Winter

He lay his head down. The damp cardboard was ice-cold against his skin, although he had a full head of scraggly hair to keep him warm. The extra clothes he had taken from the hotel coatroom were already coated with a thin layer of frost, which seeped with ease through the thick nylon coats and leather jackets.

The skies were clear, and he watched his breath leave him in a plume of fog. As he inhaled, the cold sapped at his lungs like a knife, and he coughed wetly. The pneumonia was worse, but hospital fees were expensive, and medications didn't come easily without a prescription. There were some peddlers on the street, but there was a slim chance of finding any black market pills at this time of the year. Instead, he pulled the wet jackets close, tucking them under his body to keep the cold out.

A police siren blared, frighteningly close, and he pulled himself deeper into the alley's shadows. The wind whistled, drowning out the sounds as it howled through the narrow passage, biting at his face with cruel teeth. He pulled himself along with both hands numb in the snow, using the cardboard underneath him as a slide. The rancid smell of rotten food caught his nose as he passed a dumpster, full of the week's leftovers. There were some things not even the homeless would touch, unless it was a matter of life and death.

A sharp hiss caught his attention. By the restaurant's back door, a small porch light illuminated a wall vent, pouring a hot steam into the air. The dishwashers were probably running for the night. He pulled up close to the pipe, grateful for the warmth. Luckily, the pipe was unoccupied, and free for the night. He wrapped himself up as best he could, but the night air still nipped at his face and ankles. He closed his eyes and nodded off to a restless sleep.

The stars were out.

Save Yourself

I wrote this a while back. Short, depressingly dark, and different than my current state of mind. But it's still relevant and real.


It's a very sad world we live in,
Where people kill themselves,
Mothers smother their babies,
And families are torn apart.

Close to home though...
We're so happy in our world.
There's a lot of peace,
And beauty,
In all that we experience.
Or is there?
I'm not emo,
No doubt you might think so.
I'm merely realistic,
To the point of fatalism.
I like to take the truth,
Not lies.
And what I see...

It's so harsh when your friends
Whisper behind your back.
It's cold when the people you love
Hurt themselves in vain.
It's terrible to feel that deep
Jagged wound,
Straight into your very soul,
Stabbed in the back,
By the people you believed in.
You thought they would understand,
But they understood nothing.
You thought you understood,
But you understood nothing.
Ignorance is not innocence,
But Sin.
Yes, you might have loved me,
If you had known me.
If you'd have taken the time,
To walk through the deep rivers
Of my dreams and memories.
Yes, you might have...
But no, it's alright.
It was a dark river we were both
Swept down...
And it was either you or me,
One or the other would live.
But I'll let you know.
You chose to save yourself...
And I would have chose to save you too.

