one thing to hear about it, and another thing to survive it. With a deep breath, the sailor grips the ropes and bravely navigates ahead. Despite the sailor's best efforts, the violence of the storm was too great, and the vessel capsized. The sailor gripped onto a larger piece of his broken ship, pedaled towards the horizon, and prayed every sunrise to make it back to safety. Although he prayed long and hard, a part of him was lost forever at sea.

* * * * *

One day, after his prayer, he heard the sound of a horn, a fleet of fellow sojourners cruising nearby, and was fortunately rescued by them. As they brought him back to civilization, the sailor was welcomed into the fellowship of travelers, and there he was helped with provisions and a newer, re-built version of his old ship.

* * * * *

He will never forget the help that he got from the fellowship. He will never forget the love and grace of the Lord who answered his prayers and saved him. As he looks into the horizon this time, he only sees the beautiful sunset ahead; it's all clear, he can relax for the time being. It's been almost a year since he embarked on his last voyage, the smell of adventure out there entices him to come back. He has found his calling, and although the waves may get bumpy later, he now just looks and smiles at the setting sun.

As the sailor's boat drifts out to sea again, a soft sigh of content is heard whispered among the lull of the waves.

Long Night

“Are you ok?”

“Huh?”

“Are you ok? You kind of zoned out and became all quiet, all of a sudden.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m fine; I was admiring the night sky.”

It’s quiet; almost too quiet. It’s a long night, and has no intention of ending soon. I am in my street clothes, on a top of a large parking garage; there is absolutely no light pollution, the stars have come out to play. The moon, normally shy, has come out and joined the party. I look at her, and she looks as dazzling as the stars. I asked her for a dance, and the stars glowed brightly, almost like they were blushing, twinkling, giggling with delight.

It was a slow dance, really. I couldn’t imagine anything quite so interestingly tacky, and yet so sweet. I could stare into her eyes, and be so immersed that I could completely ignore the fact that we were on the top of a parking garage. It was mystifying, her smile, that is; a smile so radiant that I am just lost, overwhelmed by the moment.

This was truly a special someone; granted, someone who will always stay close to my heart. Unfortunately, this moment was not meant to last forever. A quick check of the cell phone revealed the dim lit screen saying that it was time to go. She smiles at me once more, and says, “Maybe some other time.”

As I walk her back to her place and wish her good night, the way back home seemed so much longer. I look up, and walk to the jingle of the stars.

It’s a long night, and the only thing that is heard is a soft sigh.

The Writer

It’s silent…disturbingly silent. Even if it is 3 in the morning, you’d expect the crickets to be out serenading each other. In the middle of the darkness, a dim blue/off-white glow of a laptop computer monitor flickers. In front of it, the faint silhouette of a man, hands on his head, shaking with disapproval. The keyboard clicks a few times, and words disappear off the screen. The man has been at this since he ate Chinese take-out for dinner, and hasn’t left his chair since answering the door to tip the high school boy who drove him his food.

Writer’s Block? More like Writer’s Great Wall of China, the man thinks to himself. Frustrated, he throws a crumbled fortune cookie at his overflowing trashcan, bouncing out, showing an ironic fortune: Your ideas will inspire others. He looks at his watch—3:18am. With a sigh, the man looks at what he has accomplished thus far; 8 prompts, highlighted in bold, lines of personal notes italicized, and a variety of key points underlined. Unfortunately, none of that translates to the necessary yet elusive essay form that will satisfy the requirement.

Tap, tap, tap, tappity, tappity tap. The cursor dances across the screen, words left in its wake. It halts, seemingly realizing the sloppy trail it has been leaving behind, and quickly retreats to clean up its mess. The man is taking two steps forward, three steps back; this must be the hardest assignment he has had yet. The fact that there is a deadline does nothing but add stress to the entire already dicey situation.

He tries to reread the text that is already jotted down, but prevents himself from deleting it. He quickly hits Ctrl + S, and closes the lid of the laptop, letting the poor thing finally go to sleep. Now that the room returns to being pitch black, the man rolls onto his bed, and lies there thinking, patiently waiting for the darkness to lull him to sleep.

------

On a completely unrelated note: cheers to half a century of posts in 2010.

The Mirror

Josh woke up this morning, slightly shivering with a stuffy nose. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he kicked off his comforter, and was barely covered by a light blanket. As he glances over at the clock, he realized that he woke up 5 minutes before his three alarms were timed to go off. Reluctant to try and steal a couple minutes of extra sleep, Josh slithers out of bed, resets all the alarms, and trudges into the bathroom to freshen up.

As he walks in, he's greeted by a familiar face. Josh picks up his toothbrush, and right before he starts brushing his teeth, his reflection starts talking to him.

"Hello Josh. Good morning."

"Whoa, who are you?"

