Bloggin' about the same old same old

Remember, kids - I am blogging against my will!



TODAY, WE WILL DISCUSS DRUGS. YUMMY DRUGS! REMEMBER, KIDS, DON'T DO DRUGS! STAY IN SCHOOL...AND DO DRUGS. :)






It is not an addiction, but a necessity, to become the person on the inside who I contain within, and that can not be done alone, no sir or madam, it cannot. It is now mandatory to release this being, the cancer in my blood, the mentally unhealthy vision of myself, a true monstrosity among the of mankind and its critical outlook. We, Hyde and Jekyll, live as two but feed as one on my brain matter, brawling over control of the body. The potion has fabricated a parasitic organism, and I am its host, drained of freedom to choose my fate. The face of Mr. Hyde is burned, branded into the creases and wrinkles of the diaphanous original, where pain of continuity has aged me so. Should one want to live forever? As a man leading a star-crossed double life, one phase in which I am dead already, I am uncertain which road is safe. Despite this inevitable fate indicating loss in a near future, I must alternate to give myself rest, but soon, the drug will lead me into either a graceful angelic state in which I am saved from the curse of humanity, or the better deserved and more realistic banishment from where I already survive half-heartedly in exile. I take the solution in regularly to shift from one man to another. A ritual like this completes my life, rather the two sides of it I have. I do not sleep. I work by day as Dr. Jekyll, and when his time is done, Mr. Hyde releases himself from the tragic tugs and pulls of everyday life. Arbitrary in direction, with of a multiplicity of powers, they control who I am and conduct the stressors of my life, propelling me into a redundant reflective prospect of duality. Every day, I lead the same two lives, as they both continue in their pointless endeavors. Acceptance bleeds out of me and my blood boils down to solid deposits of curds, as it is not enough to appreciate who I am in my indigenous flesh. I have no home inside my own body. Completely and truly, I represent a heartless, soulless, mindless freak, but no one connects the dots between the personas. Perhaps that matter is for the best. Duality in a state loose of sanity is far below sacred. Is it that they are too foolish to understand, or are other men in the white-collar industry afraid to know the truth? Of me, the truth is simple. I am not one, but two. If I am a best friend to you, so is the grim Mr. Hyde whom you hate and fear. I feel a belonging in this mortal body's flesh encasing, but the true spirit and mind I hold has distinct halves. Juxtaposing the two, none is greater than the other, but the less fortunate twin does not hold the burdens endured throughout the daytime. My solitary desire is to make people understand, withstand and behold the disgrace that is my inner self, Mr. Hyde. He hides behind a curtain of grief, concealing his face in the light because what is seen as his face cannot be captured as beautiful, but in the darkness, there is nothing to hide. I grow dependent on this drug in a desperate hunger to feast when I famine, to make me become who I chose. It is involuntary to want this potion's aid now. I created it, yet it creates me and controls me so. A virulent concoction dictates my fate from the morning to twilight. The brew tastes so strong. It satisfies my need to be someone of the ground level of self-medication, but I also need this crutch like a drug. Habitual intake has become integral as to me is breathing in air, yet unlike breathing, the process isn't subconscious; I can perceive it. In harmony with breathing, I do it all the time - in my sleep, when I wake, and as long as my heart continues beating, I will alternate between these two indefinitely temporary forms. Duplicity like mine is vapid and void of enjoyment of the singular blisses in noncontiguous life.

JH + 3 vocab words (no thesaurus)

From birth-no, long before it-I was not one fetus, but two separate twins. My mind's eye had a cross, a twitch if you will, and growing up in a proper home with a quality education, curiosity began to brew inside me at a level unlike I've ever known was normal to a man before, so I attempted to conceal this evil identity by bringing it to the outside. With a swig of a concoction, I reversed my flesh from the inside-out to display the true monstrosity within. The skin I am in is really only diaphanous; it is so paper-thin, it cannot contain neither the physical no spiritual bounds that do not stop my volatile sanity from shattering the fourth wall into sparkling miniscule shards.