Odd

We're a little bad, yes, but it's just how we swing.
Sometimes, the world seems to fall apart, you know?
It's like, some sort of fairytale we're living;
There's always that 'happily ever after,'
Happy people, happy days, round and round
Ashes to ashes, and we all fall down.
Cause, you know, don't be afraid to go on a wild goose chase.
What do you think wild geese are for, anyways?
Our lives are social whirlwinds, a dance of life and death,
And sometimes, there's this person you like,
But they don't like you, and it makes you sad,
And to be honest, you didn't like them that much anyways,
But you know you're lying to yourself, until they say something;
And you remember why you don't really like them.
And it might be the other way around,
But you can't really tell who likes you, because it's just that hard.
And instead, you try playing this game of life,
Over and over, day by day you struggle through the crowds,
trying to find your way,
It's like a story book, but one of those ones
Where you have no idea what's happening,
Because the pictures are all jumbled
And nothing seems to be in order,
And the story sucks, and you think
'The author must have been on crack'
Or something like that.
But the truth is, you know that it's yourself that's been dying slowly,
And growing more used to this everyday monotony,
Waking, working, sleeping, living,
And life seems worthless now, but you keep on living, for whatever.
Please the people, please yourself,
One day, near the end, you'll look back and find yourself at the start.
Because, you know, life and death are the two sides of the same string.
Then you start remembering all the things you did, and some things,
They can make you smile, and other things, they make you cry.
And it's the same thing when you reach the end of a really good story,
And you feel really sad that it's over.
But some people, they're kind of happy, because, you know,
They had a sucky, crappy, fucked-up life,
So they're glad it's finally over. But then they realize,
That they're lying again, and it's not really that bad to live.
We sit back, watch TV, with great shows like 'Friends' and you know,
We wish sometimes our lives were perfect, fairytale lives, like on TV,
Or in good books, but like we said before,
We know our lives are really crappy, like bad stories that are all screwy,
But you know, you don't wanna try anything new or adventurous,
Cause people like that get locked up in padded rooms,
Strapped into straitjackets, biting their lips off,
Or are dead.
Which is really weird, because in fairytales, there's always some sort of danger,
But we want it without the danger, and just the happy ending.
Life is either a daring adventure story, or nothing,
We can see nothing as a miracle, or everything as a miracle,
Or something along those lines.
Cause you can walk down the dirty, grey, smoggy streets,
With these soulless people walking next to you,
And live in this weird, fucked-up world of monotony and bleakness,
And complain about everything, because the world is really ugly.
Or you can take the time to sort of look at the world in a different way.
But really, in the end, it's up to you.
Cause no one will live forever,
Well, at least not until they come up with that weird cryonics thing,
Or a magic potion of everlasting life, like in those video games and movies.
But you know, until then, we're the living dead.
And it's going to come faster than we expect, which is kinda sad.
So we have to make our lives a fairytale, while it lasts.
And, you know, we go to school,
And it's really fucked-up, and our parents will say it's a privilege,
But you don't feel like it, and you sleep in lectures,
Or fuck about in class, and feel like your brain is gonna explode.
And then you hang out with your friends after class,
And talk about music, or people, or the new video games coming out,
And sometimes, you can be really mean and gossip about people,
Which is sorta natural, cause they might deserve it,
And then you go home, and do some homework, but you get distracted,
And eventually end up on Facebook, or Myspace, or MSN, or wherever;
Then you go to sleep, glad another day is done,
But then again, that means you're one day closer to dying.
And you didn't do anything that great.
In fact, it was kinda bad.
And some people promise themselves they'll do something,
And they even write it down in the little agendas they carry,
But they forget, and some of those things screw everything up,
Like dates, or tests, or handing in papers,
And then they regret it, and life changes for the worse,
And sometimes, those people break open windows and jump out,
Or hurl themselves off cliffs,
Or go out and massacre a crowd.
Life isn't weird, but it's just the people in it,
And the world isn't screwed up, it's just the people in it.
Some people like us, we like some people,
But sometimes, people act on instinct,
And things get all screwed up, and then people get hurt,
And relationships aren't the same, and people fly by others,
Like those little paper airplanes we used to make way back,
And eventually, we just die, and then we're seriously screwed.
Cause we realize our lives have been as short and pointless,
As those little fruit flies we swat at,
Or ants, where they live every day exactly the same,
And work for the improvement of the hive.
Like the human hive, swarming puddles of people everywhere,
Just mindless like ants, trying to make the world a better place,
But really, not doing that much,
And then they die.

And we realize one day,
That we're just a little odd.

Omelas

It was the day of my thirteenth birthday when they took me.

I remember the weather of that day: Every little detail registered in my mind. The warm sun beating down upon our small village, the clouds in the sky like marshmallows, and the cool wind whipping at our faces. Birds soared, music filled the air, and all was well in the town of Omelas.

Do not let me mislead you, honest reader: We are a peaceful people. Happy, simple, taking joy in the easy pleasure of life. But that day, I did learn the reason why our fair city was indeed so easily pleased.

I was at the docks, with my friends, sailing small paper ships in the clear blue waters of the bay. I was the oldest out of all, so it was not without a small amount of curiousity that my friends looked at me when my father arrived. The thirteenth birthday of a child of Omelas is what some call the ritual of manhood, the passage into adulthood. It is said, in whispers and gossip, that there is a test of faith, a trial of courage. It is also said that the trial is what keeps our village pure: Indeed, many of my friends never returned from their trial. At the time, it was the only worry in my life.

A group of them had come. My father, and a number of the village people. Each looked somber and grey as my father held my hand tightly and led me away from the docks and the ships. I had never seen my father so scared. Sweat was puring down his brow, although the weather was cool and breezy. The villagers followed in a grim procession.

There was always a small shed in the corner of the city; a shack, forbidden to children, 'dangerous to play in,' as they said. It was vine-covered, run down, a curiousity and nothing more. If only had I know what lay within, I would have tugged my little hand out of my father's grip, and run the many miles back to the waters of the bay, and my innocence saved.

The door was opened by the Mayor, with a wide black key he obviously guarded dearly. On oily hinges, a creak, and then a pitch blackness that seemed to suck the light from my day. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, a flight of stairs materialized from the shadows.

My father was silent as he led me down. The others stayed above, with faces set in stone. I could hear weeping, from the women in the town, as if I would not return and they were already mourning me. A candle appeared in my father's hand and he lit it, casting silhouettes on the walls like crouching monsters.