"I'm you, silly, is that how you greet yourself everyday?"

"I guess I haven't really thought about how to greet myself."

"Well, don't you have to deal with yourself the most? Why haven't you thought of this?"

"Hmm..."

"Honestly, I'd think my other half would have more smarts than to ignor--"

The reflection's conversation was cut short by Josh starting to brush his teeth. Not only did he silence his reflection, he gained some valuable quiet thinking time on what the reflection had to say. How do I greet myself everyday? Do I really know myself? Do I change from day to day? These things bothered Josh, but he couldn't risk stopping, where the reflection could start yapping again. As he swished out the toothpaste and wiped his face with a warm towel, Josh's reflection cried out, "Remember to be true to yourse--"

Josh already turned and walked away, out of sight of the mirror. One thought ran through his mind: Do I really know myself well enough to know how to greet myself?

Things recorded in a little black book...

...are usually secrets.

Not mine.

I sit down in a cafe, order a medium mocha, double shot of espresso. I pull out the little black book from my back pocket, and start writing into it with the black pen in my pocket. Scribbling away, I look around, seeing if anyone is looking at me, trying to figure out what I'm writing down. Perhaps doing this in a relatively crowded cafe wasn't the brightest of ideas, but at this point, I don't mind. The looking around feels almost obligatory, even if what I'm writing down isn't some secret worth 80 billion dollars, or what not.

A friend of mine walks into the same cafe, recognizes me, and comes to sit down next to me. As she is sitting down, I coincidentally finish what I was scratching into the book, and put it back into my backpocket. She glances at me, and after ordering her coffee, asks me, "What do you write in that thing?" "Reflections, thoughts, prayers." I reply almost immediately, sipping my mocha.

The more I think about it, I realize that even my answer to her was strangely secretive for something that was completely and utterly truthful. Ironically, none of the three kinds of things that I told her, are actually secretive. My reflections are usually applied to what I do, and seen in how I act. My thoughts are shared with those who have the ear to listen to them, and those close enough to know what kinds of things I think about. My prayers are heard and answered by the Lord, and there's nothing secretive or shameful about them to hide.

My friend gets her coffee, and simply responds with a "Ok, cool." She follows up with the question, "Are you feeling okay? Anything we need to talk about?" I look from the window view outside back to her. "I'm alright. Nothing in particular that's bothering me. What's up?" We sit there, and talk pleasantly over coffee.

Things recorded in a little black book are usually secrets.

Not mine.

The Mad Scientist

Thunder booms, lighting strikes, a house in the middle of the forest.

The house is empty, a few creaks from the doors, but otherwise silence rules. Suddenly, a shadowy figure appears from an upstairs study, flies down the stairs, and dashes across the foyer. The flash from the lightning gives a glimpse on the shadow's face: one of a young man. The man disappears behind shelf. Closing the door behind him, he puts on his sound-canceling headphones. Let the experimentation begin! A lone smirk is seen on the young man's face.

As he stretches his arms and flexes his long fingers, he thinks on which instrument he shall work with. Looking around, he smiles at the large one, standing upright in the corner. Bigger is better, hmm? A marvelous machine of creation, black and white with gold imprints, the young man is happy with his choice. As the young man's fingers fly across its studded surface, the instrument responds quickly and pumps out waves of consciousness.

He is manufacturing mellow melodies, hinting at haunting harmonies, singing slick syncopations, and dancing with dangerous dissonance duos. They call him a madman, trying things that no one has tried before, mixing things that no one has dared mixed before. The young man pays them no heed; this is what he does best, what he loves: that is all that matters.

The trees outside are swinging back and forth, humming to a beat in the wind, jamming to the techno-esque lightning flashes; in the background, a soft bass-line of laughter is heard echoing.

The Tavern

"...And then she says, 'You got a crush on that girl, boy?' "

"What? Get out of here, that's ridiculous!"

The two men laugh heartily at the story. John and Rick were regulars at O'Malloy's pub. It was a homey place, with wooden tables and benches. Saint Patrick's day was coming up, so the place was dressed head to toe with green streamers and other clover-shaped paraphernalia. The two men were sitting in the corner booth, eating, drinking, having a good time.

John was a tall, lean but built man. Still young in many respects, but with a mature mind that liked exploring deeper meanings. Rick, in contrast, was a bit older, a stronger and wiser fellow. John and Rick originally became acquainted through community sports, but through further interaction, they soon became like brothers.

The two of them were usually too busy with their own lives to "hang out" per se, but John came to Rick for advice usually in times of stress. Other times, they would make time for each other just to talk.

Tonight was no exception.

"So let me get this straight. This girl just asks you if you were crushin' on her friend?"

"Yeah, it was kind of out of the blue. She even pulled me to the side and was all hush hush about everything."