The thirst for blood was overwhelming in this troglodytic state. I was me, but only less...me, yet I was so much more. While others loathed my vulgar appearance, I didn't care, nor did I want to belong with the rest of society. Society should travel down my path, for society does rule the world! Feeble society should join me, for it is so much better to unleash all the wrath, to feel the cold knife bleed through a human's gut, to be free without the goodness of heaven, to have no judgment from such a deity.

Nevertheless, I am still encouraged to become Dr. Jeckyll again, the austere man with inner flaws that I hide under masquerade. I am propelled to live in this self again because not only is it who I am by default, but while I may creep about freely in the night in my double life, the hunger to be loved overwhelms my gut no matter how emotionally vapid I may devolve myself. Friends in this real realm would take a bullet for me, cross a bridge of one thousand miles to visit me, and make a vast array of ludicrous actions without hesitation that I'd shy away from in even less of an instant. To be loved is not to love, but it is to be needed, and to love is to need another. I grow dependent on those around me to do as little as to keep me alive and breathing. A person as minute and grotesque as Mr. Hyde will never find acceptance in a modern world, nor will he be happy, but he is chaotic and wild and free and satisfied, but what satisfaction is elicited by evil? The answer is the curiosity is unleashed among society, for it to fear and hypnotize. Enchanting, enticing call to the dismal side of life is inevitable, while we push it back and resist, keeping our lives in order. Blackness beneath my ribcage stays a part of me that even I do not accept as my true form. Perhaps that acceptance as a unity rather than duality reveals the key that will save my life rather than another dose of toxic potion.

Jeckyll And Hyde: 3 (Not Serious!!!)

Mr. Hyde was so ugly that everyone died.

The End.

Jeckyll Hyde and things

First off, I really like the way Jeckyll is spelled. I want that for a last name so badly, I'm beginning to sound serious.

And now for something totally different.

This poem is called Grotesque.

Grotesque

Inexplicable
Freak
The monster from within
The feeling from the darkness that lives inside his skin
It haunts me
It bites me
Yet I'll never know
The mystery that covers up the rage that binds me so





I'm supposed to be doing this for an hour, so now for filler.
Play us out, Johnny!

LoTF Creative Response William Golding style portrayal

I am posting this to kind of hide some of the crummier middle school things.
This is about an atheist scientist who mathematically disproves the existence of a God (I am not an atheist; so many people assume this!!!!!)
Out of everything I've ever written, this is my best work.

My day begins when I wake up. According to the clock, I’m late for the assembly in the stadium where I talk to more people about more crap I knew that everyone else was too stupid to realize a month and a half ago. Without taking a shower, I hurriedly pick a suit that’s not even nice to wear and rush through my ill fated morning. Right leg through right pant leg, left leg through left pant leg. Actually, I don’t even know if that’s it because I didn’t pay attention to which side of the pants the tag was on. Erasing that from my mind, I conclude that I just need to get out of the door, and all that matters is if I went to the bathroom or not.

The hazy sky looks about as pale as the terrain. It appears that today, the sun was also a late sleeper. With a sigh, I venture outside and bring the window scraper with me. The real Elwood Boyle still feels tired, still hibernating in that luxurious king-sized bed chamber. I begin the loathsome process of vehicle preparation in the chilly winter season. My fingers freeze, almost as if the blood inside the veins across my fingers is becoming solid, despite that I am wearing high-maintenance gloves. Although I cannot waste any more time, I sit down inside the SUV, warming my digits, seeing little harm in the situation. As I do this, I think to myself and evaluate the consequences of this dawn. Part of me decides that I should just forget what I’m doing if there’s nothing in the day that I should care about.

I shut off the heat and silence the car engine. If I had kept going, I could have arrived there only fifteen minutes behind schedule. There was no purpose, no potential at all in organizing this speech. The itinerary planned for today was my last concern. I wedge my hands in my pockets and walk up the driveway in a position as if I am wearing a straightjacket. I glance in the attended portion of the car’s front window, questioning the mirrored perspective. It emulates my solitary gait with taunting detail. I want demolish that posing reflection.