The stairs went down for a long distance. It seemed to me like hours, but I had lost track of time the moment I had stepped into this purgatory. We spoke no word, my father and I. Just the endless taps of feet on stone, and the whistling of wind down the deep tunnels. The candle went out a number of times, which sent my heart into my throat until my father relit it.

I will admit, my friend. I was frightened beyond belief. All throughout my life I had lived without fear. See, Omelas had never heard of rape, of murder, of terror itself. We were a peaceful people in truth. The mayor to the most ridiculed Jester, we were all happy and satisfied with our line of work. Is it odd that I never questioned why? Perhaps it was the livelihood of our Omelas: That no questions be asked, that happiness was all the answer we needed.

Finally, my father halted, and took a deep breath. He was trembling, his grasp weak in my hand. His fear frightened me. A door was set in stone in front of us, a large wood square with no discernable markings, but my father shook as if Hell lay beyond it.

With trepidation, he pushed the door open silently. I could see nothing. There was just darkness. And then, as my father lifted the flame high, I gasped in fear and shock. I thought it was an animal, the way it cowered and screeched.

It was a child, but may just as well have been an animal. The eyes were white, long blind, and the hair was long. It sat on all fours. I couldn't tell whether it was a girl or a boy. I was too scared, too shocked, to even speak. I heard a low, keening moan, until I realized I was making the sound.

Cracks of light shone in from the ceiling, mops and various tools stored in a corner. Some sort of storeroom, it seemed, perhaps underneath one of the mansions in town. A small dish sat in the corner, with the reflection of murky water, and a plate, laden with rats that were polishing off the child's meal.

It looked at me with sudden fascination. "Ehh-haaa... Ehhh..."

It crawled over, and I noticed its legs were covered in sores, and excrement. It reached for my leg, and I pulled back in a terrible fear. "Ehh-haaa... M-M-Moth. Mothherr... mother."

I stared down at it as it grabbed my ankle with a horrible, greasy grip. "Mother! Lett me out. P-please! L-let me out!"

My father, with a look I had never seen on his face before, gave the child a savage kick, which it took with a whimper. It lay there, in the dark shed, surrounded by vermin, covered in feces and sores, an abomination!

What did I feel? I am ashamed to say I felt nothing. Yes, anger came upon me, and pity. Fear, yes, and disgust too. But most of all, I felt despair, hopelessness. Yes, the child was to be pitied, and its condition to be sickened at. But what if the child were to come above ground, to be cleaned and loved and comforted?

That is when I learned the terrible secret of Omelas. All our happiness, our bounty, and our hope, is because of this child-creature's misery. We live in happiness, because to do otherwise is to become this creature. We have bounty, because the child has none. And we love, we love each other, because the child has no one to love it. In other words, we value life, because we have seen death.

Our architecture would not be so lovely. Our songs would not be as joyful. Our tales and jokes and words would not be free, if not for the suffering squallor of the damned child. Our city lives in peace, because we remember the child that suffers beneath it.

And what of me? What of my friends that never returned from their trials? There is one more thing, and this is quite incredible.

Many who return from their trial, I am told, weep, and despair, but come to realize it is for the best. Love cannot be understood without hate, and life can never be lived to the fullest without death. So many do stay in Omelas, to enjoy the peace and prosperity. They are generous, and are gentle, and they are happy. They appreciate life.

But others, like me, do not return home to weep, or rage. Sometimes, we do not go home at all. Silently, we let go of our families, our lives, and slip away, quietly, into the streets of Omelas. Past the mansions, and the beautiful gardens, and the bountiful farmland. We walk alone, until the streetlights are lit, and the roads have been emptied.

We walk, down the alleys of Omelas, between houses where people can be heard enjoying a grand meal. Out the gates of the city, into the mountains. We continue to walk, into the darkness, and we never go back. We enter a world where hatred and death exist, a world where we know we will never enjoy perfect happiness. We may seems as if we do not know where we go; perhaps there is no place for us to go. But each of us holds a purpose, and although we may seem lost, we always know where we are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.



Author's note: This is based on a short story called, 'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas' by Ursula K. Le Guin. I decided to write the perspective from one of the children... it may be the most poignant story I have written.

The Two Monkeys

Two monkeys were sitting in a tree.

One monkey turned to the other. He was eating a banana.

"Friend monkey, do you see that smoke coming from far away?"

"Yes, friend. I hear their is a great banquet, past the mountains."

"Let us go to the banquet, for surely two important creatures such as ourselves will be welcomed with open arms."

The two monkeys made their way, past the mountains, to the great feast. There, they waited for their turn, as there was a long line.

