the conditioning of sufferance

I have found the cause to this inability to lay down the scripting of the occurances within my most recent existence. It presides in an accursed founding. The very source of all that was written came from what used to be a boundless fountain of emotion. The riches and sweetness that flowed forth brought untold quantities of words of wisdom, exhilaration and hate. Yet all has come to a seemly end. Now that the void has consumed, and all emotion has turned void. I shed tears that come forth from dry eyes, my laughter rings out no further than my throat, I speak in a manner unchanging as the sands of the desert remain unchanged through the centuries that have rode across them. There will be no sparkles that proceed from my veil-lidded eyes. Whatever is turned upon my tongue, all would present themselves a blander entity than a starless sky. From the strong wines of the west, the aromatic spices of the east, the savoury meats of the north and those sapid of the south. All would only prove I had no taste and no tongue to confess it. The world flashes by but I only hold one dead stare just to see its procession pass by. Would they seem naught? Would it be that all I once enjoyed belong to another and I remain engaged in this bland mindless battle against the oblivion?

Notsnhoj

the dark wings of a messenger bird

A veiled sun. A broken comet. A dark cloud. A pale moon. Omens of the past, carried upon the black wings of the messenger bird. Dark wings, ever darker words. There is no struggle without injury. There is no injury without hurt. Injury is a necessity. Hurt is a must. Gain is ever shrouded in lost. Life is ever shrouded in dreams. Broken dreams. We live. We seek. We desire. We choose. Yet, it is a novelty to understand the concept behind choices. We hold the right to choose between right and wrong, community and sequestration, duty and dereliction. We inherited this right since the first days of our forefathers. However, it is in this right, that all goes wrong. It goes by the momentum of claims that we possess a choice for what we eat, how we run our health, the path we carry our lives upon, and all else under the sun. But the circumstances that ever surround us would do no justice to the things we want. They distort the path we seek and take away from us the things we love. These words speak of a person. A single person of an utmost importance. The events that took place, the struggles ventured into, all to attain what was close to the heart. Yet all was taken away. When were my choices then decided and imposed upon me? Where lies the justice behind this injustice? Am I now a pawn of this accursed universe? Is my will to be bent to its damnable will? Am I now to be prey to the wishes of circumstance? Why was I be enforced to carry out deeds that would only cause me hurt? Why could this will without turn my own hand upon me? What is this unfounded pain? A pain that stretches its foul reaches onto others close to me, doubling the already heavy portions of mine own pain. All my dreams have been whispered away. All my hope bounded in shackles. By things without, all that I loved was taken.

Notsnhoj

the monotony of life

The monotony of life. A freeflow of the constant. A glorious bloom of ennui. A non-existence of interest. A collision of stars where their brightness is dulled. The darker side of the truth. This is the monotony of life. In the crux of your crisis, when faces appear before your eyes, you feel comforted by their company. But then you realise their silence and their revolving attention. You see their hollow eye sockets and their gapping yawning mouths. Your wishes have been denied and rejected. They took you a mile away, raising your hopes and deepening your desires. Then they cast you off as if they had no intentions whatsoever to even have the slightess of communion with you. It would have been as though they forgot your very presence from the beginning, and took you along merely on impulse and by accident. All that you expended in that one mile expedition is then disregarded. Nothing was returned for your efforts. The fault illuminated the path they trod, every step of it, becoming the same entity that they were. Then they laughed. They laughed a loud laugh. The chorus of their laughter drove away the squirrels and the rodents, the sparrow and the lark, the deer and the bear, everything that stood for the peace of nature. The sheer pressure of their vile laughter elevated the fault off their shoulders. Whatever wrong they accumulated within them was made right in the eyes of their laughter. This is because you are an irregularity. You stood alone in a multitude of wrongness. People laugh at irregularities to justify their own actions and to make them seem like the norm. They laugh off the responsibility and the consequences. You may try to dispute. Each word that impugns their authority-by-majority exists as what tantamounts to an entity of spite. Your then vindictive and callous nature will give them reason to collectively deprecate you. You are the bitter one. The focus has now changed. All memories of their wrong forgotten. You are a violation of the peace. Numbers always win. You suffer. It happens. All the time. The monotony of life. A freeflow of the constant. A glorious bloom of ennui. A non-existence of interest. A collision of stars where their brightness is dulled. The darker side of the truth. This is the monotony of life.