This impulsive violent idea entices my feeble patience. I access the garage and meet paths with a small industrial hammer. Quickly, I return to my neglected vehicle. With endless frustration, I let out a loud cry and break the useless, mocking windshield. Triangular pieces of glass encased in robes of frost shatter and sparkle like snowflakes. These elegant shards sparkle with beauty and reflect the sun that has just begun to arise between parting clouds. I keep smashing the edges the windshield with remaining unbroken material, only hungering for more to destroy. My breath is heavy and visible in the low temperature. On my left wrists, a few cuts had formed on that were imperceptible at the moment I took them in. Some blood pools inside of them, and I respond by licking my dry thumb and rubbing them to soothe the pain, albeit mild.

A nimble rabbit spots me in this noisy scene, takes interest, judges me, and scurries away. Why is that an archetypal instinct to attempt flight from the inevitable death of such a petite, powerless creature? In its last few moments of life, why does it choose to run in fear when death is only a few creeping moments away from capture? Has the hare ever thought to be bold and stand straight in its still structure, in all its glory, for its final breath? Why does it continue to run when there is no escape?

I unlock the door, walk through house, listening to the lonely echoes of my footsteps and observing the clouded dirty watermarks my shoes leave on the perfect floor. Finally, I reach the lavender bedroom. The colors sing me back to sleep. I hear them, and I can hear nothing else. It is as if I lie down in this world alone and solitary in a state of flux, numb and half-awake, resting until the world’s end awakens me, serving as some sort of figure to be glanced at and then passed by like a statue in an important museum exhibit. My imagination no longer inhabits my body as it drifts off into space for what seems like eternity. In my bed I lay for hours, not dreaming of anything at all besides an empty slumber. Perhaps this is how it would feel to be—

A strident alarm abruptly intercepts my reverie. It’s my cellular phone. Lazily reaching over, I realize that it is Lucius who called me. As common courtesy, I return his call. The line barely rings before he picks up. I listen, not quite wide awake, to his rambunctious rambling.

Lucius scolds, “Elwood, are you on your way? I haven’t seen your SUV yet, and they’re all here. They’re all waiting for you.”

In a tired monotone, I respond, “Tell them I’m not coming.”

“What?! People have driven from miles, and you know you’re very responsible. These people are magnets, and they are attracted to you and your discoveries. You’ve corrected their vision from the mirage we’ve believed since history was documented on paper. They’ve flocked like birds to our assembly to hear your reasoning. Only you can do this, Elwood.”

“No. You’re more qualified.”

“Is this some kind of joke? What would you expect me to do?”
“Tell them to pray.”

“But you’ve proven-“

“All I’ve proven is that if there ever was a God, we—No, I killed Him. I am not coming because no one is coming for me. They are coming to hear a requiem for their savior. The only faith humanity had, I’ve tried to drive away by striving for too much knowledge. I finally understand it now. Having something to tell us right from wrong, somewhere to whisper your hopes to, a well for your greatest wishes, strength to overcome life-destructing hindrances and obstacles… That tome of oracles they call the Bible is just as important as any laws of physics or numbers. Religion isn’t about what’s created how and what isn’t. There is no contradiction that religion makes the human a more delicate, domestic, docile being. Lucius, you are a holy man. You’ve been trained to preach and to make people pray. In a time like this, there’s not another option. Now, go show them what you can do. Even I will chant with you…in prayer…pleading for forgiveness for making a fool out of myself. Our race needs to be saved.”

“So surely, it would take some effect into the crowd and regain faith?”

“Surely… Why do words of such assertion smack so much uncertainty when spoken? Not surely, Lucius. Assuredly. Assuredly, our God will return for us. When he does, I, too, will come back a new man.” A bit of short silence follows this.

“Okay.”

I hang up. His final words fully confirm to me that he believes and understands me like a true companion. Wise men need not ask questions. Wise men perform actions. I was a smart man. I am ready to become wise.

I get on my knees and bite my lip.

“Can you hear me?” I mutter in a sheepish tone. I know that the motionless air in the master bedroom that I speak to will not provide coherence. I reiterate my statement louder, almost shouting, my voice cracking like a fissure. Emotions inside of me react virulently from my heavy past burdens and disbeliefs that have disgraced the world. They are exiled from my body and exit my mind and soul condensed as sincere salty crystalline tears through my true, lucid blue eyes.

