Channel: The anomaly
Forgive me,
For I do not yet know the limit to my evil,
For I do not yet know the acts my hands are incapable of,
For I do not know my soul well enough to trust it,
For I do not know much...if anything at all.
--To the listener
~M~
@fortheeccentric
For I do not yet know the limit to my evil,
For I do not yet know the acts my hands are incapable of,
For I do not know my soul well enough to trust it,
For I do not know much...if anything at all.
--To the listener
~M~
@fortheeccentric
I die often,
I die mercilessly,
I die a bloody yet unextraordinary death,
But you do not know,
My dear, if I only told you.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
I die mercilessly,
I die a bloody yet unextraordinary death,
But you do not know,
My dear, if I only told you.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
An extraordinary man
They stand at a cliff looking off into the tomorrow that has little potential to become today.
“I wish not for my name to die with my flesh”, he says. More like he was addressing the world and not just her.
“Then you must jump”, she tells him,
“They saw an extraordinary man in you. A man you could never really find in your reflection. Did you not chase their praise the way a predator might chase its pray… relentlessly? The only difference, Perhaps, is that you were insatiable. You sold your soul for the applause and the sound of your name rolling off their tongues ”, she pauses, “you are a weary man”
“Yes”, He replies although she had said it as a statement. He does not defend himself for what she said was true. He was a rich man that lived poorly or a poor man that lived rich, in his case, both meant the same thing.
“You must jump”, she continues, “it was you that said genius and tragedy were rarely estranged. That men like you aren't meant to die from old age, from sickness or from the hands of another. You must give the audience a farewell they will never forget."
He turns his face and looks at her one last time “It is sad; that they will make poetry out of my ending; that they will find beauty to paint over my tortured canvas. It is even sadder that that’s all I think of in this moment.” it was then that he realized that he was lost in this world and so to be lost in the darkness below his feet suddenly wasn't so scary.
Meanwhile, a crowd cautiously approachs the back of the man from a distance. Screaming “move away from the cliff”, “don’t do it” and other utterances muffled by the sound of the high wind. They see him turn his face to the side for a few seconds as if there was someone there and then…he jumped.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
They stand at a cliff looking off into the tomorrow that has little potential to become today.
“I wish not for my name to die with my flesh”, he says. More like he was addressing the world and not just her.
“Then you must jump”, she tells him,
“They saw an extraordinary man in you. A man you could never really find in your reflection. Did you not chase their praise the way a predator might chase its pray… relentlessly? The only difference, Perhaps, is that you were insatiable. You sold your soul for the applause and the sound of your name rolling off their tongues ”, she pauses, “you are a weary man”
“Yes”, He replies although she had said it as a statement. He does not defend himself for what she said was true. He was a rich man that lived poorly or a poor man that lived rich, in his case, both meant the same thing.
“You must jump”, she continues, “it was you that said genius and tragedy were rarely estranged. That men like you aren't meant to die from old age, from sickness or from the hands of another. You must give the audience a farewell they will never forget."
He turns his face and looks at her one last time “It is sad; that they will make poetry out of my ending; that they will find beauty to paint over my tortured canvas. It is even sadder that that’s all I think of in this moment.” it was then that he realized that he was lost in this world and so to be lost in the darkness below his feet suddenly wasn't so scary.
Meanwhile, a crowd cautiously approachs the back of the man from a distance. Screaming “move away from the cliff”, “don’t do it” and other utterances muffled by the sound of the high wind. They see him turn his face to the side for a few seconds as if there was someone there and then…he jumped.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
It is in the nature of all good things...to end.
To end short lived and unapologetic.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
To end short lived and unapologetic.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
It's a tricky thing...being at war with oneself,
Having to attribute every misfortune to the actions of my own fingers,
What of me pulls the strings and what of me is the puppet?
~M~
@fortheeccentric
Having to attribute every misfortune to the actions of my own fingers,
What of me pulls the strings and what of me is the puppet?
~M~
@fortheeccentric
An old man's speech
I see you all rage at this world,
What good is it to scream at what is deaf?