Johnston

the reason behind this service

I lie amongst a world of quiet. I see a multitude of tiny blades of grass running in every direction. Away from me, to the ends of my imagination. Their little bodies shivering each time the cold wind blows. Off in a distance I see the vast expanse of flora form up the horizon. Their isolated emergents reaching for the heavens in all of their majesty. The pale moon and its starry host commune above whilst the misty clouds and darkness envelope them. I hear the cries of the crickets, the geckos, and the birds of the night. Peace. Quietude. I hear a shout. I hear more shouts. With a pack on my back and a rifle in my hand, I rise up. My neck is aching. My back is straining. My hands are shivering. My legs can hold no more. We move. We run. It never ends. Would have it been without reason that I do what I do, I would not have done it. It is by a rigid law I stand by that cannot be abolished. It has existed since generations before and will not be uprooted in the generations to follow. The authenticity of the reason itself cannot be reasoned against. I speak of the existence of an entire living system involving the loved and the unloved of those whom we know. I speak of the noble morality behind ensuring the preservation of their actuality. These people are the reason. The endangering of their lives. The threat of a stolen future. The imperilment of their entire macrocosm collapsing. All these would be too much to bear had these been of truth. What joy would exist when we are sequestered from our bonds. What use would it be if all were gone and we stood in solitude to face hindrances of this world. This would be why I do what I do.

Johnston

a departure of what used to be

I am lost. I am conquered. The representation of myself no longer serves rightfully as a representation of my actuality. There is a difference within me I fail to understand, simply because I no longer recognise the being I used to be. What was once truth, is now a fading entity. Like the clouds in the sky, they change from calm to storm without a moment's notice. And then, you no longer remember how it used to be. Only how bad it is now. It is as if I have neither control nor mastery over senses. Words gather in my head and disperse within the subsequent seconds. I suffer from a sudden inability to capture the rhythm of the song that flows through my veins. It used to throb endlessly with a passion soaring high over the snowy peaks. Now it screams in silence, wishing ever to dearly ernestly to tell me something dear, but I hear it not. All I hear is an undeterminable murmur, that brings in so much uncertainty, and so much painless pain. There is an ambiance of disorientation in the air. Draw me out of this labyrinth.

Notsnhoj

the senselessness of loneliness

Loneliness. The intoxicating brother of emptiness. It binds to us. It chills us. It takes away all functions of our senses. It brings down our mortal ego. It snuffs out the flame of hope. Whatever trickle of strength we have left, it laps up with its deceitful tongue. We are blind men fighting against a world of nothingness. Nothing we do can fill the void. It is a vacuum that draws out all your emotions. Till you have nothing left but the blank wall you face each day. The blank faces you speak to each day. The blankness of the work you do each day. The pointlessness of it all. It no longer makes any sense. Each day you lift your hands to do your work. You drag your heavy feet along the path. You enter a building and you leave it. And you do it again. And again. Enter. Leave. Enter. Leave. And again. The world is mundane. You no longer serve a purpose. You just live each day as it is meant to be lived. But its simplicity is a doubtful matter. For there is a pounding in your head that never ceases. It drives you mad. It takes your sanity. It converges your thoughts into one such that they no longer make any sense. Your head hurts. The pain is never relieved. It remains. Until you no longer feel it. Because you no longer feel anything. The whole craziness of the entire matter. None of it makes sense. The senselessness of the world is senseless. The senselessness of this claim is senseless. Loneliness is a senseless matter. It takes away all reasoning. It takes away all understanding. It takes away all sense. There is only that void to live in. An empty world of nothingness and senselessness. A pitiful world of loneliness.

Notsnhoj

a revelation of the common

Author's note: This is probably my second blog entry in my life that relates of an event in its most direct fashion. Or at least most relative to the capabilities of my awkward styles.

The Mirroring Sky

I stand here on top of a building I call home for this day. My time passes slowly and steadily, like a lioness on the prowl, awaiting my own guard duty prowling. The sun has risen and is now to set, yet I have served naught but four notches on the clock. The remaining of this wretched day I have lay, sat and stodd, watching time pass by as it too watched me. I have seen cloud after cloud travel from one horizon to the other. I have seen the birds glide to the heavens and down again. I have seen men and women from all ranks of our regimentation dig their boots to and fro from the ferry terminal. And yet, time is still, and my duties remain the same. I have not moved, nor will I, for a very long time.

I am at a lost for words, for after these many hours that I have been dead standing, I have just been rewarded with a glorious view of a different type of sky. I see a sea of blue covering the atmosphere. Below it, its colour converges with the sun's rays, giving birth to a field of green. Beneath it are patches of black clouds, looking akin to sea rockes and an entire vegetation of shrub, bush and tree, with representatives from every family. But of the most remarkable, there is none other than what lay in the horizon itself. Giant grey clouds shaped like cones covered the horizon, overlapping one another. Whitish clouds surrounded them and their sides were covered in red light.

The heavens have granted me a beautiful sight. A sea of blue upon a savanna of green. Patches of minute black clouds covered both colours, representing craggy sea rocks and land shrubery and forestry. And beyond them were majestic mountains reaching high above the vertical limit, shrouded in a romantic mist, with steaming volcanic ashes streaming down their sides. The sky has mirrored the earth.

All of a sudden, two hours have past. My regimental duties have to be resumed. Strangely, I am at peace and am content.