Bittersweet flavors of this moment fade the colors of the scenery to a somber grayscale and decrescendos natural sounds to null. Everything is sucked into a vortex of silence like a vacuum. It allowed me to meditate internally and only focus on one thing in my mind. Although nothing else is present in the room besides me, it seems like the air and all swathed in it was providing something its full attention, waiting for any response, whether it would be the quiet dropping of a pin or a big man barging through the fancy door.

Suddenly, some power, some slow-pulsed frequency in my mind tells me that there is a very subdued presence in distant skies. I put my palms together and believe. I put all my trust in that starving, neglected slice of modernly forbidden hope. With all of my might, willing to sacrifice every material asset to my glorified name for one chance to regain prosper, even if everything isn’t enough, I prepare my position.

I pray.

Remembering Sunday (short story HE10)

Michaela was the smile on my face when it was storming outside. Every time the skies turned gray, as if it were about to thunder, she would call me to her house to listen quietly. In my older age, when I hear a storm, I hear the calm ringing of her voice as I remember my childhood and the downhill years that followed, but she always seemed to keep me happy enough.

She sat me down for breakfast: two eggs and a cup of coffee. Her home emitted a very classic mood. The curtains were a vintage green checker plaid, and the dining table was made from pine wood with a satin tablecloth with lace trimmings. No matter how cozy and warm her shelter may be, what really gives the place its glow was Michaela’s warm, peaceful heart. Her smile lit up the room. Unfortunately, Sunday morning was the last time I would see it.

The death of her parents had visibly aged the pitiful creature, although was only in her mid-twenties. Slowly, the youthful smile that enticed me to befriend Michaela dissolved, evaporated, and faded away, just as I did from her life. It was time for the move. My parents had packed up all of our belongings. I hadn’t played with Michaela for almost a month now, but my feelings drove me to knock on the door. Her grandmother opened the door, insisting that she wasn’t home. A droopy look masqueraded my face. My footsteps heavy, I sulked to mom’s truck and got inside. I didn’t say a word for the rest of the long car ride to Minnesota. I acknowledge this departure had branded incessant grief to Michaela like it had to me. Much too hard it is to bite the prospect that her own invisibility and silent weeping had met her with a terrible fate.

I still can’t forget her. No matter how hard I try to move on, her bright, warm face invasively tugs at my mind and heartstrings. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on. The piercing blue-green lake in her eyes made a rainbow appear less lively in juxtaposition. I had to see my friend again, even if my life depended on it. Every time she crossed my mind, I’d feel the sweet but sour essence of mixed feelings and corrupted interpretations of past mementos. Tonight, there is nothing more to do, or to think about, in isolation, so I do the only thing I can. I rest myself, bringing my body onto a drifting cloud where there is no past, present or future; nothing, calmness, but a fantasy show that unrolls itself before my mind’s eye.

In my dream, we were there again. We were back in the warm house where we used to play together. Nostalgic scenery crowded her bedchamber. The scents of pine and oak and other rustic odors alerted my nostrils. It all seemed to short and simple to be a dream. I am not a lucid dreamer, but I’ve never had that firm grasp on reality where I could draw a line between what’s rational and what’s not.

I returned to the little house on Park Street where I spent my childhood. I was going to find Michaela Hill. I rapidly knocked on the door, my fist slamming, demanding a response, or at least an echo. The place seemed a bit beat-up. The air of somber flavors filled my nostrils. Something had happened here. An old woman with a resemblance to Michaela answered the door, and told me that she had moved away. I nodded and thanked her as she sat down in a rocking chair in front of a television that, oddly enough, was not powered on. Soon after, it began to drizzle, but I did not quicken my pace even as the precipitation grew heavy. I let it wash the fear from my face, but it did not wash the memories out of my hair or out of my mind. My desperate endeavor to find my true love was a treacherous journey. I haven’t been sober for three days. The breeze, more like forceful gusts of wind trying to steer me away from my mission, was of a very frigid wind chill and nipped at my unprotected digits. Still, I pressed on. I continued walking until I became lost, unable to retrace my steps back home.