"Now that's a real hoot. This is cause I know you don't love her that way."

"It's all perspective, isn't it?"

"Nah, John. To be perfectly honest, love for a sister shouldn't ever be confused with love for a lover."

"How would you tell the difference to avoid confusion? For yourself, and for others?"

"Hey now, if I knew that, I'd be a really rich man, wouldn't I?"

The two men laughed. As they both clanked mugs and finished their drinks, their laughter echoed through the otherwise empty tavern.

Holiday

It's quiet.

Too quiet. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. 3:59AM, the digital numbers shown very clearly in contrast to the dark night. I put my phone back on standby, turn my gaze to the stars. Little pixies, dancing, flickering, swimming in a soup so black it can't be fluid.

Suddenly, a bright light approaches. I cover my eyes with a hoodie sleeve, and a train of taxi cars rush by and park temporarily by the curb. The driver who pulled up first, turned off the engine and stepped out of his car, leaving his headlights on. He was a man in his fifties, looked healthy and spoke with a voice to back it up. He looked at me, and said, "You need a ride, kid?" I told him, "No, I'm good. I'm not actually leaving."

The driver laughs heartily, and follows up his first question, this time with a curious undertone to his inquiry, "What are you doin' out here at 4 in the morning? Don't you college kids normally catch up on sleep during the Holiday?"

This question took me by surprise. I had completely forgotten that Holiday had arrived. I had been so busy, that it had completely slipped my mind. I thanked the driver for the notice, and ran back to my suite. When I opened the door (which was no longer propped open), everything dawned on me.

My suite was completely pitch dark, single rooms with all doors open, things rummaged through, missing clothes, electronics, people. The only response in the entire suite was an echo coming from the bathroom. After finding no one in the suite, I walk into the hallway, checking for other people. I called a few friends, texted a few others, trying to reach out. No use, no response. I ran down the stairs outside again, but the taxi drivers were already gone. There I was, standing alone in the middle of a larger network of labyrinths, unable to locate my way out. It's quiet.

Too quiet.

I can see clearly now...

The door opens.

Flash.

My head is spinning, my eyes still hurting from the initial shock of the bright sunlight reflecting through the clouds, off the snow on the ground. I think to myself, "I haven't seen this much snow in quite a while." As I rub my eyes clear of the glare, I see the path before me.

The normally green-brown lawn has turned to a pure white, a great contrast to the red brick buildings that stand resolute in the background. A shrill wind teases me as it floats by and reminds me to zip up my coat. I soon realize that my glove are sitting in my room still, unwilling to leave the comforts of a warm, heated room.

As I trudge through the slush, turned back from all the shoes and boots that have stepped before me, I exhale once, slowly, playing: making smoke rings with no pipe. As I wait to cross the street, a car slides 4 feet before slowly coming to a stop, rear wheels fishtailing behind the steering wheel. Finally, after gaining a sense of confidence back, the car slowly turns right and continues on its way, at half of the speed it came. I shrug and walk through the center's twin doors.

I grab a coffee, put down my things, pull out a book I've been meaning to read for a long time, and slide on my headphones. As the ambient sounds of the commons starts to fade out, I'm brought into Motown, listening to soul and funk. I dive into my book and breathe a nice, slow breath of relief.

Good times.

The Old Man

I step outside.

Almost like it was anticipating my entrance, a cold breeze blows past me. Shaking it off in black coldgear, shorts and running shoes, I start my journey. Looking around, I see a familiar sight: the old porter. He looked so much more impressive and intimidating when I was a prospective freshman: everything looked more so when I was a prospective freshman. Now, I could tell he has seen better days, fulfilling his duties with a heavy sigh, standing resolute in everything that nature throws at him, simply telling the time to anyone who even gives him half a glance.

I stop to chat with the old watchman. Tying my shoes whilst making conversation, I ask him how he's been.

He tells me of everything he's noticed. People coming and going, hardly anyone bothering to say hello; he tells me about the good old days back when people were more courteous. I laugh, just like a young'un, he jeers. He says how across the river of black asphalt, there has been a war going on. Buildings being torn down, piles of rubble and debris left to be cleaned up, free territories becoming occupied with newer, even bigger fortresses, laying claim to all of its surroundings. I tell him how I've ventured into that war zone often, within just two years of becoming familiar with the place, everything's changed. Old places that I've visited, turned completely inside out, it's like I've never been there. Even the local tavern was forced to close its doors. The old porter, in his worn-down green windbreaker, shakes his head in disapproval.

I blink, and breathe a breath full of chilled air. I stretch out, half expecting the porter to continue his story. I look up; the old man returns to his somber, silent watch. As I get ready to take off, "11:30pm", he whispers. I look back, thank him, and jog into the darkness, knowing he'll be here to welcome me back for when I return.