Upon reaching the door, a strange creature stopped the two friends.

"Hello little monkeys."

"Hello, strange creature. We have come from far lands to attend this great banquet."

"I am sorry. This feast is only for humans. Monkeys may not enter. You must go back to where you came from."

"Humans? But we have travelled so far, only to be rejected!"

Sadly, the two monkeys left, and began to travel back to thier jungle. But one monkey turned to his friend.

"Friend, I hear there is a great machine upon this mountain.
It has the power to grant many wishes. Perhaps we may wish to become humans, in order to attend this magnificent feast."

For many days, the two monkeys struggled to the top of the mountain. The wind was cold. The ground was hard. The air was thin.

After a very, very long time, the two travellers reached the top of the mountain. Upon a great plateau sat a worn, broken machine. It was spotted with rust, but as the two friends approached, lights began to blink within the metal shell.

"Who is there?" The machine said.

"Oh wondrous machine! We have come from far lands to seek your wisdom!"

"It was a difficult journey."

"It took us many days."

"Please, oh machine of the future, turn us into human creatures!"

The machine thought.

"Very well. But I will tell you a story."

"There once were two monkeys. From afar they spotted a great feast. But when they reached the feast, they were turned away. In order to gain entry, they decided to travel very far, and very high, to find a machine that could grant wishes. Once there, their wishes were granted."

One monkey turned to the other monkey. "Friend, I never noticed it before, but you smell like a monkey."

"Strange. You also smell like a monkey. In fact, I have never noticed that before."

Slowly, the two monkeys began to change.

"Friend, you no longer smell like a monkey. You smell different."

"As do you. Perhaps we are no longer monkeys."

The monkeys looked and saw their wish had been granted.

The machine began to speak.

"The monkeys looked and saw their wish had been granted. Overjoyed, they began to make their way back down the mountain."

"However, a rock, disturbed by the winds, came down and crashed upon them, pinning them to the ground. There they lay trapped, for a hundred years."

And as the machine said those words, it was so. The two humans that were once monkeys lay trapped under the boulder, for one hundred long years.

At the end of one hundred long years, the machine opened its eyes once more.

"At the end of one hundred long years, the machine opened its eyes once more. Little humans, why are you still here?"

"We are trapped, by this rock," said a voice from under the rock. "We have been trapped for one hundred long years. The only light we have seen is from this small hole in the stone."

"Why do you not release yourselves from your prison?"

"We cannot. The hole is too small to crawl through. Alas, if we were still monkeys, we would be able to release ourselves."

"Friend monkeys, the power to change is something I have granted upon you. Why not change into something smaller, and escape?"

"If only it were so, oh great machine! But this rock prevents us from changing shape. The magic of this mountain is too great to escape from!"

"Ah, my friends. You yet do not understand, after these one hundred long years? You need not change your shape. All you must do is to return to it."

Silence came from under the boulder. Slowly, two monkeys crawled out from a hole in the side.

"My friend, you smell like a monkey."

"You also smell like a monkey."

The two monkeys looked at each other and were glad.

"Machine, thank you."

"Yes, thank you. We see now that we were meant to be monkeys. Wishing to be anything else is foolish, and against nature."

The two monkeys travelled back to the jungles, where they ate bananas and swung in the trees, as monkeys should. The machine spoke once more, to itself.

"The two monkeys thanked the machine. Soon, they travelled back down to the jungles, where they ate bananas and swung in the trees, as monkeys should. Monkeys are monkeys, and humans are humans. Machines are machines. Any other way is foolish."

Cure

There was once a baby who was born with a terrible, deadly syndrome. It had a 100% fatality rate, and there was no cure the doctors could apply. He had it from birth, the doctors said, and that it had developed in his mother's womb when he was still in the embryonic state.

As the child grew up, he became aware of his state, and as all kids will do, he became curious. He constantly asked his parents many questions, most of which they did not have the answer to. But even as he grew older, the syndrome took its toll on him. He became more and more depressed, always searching for an answer, and not understanding.

Throughout his short years, he spent his time working, and playing, but never did he forget his questions. Why he was cursed with this, he did not know, but it felt like a cruel joke. He met people that were afflicted with similar syndromes and felt a connection with them. However, many of the others did not question themselves and never wondered 'Why me?' Eventually, he left those to discover his answers alone.

Slowly, the symptoms began to show. Over the years, his bones deteriorated, his speech slurred and his mind began to fade. His skin first became loose, then spotted with all sorts of blemishes. He had trouble walking and was eventually confined to a wheelchair, and soon after that, he began to constantly feel tired.

