Six Years is a Long Time...

This time it truly has been a while. The world has changed quite a bit. I'm surprised this thing still exists. I'm surprised it's still here, untouched, like a time capsule of the feelings and thoughts I once had. The strange thing is that it's familiar, yet distant, like an old friend that you're unexpectedly catching up with.

I can say that while I can sympathize, I'm not this person any longer. I don't find myself weighed by the Witch of my depression, or chased down by my insecurities. Maybe I've matured, or maybe I've learned to bottle my emotions better, I'm not sure, or even sure if it's healthy.

I've not written like this in a long time. For various reasons, I felt the need to write again. It was a big part of who I was growing up, and it's the biggest thing from that time that I've felt I've lost. As melodramatic and symbolism-filled as my writing was, I still feel like it was good. My writers wit has certainly diminished in the interim (like a rusty knife, dulled with neglect and age?). I want to start again.

Part of me struggled with whether to post this. To disrupt this time capsule, or to leave it and start fresh. Part of me likes to see the path I've taken, and what 6 years can do. Part of me wants get rid of the somewhat garish theme, and broken links.

I think I'll just leave this here. A silent punctuation to a story no one read.

Still one of my favorite quotes, and it seems appropriate:

“So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?”
― Hunter S. Thompson

I Feel You...

The scene is dark. Not pitch black, but one where the only sources of light are coming from outside the room. Street lamps casting their glow through three large bay windows, to be exact. The Venetian blinds cast horizontal lines in the orange glow. All was quiet and all was still.

Unshakable Doubt...

It's been a long time. I've not had too many reasons to return, hence my absence. It's been neutral and monotonous, these past few months. Nothing to speak of cause nothing has happened. Needless to say that something has happened, thus my return.

Nothing tragic, nothing grand. Nothing lost, nothing gained. Yet.

I feel uneasy writing this, simply due to the fact that I know I'm blowing it wildly out of proportion. It's impossible to care for someone so much, so soon. Of course, this exact thought led me to something much deeper. Is it better to care for someone to quickly, or to not care at all? The answer might appear obvious, but lets look at it a little deeper:

If someone does something nice for you, without any reason as to why, what is often the first thought that enters your mind? For me, it's that there's something else behind it. Whether it's that they want something, or it's part of some larger plot... Then again, I am the paranoid one.

Let us find out what others think.

The Villian...

"I'll take your love, I'll take your hate, I'll take your desire. I'll take your heart, I'll take your pain. I'll take the world when it turns on you. I'll set it on fire. I'll bring you to life..."

"You'd be willing to destroy the world for love, yes? No? Hmm, that's a very surprising answer, to be honest.", the man before me paused to pour some tea into a small, very antique looking cup, which he carefully offer to me. There was a cautious nature about the man, no doubt a side-effect of his past occupation.

"I could tell by your hesitation and then sudden expression of discomfort at the question. Most who interject logic in the question always give the same answer. It's one that should be answered on pure emotion. I was expecting more from you. You appear to me to be one of those 'do anything for love' sort of fellows. Am I wrong?", I hesitated.

"N-no... I mean, I-I'm not sure. I've never placed myself in that sort of situation. Not that I think I'd-"

"-Ever find youself deciding between the fate of the world and the one you love?"

He sat down with the waning light falling onto his shoulders, which gave him a sort of gentle nature to him. 'Gentle' of course, wouldn't, no couldn't be used to describe this man. He is perhaps one of the most hated men in all of history, and here I was interviewing him.

"I was more surprised by the question, than anything, I believe."

"Is that so? Oh, so you must be one that thinks that a man such as myself must be incapable of love, that so much hatred and corruption must have been generated from the hatred and corruption that has filled my past, yes?" he said, his voice in a slow crescendo, "I hate to disappoint you, dear fellow, but I was not always such a despised man. I, in fact, could once be considered to be in love."

On The Run From No One...

It's cold, very cold. I am a dejected man. I'll admit that, but why does it have to be so fucking cold? My tears have turned to ice, and are burning my face, but I have no time to wipe them away. I must continue running. My quest for escape from my own person hell has not yet reached it's end. I must continue running till I can no longer run.

My drive is someone beautiful; someone I love very much. I must keep running for them. I have to. I must escape, and meet them, and say, "I'm home.", with which they will greet me with, "Thank God!". They will be happy, and I will feel safe in their arms. Safety, something I must seek.

They aren't far behind. I can feel them breathing down my neck; nipping at my heals with their sharpened teeth and their hollow hearts. Anticipating the kill. One I shall make them work for.

"Keep running, keep running...", is all that goes through my head. I can't stop. I mustn't stop. I feel them. They're over coming me. Draining the life from me. I collapse. I try to regain my stance, but my legs collapse underneath the weight. I can't escape. I can't run from imaginary problems.