Do you not know the best you can wish for is not to be slapped by your echo?
You can not hurt what can not be hurt and can not make bleed what has no blood,
So why do you waste your days attempting to punish the unpunishable?
Forgive my distasteful words but I've found them to be true,
I regret to say that you are but a dot in time between two unknowns,
Two peaks of actuality,
The beginning for which you are too late and the end for which you are too early,
I say this not tell you how to live,
For I, an old man, can not say I've lived properly,
But I shall tell you this,
That there is liberation in our insignificance,
That although great men are good that good men can be better,
That pride and ego weren't meant for us mortals,
That we have little time to waste on wasting time,
So do not be so bothered by this life,
For a few years of existence are nothing compared to the many more outside of it,
And when your end comes unfollowed by a supernova do not be saddened,
Find humor in being a human conscious of the absurdity that comes with being so,
Find peace in knowing what it is to have lived and if lucky to have lived well.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
I see you all rage at this world,
What good is it to scream at what is deaf?
Do you not know the best you can wish for is not to be slapped by your echo?
You can not hurt what can not be hurt and can not make bleed what has no blood,
So why do you waste your days attempting to punish the unpunishable?
Forgive my distasteful words but I've found them to be true,
I regret to say that you are but a dot in time between two unknowns,
Two peaks of actuality,
The beginning for which you are too late and the end for which you are too early,
I say this not tell you how to live,
For I, an old man, can not say I've lived properly,
But I shall tell you this,
That there is liberation in our insignificance,
That although great men are good that good men can be better,
That pride and ego weren't meant for us mortals,
That we have little time to waste on wasting time,
So do not be so bothered by this life,
For a few years of existence are nothing compared to the many more outside of it,
And when your end comes unfollowed by a supernova do not be saddened,
Find humor in being a human conscious of the absurdity that comes with being so,
Find peace in knowing what it is to have lived and if lucky to have lived well.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
I pledged to fear death no longer for I've lived long enough ever since I've known her.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
~M~
@fortheeccentric
Most of us travel forward so long as its a safe enough distance if we wish to travel back; and thus we rarely get anywhere.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
~M~
@fortheeccentric
REASON
I am neither a protagonist nor antagonist in this story,
This reality I was brought into for reasons I am unaware of,
I am, rather, the living representation of mediocrity that all great poets loath,
A commoner among commoners,
I learned early on that the soul was hard to sustain and the flesh was easy to grow,
And so I fed my body and starved my soul,
And although I pride myself for not having died yet I doubt whether that's proof that I've lived,
I found the line between the two to blur as I age,
Why I bother to travel or where I wish to arrive is unknown,
perhaps I do it all because I am able to,
I walk because my legs can carry me and I write because my fingers know how,
In any case I go through the cycle of the 7 days only to repeat them,
But then I guess that's a privilege some no longer have,
So what is this all to say?
What does this cocktail of words mean?
Perhaps it is to ask if being of this world means we must be worldly,
If one could justify a meaningless existence,
Perhaps it is to ask If the ability to live is enough reason for living.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
I am neither a protagonist nor antagonist in this story,
This reality I was brought into for reasons I am unaware of,
I am, rather, the living representation of mediocrity that all great poets loath,
A commoner among commoners,
I learned early on that the soul was hard to sustain and the flesh was easy to grow,
And so I fed my body and starved my soul,
And although I pride myself for not having died yet I doubt whether that's proof that I've lived,
I found the line between the two to blur as I age,
Why I bother to travel or where I wish to arrive is unknown,
perhaps I do it all because I am able to,
I walk because my legs can carry me and I write because my fingers know how,
In any case I go through the cycle of the 7 days only to repeat them,
But then I guess that's a privilege some no longer have,
So what is this all to say?
What does this cocktail of words mean?