Even as the syndrome took its toll on his body, he continued to question it. He considered many answers, none of them satisfactory. There seemed to be no relief, no reason, and no end to the question... why? Furious, he cursed everything around him, he became enraged, and he refrained from speaking to those closest to him, convinced that they knew the answer and would not tell him.

And finally, one day, he died, his questions all unanswered, as the syndrome took its final grasp on his body and soul. Finally, cured... finally, rid of the disease we call 'life.'

Love

Have you ever been in love?
That's the title of one of my favourite quotes.
A lot of people say different things
About Love.
The Bible says Love is kind,
Gentle, Pure, not-sexy-until-marriage,
And a lot of other stuff.
People tell me love is special,
Love is cool,
It just feels
Right.
Some people, they tell me
They hate love.
Because it gets inside them,
All inside their armor,
Breaks them up from the inside.
I'm not exactly experienced,
So I can't tell you what I think of love,
Personally.
But this is what I've seen:
Love.
It makes your knees wobbly.
It can make you say the stupidest things,
Or feel bad for someone who is embarassed.
Love can make two people
remove the masks they wear.
It's what makes two people sit next to each other,
Even though there is plenty of room on the bench.
It's what drove those people to make
The two-handed mittens,
So you could keep holding hands,
Even when it's cold.
It's why God made roses,
And chocolate, and words,
And even music.
It's a song without words,
A conversation in your heart.
Love can make you shake,
It can make you laugh.
It can even make you cry.
Love lights your way through the darkness,
And you would sacrifice the world for it.
It can make you selfish,
Or generous,
Or even both.
Love is often like a flower,
It's found in the most unlikely places.
Or it can be just sitting there,
Waiting for you.
Love is fate.
Love is also madness,
But there is always some reason in madness.
True love stories never have endings.
Love is eternal.
It makes it very hard to talk sometimes,
Almost like you're drowning,
And you have to struggle for the right words.
Love is like picking roses.
You'd be picking them for a lifetime.

Beauty

Written at 12:30 AM on a cold winter's morning. I was walking outside, in the freezing cold, with pellets of snow bouncing off my face. I happened to look down at the ground, and realized my footsteps were breaking the smooth, perfect, surface of the new fallen snow. I turned around and saw what a path of destruction my footsteps had wrought... but just like that, the wind blew, wiped away the marks of my journey, and it was as if I had never been there. So I propped myself against a tree, and began to write.

Beauty
February 14, 2007

Beauty
Is in the mind,
Where God, love and peace come together.
Where order and feeling meet reality.

It is the thing that evokes both rest
And sadness in the heart.
It is found in symmetry, and also
In chaos.

It is the windswept snow,
The blue moon,
The still water.

It is the smile on the face,
The laughter of a loved one,
The love between individuals.

It is the mind,
The heart,
The soul.

It is in the eye of a beholder.
It is priceless.
It is ageless.

Beauty can end.
And Beauty can endure.

An Act of Mercy

I've been having those dreams again.

It's Deja Vu all over again. Once again, we meet the enemy, and once again, he is us.

First to go, last to know. It's the way it's always been.

We don't shoot to kill. We shoot to survive.

Once I was walking down the lazy streets of urban Toronto when I stopped a movement out of the corner of my eye. A small flare of pink stood out from the side of the street, a tiny spot of color on an otherwise bleak pavement.

On a whim, I stopped and bent over. To my horror and eternal pity, a small featherless bird lay there, just out of the nest, crushed on the concrete. Its wings were broken and it took laboured breaths, struggling to survive in the cold of the autumn.

I looked above for the nest, but there weren't any nearby trees. I sumerised that the bird must have fled the nest on its 'first flight' and, unable to fly due to malnutrition, the wind, or other circumstances, it had landed here, in the middle of the technological forest, the urban jungle.

And I looked again at the small creature, this pitiful bundle of down and beady eyes. I knelt next to it, wondering how the numerous cats and dogs of the neighbourhood had not yet noticed this tasty morsel. I looked on helplessly, tried to see some way I could save it, but from even just a cursory glance I could see it was beyond rescue.

I looked down at my watch. 10:09. With a heavy heart I picked up the tiny creature, this godforsaken life, this tortured soul trapped in a broken body. I brought it with me, crossed the street, approached the train station. I ascended the steps, feeling the warm body through my fingers, the broken bones jutting out against the soft skin. And then, I reached the tracks. From the signs above, the train was due in another 3 minutes. I breathed a soft prayer through the cold air, and placed the bird on the tracks. Then I forced myself to walk away.

The next day when I went back, there was no trace of the bird. I pray it miraculously flew away, but to this day, the memory of that little bird still haunts me in my dreams.