Queue A Little Dance - Blog Posts

Overly decorative words serve to elude truth, an art form it is, deigned for the most rancid of persons. Shards of a once whole mirror would reflect with much distortion, such a person. Self-awareness had become weapon, an ally, and not condemning nor convicting.

'...a world of only peace'

Underlying arrogance reared its head with words thrown with calculated thought. Tranquillity was a luxury afforded by the ignorant, the insignificant, the unburdened. He was none of that, and yet, a mind battered to recognise opportunity could not afford him to speak what his vessels knew as truth.

A child soldier, an unsharpened weapon with all the making of pristine metal. He was no sword smith, but he understood a good metal is one capable of reconstructing to his will. And what better words to sooth a child than hope of heaven while truly offering a known hell.

The world has never known peace in his short-lived time, partly a consequence of his actions. Which, in hindsight, proved the hipocracy of it all, the cycle he dreamed to break had him as the violent hurricane to cause pain, long suffering, and, of course, sorrow.

'...a world of only love'

Another lie that tumbled smoothly off his tongue, gravely tone reverberating off the story walls. Such words were, of course, tantalising to a younger, inexperienced mind, so full of wisdom that a young mind, scathing for scraps of hope would not see the blatant bullshit.

What had he known of love? The love of his brothers? He remembers not of their faces nor their names. They were weak, soldiers born to war, the concept of childhood a foreign luxury. He had brothers, he remembers, the number filled his hand, and yet to mourn them was a brief altercation.

But there was one brother who lived longer, one unforgettable in visage and name. Then, he'd truly loved, truly suffered. He had willed his emotions to be volatile, tainted this love with unadulterated loathing.

Love, he remembers a woman, deep hazel green eyed. He remembers not of a wife, perhaps a momentary infatuation, perhaps a stranger. He recalls feathery touches, lingering glances, and lust. Not love, never offered love, she was a woman, one of many.

'...futility.'

Perhaps the only truth he'd spoken, the only perceptive observation accurately described. Had he believed perfection to be futile, then truly his actions have abandoned hope of resonation with his thesis.

Irredeemable, unreasonable. His ideology is anything but coherent. Subjected to be the object of the unfathomable, he lives to be death impersonated. Chaos embodied. Izanami.

Process trusting...

If you're a writer you're supposed to write a lot of bullshit. It's part of the gig. You have to write a lot of absolute garbage in order to get to the good bits. Every once in a while you'll be like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time writing bullshit," but that's dumb. That's exactly the same as an Olympic runner being like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time running all those practice laps"