Perhaps it is to ask if being of this world means we must be worldly,
If one could justify a meaningless existence,
Perhaps it is to ask If the ability to live is enough reason for living.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
DREAMS AND GRAVEYARDS
The past is somewhat like a graveyard,
Whether those we visit there bring happiness or sorrow we can do no more than look,
One directional conversations and a paralyzing realization that the end is real and that it has happened is what we are offered,
There is a familiarity in the feeling of fingers clawing at our chest,
Clawing to fight this distant pain they know they can never reach,
The tears we wish could roll back because we know this kind of salt doesn't heal wounds,
We keep getting lost at the crossroads of things we wish we hadn't done, the things we wish we had done and the things we wish we had done better,
Eventhough we made those crossroads and have walked them many times before,
It's a futile routine that comes with a pinch of amnesia so we don't quite remember its futility when we repeat it,
But I don't suppose anyone could say they've done different,
How could one deny that the past is a drug that has permanent residence in our blood,
That we are all addicts of some sort,
The regret, nostalgia, memories, ruins...the pain,
So why then do we keep coming back?
Do we not know we can't breath life into bone?
That we are resented by these graves for standing above them?
That we disturb their peace as much as they do ours?
We don't belong there any more than the past belongs in the present,
And so the question forms itself,
How many years must we spend on spent years?
~M~
@fortheeccentric
The past is somewhat like a graveyard,
Whether those we visit there bring happiness or sorrow we can do no more than look,
One directional conversations and a paralyzing realization that the end is real and that it has happened is what we are offered,
There is a familiarity in the feeling of fingers clawing at our chest,
Clawing to fight this distant pain they know they can never reach,
The tears we wish could roll back because we know this kind of salt doesn't heal wounds,
We keep getting lost at the crossroads of things we wish we hadn't done, the things we wish we had done and the things we wish we had done better,
Eventhough we made those crossroads and have walked them many times before,
It's a futile routine that comes with a pinch of amnesia so we don't quite remember its futility when we repeat it,
But I don't suppose anyone could say they've done different,
How could one deny that the past is a drug that has permanent residence in our blood,
That we are all addicts of some sort,
The regret, nostalgia, memories, ruins...the pain,
So why then do we keep coming back?
Do we not know we can't breath life into bone?
That we are resented by these graves for standing above them?
That we disturb their peace as much as they do ours?
We don't belong there any more than the past belongs in the present,
And so the question forms itself,
How many years must we spend on spent years?
~M~
@fortheeccentric
Ruin follows my trail like a shadow,
The darkness continues to grab for my soul and I run out of reasons not to let it,
The consequence of my existence often screams but I don't listen,
It tries to tell me that my skin is a facade for what's beneath it isn't human,
See for the longest time I hid behind my mothers prayer hoping it would save me,
But all that did was thin her spirit and give her memories she couldn't cherish,
So lately I'm starting to question...,
If I was never being chased and my nature is destruction,
If I'm the reason for all these fires and all these graves are indeed my doing,
If perhaps...I can not escape this monster because this monster is me.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
The darkness continues to grab for my soul and I run out of reasons not to let it,
The consequence of my existence often screams but I don't listen,
It tries to tell me that my skin is a facade for what's beneath it isn't human,
See for the longest time I hid behind my mothers prayer hoping it would save me,
But all that did was thin her spirit and give her memories she couldn't cherish,
So lately I'm starting to question...,
If I was never being chased and my nature is destruction,
If I'm the reason for all these fires and all these graves are indeed my doing,
If perhaps...I can not escape this monster because this monster is me.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
“Live as if you were living already for the second time and as if you had acted the first time as wrongly as you are about to act now."
~Viktor Frankl
@fortheeccentric
~Viktor Frankl
@fortheeccentric
what is it about the taste of missed opportunity?
what could have been so sweet turned so very bitter,
That taste...it never does leave the tongue, does it?
~M~
@fortheeccentric
what could have been so sweet turned so very bitter,
That taste...it never does leave the tongue, does it?
~M~
@fortheeccentric
"I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar,
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears."
~William Shakespeare
@fortheeccentric
For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar,
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears."