I’d lost track of the days that I was looking for this girl. I carry a picture of her with me and nothing else. From time to time, I will ask passersby if they have seen my Michaela. Some say yes, some say no. By now, I would consider myself homeless. Winter has begun, so I found myself two gloves from separate pairs lying on the streets of a small market town that I frequent.

I ventured into nowhere again, foolishly, without food. I again collapse under tears, and soon drowned in salt all hope of the mission. However, I saw my Michaela at last. I was dizzy and weak, but I saw her, nice and young and beautiful again. I had grown old, weary, and stressed, but she was as beautiful as always. She was dressed warm and comfortable. The chills make me weary, but if any malefactor were to come of it, I would be safe from all harm. The snow had become a friendly fire to me, and I learned to bask in its blanketing just like the planet. I managed to hold one mitten-encased hand, vaporizing as if it was a translucent figure, but then I slipped into the snow. I fell asleep. Yet I am nothing more than alive, than I am that emptiness is one of the instinctive responses of the unconscious mind – one of the vile inevitable consequences, or feints, which give style to the deployment of failure.

Better poem

You know how I said I can't write a serious poem? Well, thanks to my daily dosage of 60 milligrams 'o Vyvanse, I can. Haha! Haha! Haha!

So anyway, I chose to write a Megan-style prolonged poem in preparation for the poetry unit (which we may or may not do) last night. I tried to incorperate a lot of romantic symbolism into this one, and some more metaphors and symiles and such. And by the way, NO THESAURUS. I never use a thesaurus. It's all from my big vocabulary! You know, isn't there a lot of ironyin the sense that I was in WordMasters, Write Away, a handful of spelling bees, and I got sat down here in normal-level Language Arts? Well, at least I have an Honors reccomendation for next year, but so does every other kid, so screw me feeling special. Anyway, here is my ten-minute masterpiece. Please do comment, and enjoy.

Behold.


Emotional Roller Coaster

I wake up in a silver car
On a coaster I’ve seen somewhere before
I don’t know how I got here,
But this is where I am.
Seatbelt won’t eject
Can’t see where the tracks end
We’re going for a ride.
It’s traveling up the hill
Moving a little slowly
Still don’t really know where I am
A familiar face next to me
He says “hello”
That boy is a beautiful swan
Long pale arms like tree branches
Lengthy blonde hair past his shoulders
And eyes a pale blue like the morning’s clouds
Just as we reach the top,
The sun starts to set
Maybe I’ll stay here for a minute
I look at the boy
When our gaze locks, he looks away
I do the same in disgust
Is it for myself or the boy?
Too late to think now,
We are dropping fast
Hold on tight
Feel the adrenaline
It burns so much, but I feel like I need it
It distracts me from wondering how I got here
It’s short but sweet
Painful at the same time
But now it’s over
The boy leans in for a kiss
We turn our heads to the right
Getting closer
Roller coaster turns right
Our heads butt instead.
Roller coaster turns left
He cuts me with a knife.
From a pocket, he pulls a bandage
His touch is so soft
It makes the stinging evaporate to mist
But now we’re going upside down
I close my eyes tight
I feel a sensation
Halfway through the loop, I drop from my seat
Never felt anything more painful.
The ride comes to a halt
Allowing me to get back onWithout hesitation, I do.
Then I see that there is only one silver car.
The boy isn’t there
Just some luxurious seating
As I step inside, it feels empty
The car starts moving on the tracks
It twists around a couple of times
I feel nothing
Out of thin air, the boy reappears from the shadows
Has he come back for me?
Or maybe to enjoy the ride?
Intensely the roller coaster is zooming forward
I’m scared
The shimmering railing is all I have to hold on to
The emotion that I once hung on to has numbed
I see the boy staring at me again
Now I know where I am.
As soon as I find my sense of direction
The silver tracks continue no more
Now we’re falling
Falling
Falling
Falling
And we never stop