~William Shakespeare
@fortheeccentric
Purpose, to me, seems like a scarce resource. only few are born knowing it, some lucky enough to find it and the majority roam restlessly in search of it not knowing exactly what it could be. They search because they can not help but search. They search unconsciously when they dream; consciously when they find themselves trapped in the inescapable void that they know they are responsible for. This void brings with it frustration that comes from feeling that what ever can fill it is within hand's reach just...obstructed from ones view. so then what happens in the end, to those that roam, you ask? well, they live like a glass half full, in a state of "almost"...always parched and yet never able to quench their thirst.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
~M~
@fortheeccentric
TIME TRAVEL
Today, I tripped on an old photograph and fell into my past,
My youth was hard to recognize but not impossible,
I could make out the warmth that was lost to the winter of adulthood, the softness lost to the rough touches of time,
But I could still see my eyes in hers,
Perhaps the spark had dimmed but the color remains unchanged,
I found myself missing the feel of a simpler world,
One which was an endless field of flowers and I held freedom in my hands,
One in which I ran for the sake of it and did so without the fear of falling,
But now I run because I must,
And I run not on a field but on a race track and against an opponent...both of which are life itself,
I am yet to finish my race nor am I willing to quit it,
But I can not help but miss the time my feet were rested,
I recall how tears were easily defeated by a piece of chocolate,
That was all it look, wasn't it?
Sugar meets tongue and all the worlds troubles fade away,
But of course these things don't stay the same,
And so I do not cry any more,
I've learned these tears are harder to dry as we age on,
so I stay strong,
I tilt my head, take a breath and lock them tight along with my thoughts,
While on my walk on memory lane I hear my name being spoken,
And like a splash of cold water it wakes me up to the present,
I return from my time travel and put the picture back where I found it,
In its box, in its prison,
And as I do I wonder what that little girl would think,
If ever she had the chance to look at my face...whether she would smile the same.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
Today, I tripped on an old photograph and fell into my past,
My youth was hard to recognize but not impossible,
I could make out the warmth that was lost to the winter of adulthood, the softness lost to the rough touches of time,
But I could still see my eyes in hers,
Perhaps the spark had dimmed but the color remains unchanged,
I found myself missing the feel of a simpler world,
One which was an endless field of flowers and I held freedom in my hands,
One in which I ran for the sake of it and did so without the fear of falling,
But now I run because I must,
And I run not on a field but on a race track and against an opponent...both of which are life itself,
I am yet to finish my race nor am I willing to quit it,
But I can not help but miss the time my feet were rested,
I recall how tears were easily defeated by a piece of chocolate,
That was all it look, wasn't it?
Sugar meets tongue and all the worlds troubles fade away,
But of course these things don't stay the same,
And so I do not cry any more,
I've learned these tears are harder to dry as we age on,
so I stay strong,
I tilt my head, take a breath and lock them tight along with my thoughts,
While on my walk on memory lane I hear my name being spoken,
And like a splash of cold water it wakes me up to the present,
I return from my time travel and put the picture back where I found it,
In its box, in its prison,
And as I do I wonder what that little girl would think,
If ever she had the chance to look at my face...whether she would smile the same.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
She looks at his work and tells him that it's a masterpiece;
He is reluctant to use her words as currency for his smile. He thinks about how it is unfortunate, that there is no art in the absence of pain. In one form or another, that one must have the desire to escape to create something otherworldly and he is no exception. which is to say that what she admires comes not from the best parts of him but rather from the tortured parts; the parts of him he wishes not to have. How sad, he thinks, that suffering often makes the best canvas.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
He is reluctant to use her words as currency for his smile. He thinks about how it is unfortunate, that there is no art in the absence of pain. In one form or another, that one must have the desire to escape to create something otherworldly and he is no exception. which is to say that what she admires comes not from the best parts of him but rather from the tortured parts; the parts of him he wishes not to have. How sad, he thinks, that suffering often makes the best canvas.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
The darker the night the slipperier our thoughts become,
let us speak no more for the ghosts could escape our tongues,
And we might just speak the truth.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
let us speak no more for the ghosts could escape our tongues,
And we might just speak the truth.
~M~
@fortheeccentric
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